Kleis and I sang after supper, the supper fire burning.
Her sheep were near us, muffled, shuffling contentedly.
Venus hung over us.
How unlike my Kleis, in her singing and her songs: her songs are songsmother knew: they made me tremble and I wanted to clasp her to me: Phaonhad forgotten most of them but joined us sometimes. We sang of lovers andwanderers.
She, the daily wanderer, was less a wanderer than any of us: her natural re-sources were always at her spiritual command.
Kissing me good night, she said:
“I love you for coming.”
Going back home, we poked along, talking and resting at likely places. Westopped in an orange grove to eat, water rippling by us in an irrigation ditch.Cross-legged we ate cheese and dates and drank wine Kleis had given us, thesummer smells around us, flowers, so many kinds of flowers in this place. Lyingbeside me, Phaon told me more about his life:
“...We met a storm off the Egyptian coast, the wind rushing us, tearing oursail. I was at the rudder when the sail split. I ordered my men to huddle in the leeand mend the sail. How we shipped water. The bow crashed. All of us thoughtwe’d go down but they kept on with the mending, folding the fabric, squeezingout the water, wiping rain and spray from their faces. I’ve never heard a fiercerwind, raging off starboard...
“When we had the sail mended I had someone take the rudder and helpedhoist. A wave bowled us over. It was nearly dark and the rain slanted toward me.Out of the side of my eyes, I thought I saw something on the sea, a man, a tallman. I said nothing but worked hard: I couldn’t talk or yell in that sea. Part wayup the mast, I looked down. Nothing. In spite of wind and rain, we hung our sailand swung out of the troughs. Back at the rudder, I saw him, saw him moving,white, tall, through the whipped tops of the rollers.”
(
Villa Poseidon
641 B.C.
My girls still carry on about the pirate raid.
Gyrinno found a short sword and brought it to me.
“Look, I showed it to Archidemus and he says it’s from the Turks. Those arerubies on the hilt, he says. Feel them. See...see...”
Her fingers tremble with excitement.
Her breath catches:
“What if they’d broken into our house? It would have been awful. Aren’t youproud of Phaon?”
The whole misadventure leaves me cold. I think of the burial of our dead. Isee the blood rushing down the neck of the wounded man. There was blood onPhaon’s sword. He and Alcaeus had bellowed over their victory. Victory?
I pushed away the pirate’s sword, and said: “It would be better if there wereno pirates.”
Gyrinno is disgusted.
What is wrong with man? Is man’s piratical weakness an instinct? Womendon’t go in for piracy. We know the value of living and appreciate life’s perilous-ness. We give birth to kindness...each baby is kindness itself.
I HAVE FORBIDDEN GYRINNO TO KEEP THE SWORD: SHE MUST GET RID OFIT, GIVE IT AWAY, THROW IT AWAY, I DON’T CARE.
(
Rain, rain, rain.
The girls appreciate my happiness since a sense of grace envelops me.
We weave and the rain falls, so gently, our looms fronting the windows andsea. I am weaving a white scarf, quite blemishless.
Weaving has always been the most delightful pastime: I sit and weave and thewool goes in and out: I can see nothing in front of me or I can see my wholepast, or tomorrow, or Phaon, the ocean, my house, the faces of my girls...
I work silently sometimes, planning, composing. The art of weaving thoughtsmust have begun with the loom. The rain falls, and weaves its sounds. Atthis andAnaktoria sit on either side of me, Anaktoria singing to herself. She is dressed inwhite and Atthis wears blue.
Across the sea a wedge of rain scuds, slowly approaching our island. Shep-herds are in their huts. Seamen are ashore. It is a time for all to rest.
