“Wait? How much longer must we wait?”
“He’s old.”
“Are we children?”
“He knows what’s happening.”
“No—not even yet.”
“That couldn’t be.”
I saw Pittakos by the sea, spray dampening his clothes, his mouth tothe gulls: I saw him, hand over eyes, legs spread; I heard stoneshitting him... I could take no more and saying good-bye to Alcaeus, Iwalked home, eager to be alone, for now the town seemed withdrawn,callous, incomplete, a failure. I touched a hollow in a wall and pickeda leaf and, where a street opened on the bay, looked and looked: thesea’s salty taste acted as a philter and years of contentment and easesurged about me, trying to reinstate themselves: my girls met me and wewent home together, sharing our innocence.
?
Just the other day, I dreamed of Serfo’s place, his fabrics aroundme, things from Assyria, Egypt and Persia. Some of the cloth blewagainst me, light as a Sudanese veil. Atthis had a length of it in herhands, a twisted flowered piece yards long.
“I’ll make ribbons for your hair,” she said.
Alone, I sank into patterns, colors and textures. Something brushedmy cheek, a winged bull in gold on blue cotton... I saw an imperialsnake in green on white silk, a mighty roc in black on grey wool... Iheard friends asking prices, Anaktoria, Libus.
I heard mother say:
“This is the best, this one, darling, with temples and shields on it,this blue, soft blue! Don’t you love it? Here, take it in your hands,press it to your face.”
I saw ships and listened to their keels...sailors unloadingbales...wasn’t that a remnant on the water?
?
A suffusion of light envelopes the Venus de Milo,
revealing the contours and texture of her hair,
face, breasts, belly, and drapery.
Voices sing Homeric hymns.
A woman, as lovely as the Milo,
disappears in the golden light
beneath the Mediterranean.
Villa Mytilene
W
as it three years ago I met Atthis—five years ago Anaktoria? Was thatanother dream? I am not sure.
Awake, I thought about my girls and now much they love me and make myhouse a house of grace. I must have beauty: I must have peace: and theyare peace and beauty. I recalled how and when I had met each and lovedeach one for her special qualities. Each had a place in my heart, goldon cotton, green on white...the sea was at each meeting and at eachgood-bye... I count my years but the sea has no calendar.
Sometimes I feel the sea thinks for us, its pensiveness communicatesat dawn, its meditation at night, its probity sifting through the day.A stormy emotion—the sea. A period of tranquility—the sea. Fickleness—the sea. I could not be happy without its communication. For all itspervasiveness it seems on the verge of a secret: looking down throughthe waves I sense it, I sense it at night, when phosphorescence stealsshoreward or when rain obliterates and there is no visible ocean, then,still, still it communes, insinuating mystery, legends from caves,legends stronger than any coral, barracuda and stingrays roiled under,sinking farther and farther.
?
As we eat, in the dining room, Atthis prattles about her new parrot,mimicking it.
Her glances, charming, rounded, sensual, inconclusive, ask for love.
Her mimicry, spoken somewhat under her breath, takes in thetownspeople, theatre folk, the Athenian star, Alcaeus, Gogu, the girls.But, because it is kindly and feminine, the fun carries far.
Her eyebrows have grown to meet over her nose and the fuzzy littlebridge gives her added years. Her breasts are larger, shoulders fuller.She could be a priestess: the face solemn, the lips pert; then laughterruins everything and she is simply girl, joyous life, asking for love.
Dressed in thin summer best, she pokes her neighbor with her sharpsandal and before I can say a word a scrap follows.
?
As I went downstairs, I put my hand between the lion’s jaws, stubby,mossy stone, oldest part of the house. Lingering, I watched leaves puffdown the steps. By the fountain, I absorbed water shadows, warmtharound me, an insect swimming toward a spot of sun.
?
A village girl brought me a bouquet of white roses, saying:
“You must let me join your hetaerae.”
She wore a twisted blue wool skirt, of darkest color, and no blouse.Standing erect, she offered her flowers and then spun around and fled:I could scarcely take in the clean-cut features, pointed chin, redmouth and new breasts.
I can’t imagine who she is or where she lives but I must find her.
?
My working hours are longer and as I review my work I find it good:that is a sign of maturity: maturity is the seal I strive for and yetas I work I fear a loss of spirit: maturity is seldom daring and to bedaring is to open doors: maturity, then, is balance: is it also thedecorum people accuse me of? Parasol, tilted at just the proper angle?Mask, worn at the right moments? As I came home yesterday from theplay, I remembered a winking mask, rather like one in my room: was thatderision?
?
I saw a young man on the street who startled me. Though he didn’tglance at me, I thought I had seen him in Samnos: ax beard and sullenmouth were the same; he had the same slouch, the same filthy clothes.Watching him, I recalled that Samnian fellow, his pleas and questions:
“...tell nobody I’m here...but I want to know about home...tell methe news! You see I’ve been here for three years...to escape thewar...there are three of us...we came here on a raft...tell us...”
