teeth chattered and his head and shoulders shook, Libus
restrained him, hands on his shoulders. When he spoke to
Gogu, I could detect an immediate response. The slave
brought water and poured it for Gogu and Libus got him to
drink: the frond dipping closer, rising and falling.
“Libus—Libus,” he said, and sighed, thin lashes over
upturned eyes. The black hitched his broadcloth and
sighed too.
The room was windowless and cool, lit from overhead. A
pigeon cooed on the roof. For a while I sat near Libus
but when Serfo offered drinks, we went into his shop
where he displayed ivory figurines on his dusty counter,
Amazons, ibis, Etruscan warriors and sacred cats, none
bigger than my hand.
“The cats are from Luxor,” Serfo said.
“Will Gogu be all right?” I asked, hearing his rapid
breathing.
“He’ll be all right by evening,” Libus said.
So we examined the collection, Libus questioning their
antiquity: I pointed out the yellowing and flaking: he
held an Amazon in the doorway, dust cracks mottling her
face and armor, the texture of his hands obvious as well.
He seems to be holding me in his fingers, as small. I
felt the flakes of time—my life flaking, like Gogu’s,
less lasting than the ivory.
The hours I spend with Libus and his sister are hours
of talk and wine, at his small house, in its garden of
figs and olives, poppies in bloom along the paths. Their
place, nearer the bay than mine, absorbs the bay’s
placidity. The furniture stresses comfort. His mosaics
reflect his regard for ease...scenes of old days and old
creatures.
I was glad when Libus gave up staying with Alcaeus; I
had missed those visits to his home where Helen has
taught me designs for my loom and reaffirmed what
patience really is. She has read to me, acquainting me
with books I would never have found...
Libus talks and toys with a loop of beads, in a
thoughtful mood, his hands, as they move, remind me of
their healing quality and his voice has that same be-
neficence, distinctly personal, meanings having extra
meaning most of the time.
Helen’s face has none of his ephemerality but has,
instead, a country wholesomeness I love. She chats about
flowers she has grown, seeds she keeps in jars, promising
me a selection.
Their poppies, grey-leafed, sea-bitten, have large
centers and bees loll on the petals and the sea lolls
beyond them.
Why is it the hours loll here? I have seen whales from
their garden, sporting near beds of kelp, their blue
backs like so many watery hills. I think something lures
them offshore...another something makes Libus’ servants
sing more than my servants.
A gigantic sea-rock assumes the face of a crying woman
when the fog comes: some say she cries for our dead in
the wars, some say it’s for those lost at sea: I have
often seen her, head bowed: she faces the town, staring:
the sea sound is her weeping; perhaps it is the weeping
of many women: if I walk by that deserted spot at night,
with the fog about me, I cling to Atthis or Exekias. No
woman goes alone there, when the fog is about.
The moon has set and
The Pleiades have gone;
The night is half gone
And life speeds by.
I lie in bed, alone.
Going to see Alcaeus, I met Kleis and she threw her
arms around me and kissed me, saying:
“Mama, dear, it’s good to see you! How I miss you!”
I tried to hide my pleasure but my heart sang and I
held her close, my body remembering hers, fingers
slipping around the back of her neck, staying in her
hair.
Pushing me aside, she exclaimed:
“Mama, let’s go to your house and be together, like old
times. Shall we?”
How easy to consent—and we walked home, arms around
each other, gulls over us, shadows skimming roofs, dusty
cobbles asking for rain: I wanted to remember her
chatter, each inflection...
I would see Alcaeus tomorrow. I needed time with my
own...
Pittakos stoned...Aesop stoned...the mob’s disgrace...
Year after year, is there greater calumny than our own
communal perfidy? Is there greater stupidity? One man
starts it, then five, then ten, manacled together.
For our island’s sake, I’m glad I cheated death.
Like old times, we sat at our looms and Kleis showed me
a periwinkle design, whispering confidences, saying he
was good, saying the house was good, the sea...she put
her faith on the loom, the thread of it going beyond
life. Mother must have heard me say such things,
reflecting the same hope. Finches gathered in the olive
trees as we worked. I asked time to stop and let us have
the day last, at least longer than evening and the
shepherd’s bells.
Charaxos brought him to my house, a castaway, I
thought, dreg of the worst sea. Charaxos stood behind him
in Cairo red, the sun blazing over the town, as the
castaway bowed, holding together his rags, eyes
wandering, skin and bones, nose snuffing at his hand, his
mouth lower on one side, a canine look on his face.
Muttering, he fished in a sack tied about his waist and
offered me something.
I hesitated to take it, feeling Charaxos’ curiosity—or
was it gloating? I grew afraid as the castaway insisted,
wagging head and hand, Charaxos silent; forcing myself, I
bent and peered at his hand...seeing a drachma.
I saw it had been pierced for a chain...taking it, I
made out the letters my mother had gouged...in the
metal...yes, it was her drachma.
I wanted to run, throw down the coin, send Charaxos
away, turn aside the castaway. I wanted to crumble on the
steps and bury my head in my arms and deny existence.
“Come in,” I managed.
And the men entered.
Together, we sat down and I asked:
“Where did you get the coin?”
“At Cos...”
“You are from Cos?”