(
At the bridge in town where I had watched the migratory flight of herons, Imet Alcaeus. He was perched on the rail, cane crossed over his legs, waiting forThasos. Glad to see me, he pulled his beard, fragrant and carefully oiled. I foundhim cheerful. He talked about a Carthaginian ship, in harbor because of brokenoars, after sideswiping another boat in a thick fog. As I listened his face altered:it was as if he were in pain or remembered something tragic. Interrupting mycomment, he asked:
“What’s he like? Is he tall, this Phaon?”
I described him, touching his arm to lessen his resentment.
“So...he’s not the soldier type!”
“Must he be?”
“No...a sailor, then!”
“Alcaeus!”
“I know...I know...the changes that have overcome me. I know them betterthan you.”
“And I know my changes.”
“Must our friendship end?”
“Alcaeus, let’s not go on like this. We understand each other.”
“Yes...yes...of course. I apologize... I should have scorned the war. Why was Ibellicose?
“I could have kept to my books. I understand it takes infinite time to probe,time to evaluate, time to mature. I have always wanted skill—like yours, working,as you work, through intuition and knowledge of the past. By probing I couldhave come closer to freedom.”
“You have found your freedom,” I said.
“Where?”
“Attacking Pittakos, and his sort.”
“That’s another kind.”
“I realize that.”
As we strolled home, Thasos with us, he kept thinking, elaborating. Some-thing hurt in me. Wasn’t I deluding him? Was there freedom? When he stum-bled, I stumbled.
He had been my Phaon. I thought of his encouragement, years ago, wheneach of us was desperate. That encouragement, that will to help, buoyed me and,talking swiftly, I promised him help, promised closer friendship.
Standing at his door, leaning on his cane, eyelids closed, he recited somethingheroic and it was my turn to change: my expression must have altered as quicklyas his: his sincerity was an answer to mine: I knew he could not see and yet hidmy face in my arm. Walking on, I felt he was still in his doorway, trying to seeme, trying to understand.
A boy, with a yo-yo, asked me to stop and watch him perform tricks:
“Sappho...I can make it do things,” he cried, dangling his yo-yo over my san-dal, climbing it up my robe.
Sparkling eyes laughed and I bent and kissed him.
(
Yesterday, Anaktoria and I walked to a vineyard above the bay, a yard ofcrumbling walls, twisted, neglected vines, where bees hummed and swallowsflicked apricot bellies. It was unduly warm and we threw off our clothes and layon old leaves, in the shadow of a wall, the waves grumbling behind the stones,coming up, as it were, through masonry and ground.
I noticed her hand in the grass. I noticed my own. It seemed another’s hand.The grass altered its identity. I felt my naked knee, pressing a stone: it seemedanother knee although I felt the stone. I thought: nature tries to claim us beforewe are aware, before we are willing to let her. Swift, she likes to confuse, pre-paratory to that eternal grasp of hers.
Crickets piped under the wall, asking for cooler weather. Abruptly, theystopped, perhaps to listen to Anaktoria’s singing. She sang until I fell asleep, towake and find her sleeping, hands cupped over her breasts, afraid the bees mightsting them. The wall’s shadow had lengthened and birds were quarreling. Sum-mer’s integrity stretched from vineyard to horizon.
I thought about the two of us, our fragility, neither of us marred: sometimes,when someone is loving me, I am especially glad I have an unblemished body: Iknow my lover will have something to remember.
The ring Libus gave her glistens on her little finger.
(
Deeper, deeper—our love goes deeper, taking us completely; the early lampssputter ou
t; the stars gleam in the windows; there is talk of leaving, another tripto sea. But we shake off impending loss with each other’s hunger; he says, yourperfume stays on me; I say, the smell of you stays on me. He says, come closer,farther under. I say, I can’t, I’m stifled, I’m submerged. Oh, impetuous lips. Thedepth of having someone your own, the depth of being the heart for someone.Phaon...the name, the body, the breath on my neck, special ways, his weightunderneath me, supporting me, the sea coming through the windows.
There is nothing better than love.
O Beauty, you know I love him because he is the way I want him to be, youknow he is kind...care for him!