The frenzied talk was vivid as this derelict walked down our street.
In Samnos, I had sympathized with my countryman for his voluntaryexile was no easier than an enforced exile: I drew him out and latermet his friends, all hungry for news, all in rags, living from hand tomouth, scared. It was their fear that worried me and I urged them tomake friends and forget the past, to marry and begin life in Samnos. Iarranged contacts for them...
But, was this one of them sneaking along, hoping for luck? Pittakos,the wise, the clement, would have him lashed to death by nightfall, ifsomeone discovered him. My pledge of secrecy is a pledge I’ll keep. AsI sailed home from Samnos, I thought of these men and was proud oftheir folly.
?
Roses are in bloom on the hills and violets are in flower around myhouse. Kleis will be married soon, so I am doing things wrong. I try totell myself this is her happiest time and struggle to write a poem forher wedding. Her natural gaiety is infectious and yet, and yet...
We will have quite a ceremony, Libus, Alcaeus, Gogu, Nanno, Helen, mygirls, sailors, half the town, Pittakos and rogues...Rhodopis andCharaxos...no, harshness is not in keeping with a wedding.
I can hear the male chorus.
I hear the surf...
Below us, the ocean eats at its rocks, above us lie the hills, aroundus stir the branches of the olives.
Peace: sacred grove, we dedicate these two: give them luck: a lightwill fall: the chorus will resume: a wreath will be hung.
Shall I play my harp?
Who is the god of illusion? Love? How is he to be kept alive throughmany years and many disappointments?
I shall try to help. Song has that gift, a gift nothing else has: togive the lost or hold it in suspension.
?
I feel utterly ridiculous, the greatest hypocrite: that is how itseems as I urge Alcaeus to curb his resentment for Pittakos.
I have tried reason but it isn’t reason that moves Alcaeus. When hefeels my sympathy, he listens: if he conceives of us as he used to be,his hatred subsides. Let him feel alone, he thunders, bends toward me,drags his fingers through his beard and sputters:
“To hear you talk, I’d think you were never mistreated by this man!”
“But you know better.”
“You’re a tr
aitor to yourself!”
“That’s not true. You want to have him killed and I say we losethrough violence. I’m no traitor to myself—or you. You can be traitorto justice.”
“Let’s not say anything about justice, when we’re fighting tyranny.”
I recalled days with Aesop and said:
“I wish he was here, to advise us or hear our problems. I think Iknow what he’d say.”
“What?”
“There’s a way out of slavery... I didn’t kill my master.”
Slavery—there are all kinds.
It is a kind of slavery to long for Phaon and another kind toremember Aesop and another to hope. Perhaps Aesop would rebuke suchthinking and say: Slavery is not in ourselves but in the misused powerof others. Surely that is the commoner kind but I find slavery inmyself and my girls and my island and my books.
Well, here is a story Phaon told me:
“Years ago, a slave broke into a temple on a deserted island andfound lamps burning. On a rug lay a naked man, asleep. He’d been lyingthere for centuries, guarded by someone, the lamps filled and the wicksnew.
“The King of Freedom, were the words on a shield beside him. Hisyellow hair streamed across the rug. Above him, a mask, fastened on thewall, spoke:
“ ‘Shut the temple...let the lamps burn...make no noise...take a hairfrom his head...go.’
“The slave shut the temple, carefully.
“Years later, in prison, he bent over to examine the golden hair hehad kept and it burst into flame and became a torch which he used tolight his way to freedom.”
?
His flames and heat are fuel
For seaman’s muscles, his sea eyes,
Devil of laughter and devil moods,
His sinking-rising delicacy.
The initial union is relief
Of olives and cypress, breasts, birds,
Stinging and perspiration’s siege,
Roots climbing out of centuries.
?
Beauty, the wedding is over and I am alone with my lighted lamps andmoonlight across the sea, night’s indifference.
Beauty, Kleis was happy...many of us were happy.
After the ceremony, Pittakos approached me, shuffling, dressed as Ihad never seen him dressed, in fine white clothes. His hate was gone,that was something I saw at once: I was seeing another man. Speakingguardedly, hands folding and unfolding his robe, he said:
“...They would have stoned me. What can I say...to make amends? Youstopped them from killing me... You...you helped me...”
I grew confused. Remembering Alcaeus’ threat, my hatred surged and Ithought: Can he expect me to rub out the past because of an accident onmy part? Can he ask such a thing?
Do you think that I have changed—that I went out of my way to saveyou?
My own harshness pained me. I had seen him at a distance, during theceremony, and had resented his presence; as I played my harp and sanghe remained near, boggling his head.
Our sacred grove, filled with people, trees streaked with fog, wasstill in my mind. I could see Kleis smiling and hear the weddingchorus, the flutists, the barking dogs, the cries of gulls.