(
A man speaks before the Acropolis in themoonlight:
“Stranger, you have come to the mostbeautiful place on earth,
the land of swift horses, where thenightingale sings
its melodies among the sacred foliage,
sheltered from the sun’s fire and thewinter’s cold.
Here Bacchus wanders with his nymphs, hisdivine maidens;
and under the heavenly dew forever flourishesthe narcissus,
the crown of great goddesses...”
Mytilene
I
have not seen Phaon for days and I feel eaten by rust,the rust that consumes bronze. I feel myself flakebetween my own fingers. Nothing distracts me. I tellmyself I have no right to such feelings; it is wrong: beaware of the beauty around you, I say.
I have always believed that those who live beside theocean should know more about beauty than others. Theirminds should be richer, their faces kinder, their stridefreer. Rhythm should be their secret.
I know this is false but I must evoke beauty. I mustcapture the magnificence of the sea and use its power. Imust trap changes and repetitions, the storm’s core andsummer’s laziness. There is superiority in these things,to help us through life.
But, with Phaon away, few things come alive: I amseaweed after the gale. Husk, why trouble others? So, Isulk. Or, when my girls insist, I revive briefly.
When will the atavistic fingers come and when will Ismell the cabin’s wick and the nets? Oh, drown me,Egyptian lion, Etruscan charioteer, lunge and shield:yours is the tyranny.
Surely feminine love is kinder, less responsible,graced with evasions. Masculine love is a beginning, anintensity that goes on. Masculine love pushes into thefuture, asking roots, a thread of continuity.
. . .
Last night, Phaon took me among terra-cotta lamps,their wicks flaming coldly. Perspiration glowed on ourbodies. A cat jumped on our bed and Phaon pushed it away:wind rustled: leaves shook: flames swayed: this was thelove I had wanted and I accepted it and made it live: nolittle girl’s love, mine was glorious, damning allloneliness, knowing he would be gone again.
?
A dried flying fish revolved on a string above Phaon’scabin door. His boat rose on a gradual swell, seemedunwilling to glide down.
“Let me sail with you when you sail next time,” I said.
“How could I take care of you?”
“Right in this cabin.”
“Would you sleep on the floor?”
“Why not?”
“What about food? Food goes bad...our cheesespoils...our meat...our water. Sometimes we can’t land afish.”
A smile wrinkled his face, as he hulked against thecabin wall, his smile vaguely reassuring.
“What about the heat and cold?” he went on.
“I was hungry and cold in exile.”
“That was...years ago.”
The flying fish spun, and I thought about time. Had somany years lapsed? I said no more. He had silenced meeffectively for I could not endure those prolonged trialsand no doubt the sea voyage was impossible: luxury hadsoftened me. The spinning fish would have horrifiedAtthis. And was I very different?
But we sailed along our coast, hugging it, unloadingfruit, getting away from the windless heat of Mytilene,selling dates, lemons and limes. As we sailed in a faintwind, the crew sang. Lolling under an awning, I heardstories of catches at the deeps just beyond us, deepswhere the water shimmered flatly, as if of rock. Onecrewman, not much bigger than a monkey, dove for shellswhile we crept through shallows. Pink shell in hand,treading a wave nakedly, he offered me his prize, as Ileaned over the side. Kelp floated around him and tinyblue fish darted in and out, under his legs and arms,angel fish lower down, perhaps frightened.
While the monkey-man dove for shells, youngsters swamfrom small boats, hailing us, boarding us, some bringingfish as gifts. A blond, husky body, his shoulders thicklyoiled, shared an orange with a girl who had his oval faceand fair skin: twins, I thought, and went to the stern totalk to them, comparing their arms and legs, theirfeatures and hair. The flock of youngsters cluttering ourdesk found us amusing and laughed at us.
The twins talked about a wrecked ship, “from a strangeland...you can see her at dawn, when the water’squiet...she has a sunken deck, a huge rudder turned bychains. A great red and gold beast is carved over thestern...”
As we shared our oranges, juice trickled between herbreasts.
Someone shouted and there was more laughter, and, as ifprearranged, the youngsters abandoned us, dove overboardand swam shoreward, splashing, calling, wishing us luck.
I wish I were that young, I told myself.
That night, heat lightning brushed the sky, formingkelp-shaped ropes of yellow. Huge clouds massed about athin moon and Phaon prophesied rain.
My head on his lap, we drifted, watching, listening toa singer, invisible man at the bow. His words made meuneasy as he sang of lovers lost at sea. Our sail hadenough wind to fill it and yet we appeared immobile.
I drew Phaon’s face to mine and his mouth tasted oforanges.
Above us, behind us, his flying fish rocked.
The lightning played among the stars and wet the sailand our helmsman bent sleepily over the rudder: it was anight for love and when the cabin had cooled, Phaon and Isought each other: he placed an orange in my hand, thesinging went on, the sea sobbed, the orange fell.
“Phaon?”
“What is it?”
Keep me, wait, go on, love me, don’t...I wanted to sayso much.
I caressed him, breathed him in, the sanctity, thefavor, the graciousness, the ephemeral. I wanderedthrough caves. I dove to the wreck of the red-gold ship.I...
Later, we divided the orange and its sweet dribbledover us and he pressed his mouth there and we laughed,thinking with body.
I woke to see the moon sink below the ocean, to see howbeautiful he was, his ship and fish swaying as a freshwind clattered the sail.
Noon found us back in Mytilene.
?
PHAON
He is god in my eyes...
my tongue is broken;
a thin flame runs under
my skin; seeing nothing,
hearing only my own ears
drumming, I drip with sweat;
trembling shakes my body
and I turn paler than
dry grass. At such times
death isn’t far off.
?
Anaktoria’s flesh seems almost transparent—a sensuoussoftness coming from inside. When my girls are dancing onthe terrace or in the garden, I wonder who is mostbeautiful.
Kleis spins. Atthis bends, arms upflung. I see a grape-tinted breast, fragile ankles. Yellow hair flies overshoulders. Gyrinno’s throat is perfect. Malva’s thighs.Look, Atthis and Anaktoria are dancing together. For aninstant, their lips meet.
Tiles are blue underfoot.
Our wonderful harpist, an old woman, watches withburning, lidless eyes, remembering her naked days,playing them back again.
Cypress are drenched with sun.
?
Winter has come and Alcaeus has changed.
Winter—Libus and Alcaeus sit in my cold room, waiting.They have been wa
iting a long time for me; they were herewhen I returned from my birthday trip.
Alcaeus’ face is deeper lined: it has been lined foryears but something has happened abruptly, pain haspinched the flesh into new, tiny, angry wrinkles.
Friends have reported that he is drinking again and yetthis is more than drink because I realize it is innerdebauchery: the eyes cannot confess: instead, the voicetells.
We huddle in our warm robes, the wind howling, and hesays, in this new voice:
“What has kept you? We’ve been waiting a long time.”
Libus says:
“We haven’t forgotten.”
“Or isn’t this the day?” Alcaeus asks peevishly.
“Of course it’s her day,” Libus says.
Alcaeus chuckles.
When was it, I kissed that face, admiring itsmasculinity? His hands never trembled.
Wind shakes the house.
Mind travels to other days when we struggled in exile,when Alcaeus, badly dressed, kept us in food, stealing,conniving. Often there seemed no way to get by. I sat,waiting, blind to life. That sort of blindness wasweakness on my part, or acceptance or hope. Listening,while we drank, I asked what hope he had? He was derivingsome satisfaction from his relationship with Libus. Thereseemed nothing else. Little by little, he forgot why hehad come to see me: happy birthday became grimaces,guffawing, vituperations over battles. He and Libus grewexcited, enacting scenes with their hands, shufflingtheir feet.