Glancing overhead, I noticed them, passing, gliding, saying withtheir grace things I tried to say in my writing.
Pittakos turned away.
I could not say a word but stepped forward.
“...Pittakos.”
He regarded me doubtfully.
“Yes.”
Then I started to walk away.
“What can I say? I’m old... I can’t erase errors. Sappho, I... Lastnight I stayed up all night...it was more than thinking: I looked atthe past. I’ve been mistaken. Though we’ve lived here, in this town, weknow only lies about each other...”
Shuffling, he made off.
All were there in the grove: Alcaeus, baffled; Libus, pale and aloof;Anaktoria, gay; Atthis, dreaming; Kleis, my herder... We ate together,drank, sang... The sun drank the fog and sunset ribboned the ocean.
I shall remember goats wandering through our grove, tinkling theirbells...the mask-maker carrying my harp for me...trying to sing intoothless ecstasy...I shall remember the altar fire and wreaths offlowers, their incense and coloring... remember, too, the farewell ofmy pair, their backs and shoulders as they headed for their house onthe headland, a small place among figs and tall white poppies, theirworld—not mine. I must remember it is their world. When Kleis flingsher arms around me I will rejoice. At the same time, I must accept thefact that their marriage is their particular freedom.
May it be a satisfying freedom.
Mother’s lamp, as I write, is nearly empty: she would have liked thewedding ceremony, the chorus singing my poem: terra-cotta lamp, do youremember her wedding? Did you burn for her ecstasy or were you snuffedout before the groom carried her to bed?
It wasn’t long ago I was married: how I walked, my head high, theembodiment of innocence and grace: I thought life would be easy!
The wind puffs through my room.
The ocean whispers.
?
Charaxos and Rhodopis attended the wedding, staying apart with agroup of their friends, no one dressed for the occasion. Since the manwho had forcibly made love to her was there, I was disconcerted. I wasashamed. My face burned. What could I do? Would they interfere? Butthey seemed preoccupied, merely onlookers, most of them young men andwomen.
When they sauntered away, I enjoyed the wedding.
Someone among them, a stranger perhaps, gazed back at me, remindingme of Cercolas.
Cercolas, my mother, Aesop—each summons a series of images. When eachone died, I thought: How can I go on? Now my thought is: What hasreplaced them? Husband, mother, friend... I am forever altered by theirabsence, emptier, lonelier. I seek them in others and yet never findthem.
It matters to me how they died.
I am still troubled that Cercolas died on the battlefield. And it istragic that Aesop died, beaten by a mob. At least, mother died besideme, comforted as much as human comfort is possible.
Death should not catch us unaware for then it cheats us doubly.Surely, it is hard enough to die without dying in some tragic way. Eachof us deserves a last dignity.
?
Shall I tell Alcaeus that Pittakos came to me after the wedding?
I may never tell him because he will suffer more for knowing. Itseems to me telling him could accomplish little. Hard as it is, unfairas it is, I must keep this to myself. Of course, some would disbelieve.And if Pittakos sees fit to remain silent, he and I will be better off.Lives will be less complicated.
Even unmolested, he has not much time ahead. We must be far-sightedand choose a leader...
?
Homosexual lovers in bed,
making love in the moonlight.
The light falls on their flesh,
faces, hands, legs, their passion:
laughter and soft moans and
the ocean below the villa.
Sappho rises and ponders her body,
stands by a window, facing the Aegean.
I took my lyre and said:
Here, now, my heavenly
Tortoise shell, become
A speaking instrument.
O
ne by one, the poems have fitted into my book, so slowly time seems tohave had nothing to do with its completion. Yet, my ninth book is done.When I had finished my sixth, I thought: this is all. When I finishedmy eighth, I felt I need go no farther. Will there be a tenth? Whatwill make it distinctive?
Phaon lives in this book, insatiability floods everywhere: lyric bylyric, our smoldering hearts reveal our happiness.
When I shared lines with him, he laughed at their frankness, eyesdancing. He remembered some of them, and shot them back at me, totease.
I have sent selections to Solon: what will he write me? Will t
heircrudeness be too much for him? I think not. He has savored love.
My Egyptians are copying the book—conspirators, no doubt, mumblinglines to each other, shaking heads. I’d like to slip into their shop asthey work, to overhear them: would I laugh or recoil? Probably I’d beannoyed. Well, tomorrow I must go to the shop and see how they aredoing.
I have not thought of a title.
?
Villa Poseidon
I sought Anaktoria and together we spent the night.
In spite of her comfort, I could not get to sleep. Her arms aroundme, she lay motionless.
During the afternoon, we arranged flowers, taking them from thegarden. A rainbow appeared over the bay and arm in arm we watched it,its arc faintly reflected on the water. Her myrrh was everywhere, herspirit too: the things she said were right: family traditions are apart of her and she adds just enough fantasy.