“Yes, I came from Cos.”
“He came on one of my ships,” Charaxos said.
I could not look at either man.
“He came from Cos,” I said.
“Phaon died on the island...he and others...thrown on
the beach...we have rocky shores...he was injured in the
big storm...you see, we found him, my wife and son and I.
He gave us the coin and sent me to you...he...”
So, he died after that storm, I told myself, and I got
up, wondering where I could go: I saw the castaway’s
blazing eyes and torn clothing and the greedy face of my
brother:
“Stay at my house...as long as you like,” I said. “I
will send servants to look after you. I will...”
What will I do? I asked myself.
Will I take the coin and sleep with it? Will it burn my
bed? Will I place it on my desk or hurl it out my window?
And I opened my fingers to see if the bronze was on fire.
Now, you have seen me grief-stricken, I thought, as I
gazed at Charaxos. You may go and tell your friends. Tell
them, Sappho is beaten. Tell them...
I excused myself and retreated to my room.
Far at sea, I saw a dot: Phaon’s ship, and I opened my
hand and laid his drachma on the windowsill.
Beauty, is he dead?
What has been gained by taking him from me?
Shall I go to Xerxes, and hold him to his promise?
Couldn’t there be a mistake? Better to find Xerxes and
say to him, “Remember your promise,” and take his powder.
This is my inheritance, from parents, Cercolas, friends,
this degree of misfortune, final degradation. Was love a
mirage, or this?
Libus sat beside my bed, his hands alleviating the pain
that dragged at every nerve: his hands warmed me,
crossing my back and shoulders, assuaging with their
mirage the storm that seemed everywhere inside me,
bursting my throat, my brain, my chest, shattering my
reason.
Yet, as he helped me, he reasoned:
“I hoped he would be back early enough for Kleis’
wedding...he said something to me about getting back
early... I hoped you two would go on...you know all of us
watched you...our hearts were yours...it was like that.
“I’ve always thought your pride deserved love, Phaon’s
kind, free of politics. Yes, I know Alcaeus was
sufficient, years ago; then our island women adopted you;
then Phaon. It was his luck to give you what you
needed...”
“My coin didn’t bring luck to him,” I said.
“A coin means what? Metal can’t tell us about
life...only we can tell...to one another...”
“What have I told you through the years?”
He paused a while, hands motionless.
“Beauty...”
“And now?”
“Another kind...in the making. I know your ancestral
line...losses become gain...I recognize bravery.”
His hands and thoughts continued their palliative, now
the fingers, now the voice, as servants replaced lamps
and closed windows, moving as slowly as if below the sea,
finally to leave us alone again, the ocean’s voice mixing
with the crickets.
“Kleis will bring Phaon back to me,” I said.
“Theirs is a curious resemblance...I agree.”
“What will happen to his house?”
“It will be hers,” he said.
“But she’ll never live in town.”
“No...she won’t change her ways.”
“Have you ever liked his house? I haven’t.”
“No,” he said.
“Libus, why doesn’t Alcaeus come to me?”
“He’s not thinking of your problem.”
“He doesn’t know about Phaon?”
“He knows...but can’t come.”
“Shall I go to him?”
“Wait...for a while,” he said.
My girls seldom leave me: Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria,
each brings flowers and gifts, bringing them
surreptitiously or with a hint of jollity—sometimes
compassion. Old Exekias pats my hands, kisses my skirt or
turns away, tears unchecked.
Atthis, cheek against mine, murmurs her love. As we
walk through our garden she says:
“I miss him too... I loved him too... We placed a
wreath for him... We three have made a shrine in the
woods...”
Gyrinno appears in the night, as I lie sleepless.
Unable to mention the tragedy, she whispers hoarsely that
she loves me and wants to help: Is there anything she can
do for me?
Anaktoria has probed deeper:
“You must take care, Sappho. You must do nothing
strange, that would harm us. We can’t have you obsessed
by melancholy. Let us look after you.”
Eyes streaked with tears dim and I see him, imagine his
body sprawled between the rocks of Cos and I hear his
voice speak my name: I see our Leucadian cliff and know I
could throw myself down, die as he died among the rocks,
far below.
Then, I find Kleis as I work at my loom, and her voice,
revealing her sorrow, eradicates the drama of self: the
curse of death needs soft hands and blonde hair and blue
eyes and tender mouth... “Mama, darling...”
Sometimes I try to brush aside feminine ties, but there
they are, tightening about me: snatches of song come to
me: I see women with babies at the fountain; vineyards
creep over the hills, ascending through fog, under the
wings of gulls, moving toward me, closer and closer: they
are my father’s vineyards, the vineyards of Alcaeus,
Phaon’s vineyards, Libus’, Anaktoria’s; the bone flute,
the whole island is in them, in the spring leaves and
autumn leaves, in the stark vines of winter: the weeping
rock moves through them, the defeated fleet, the red
rooftops of home, the bare hills, olive trees: I see a
woman, called Sappho, leading a child, named Kleis: I
hear shepherd’s bells, and the silence of dawn spills up
from the ocean’s shore: a porpoise and a whale, beyond a
belt of kelp, churn points of light and shadow: home,
home is the red tiles and my mother’s lamps and the view
where the vineyards snuggle to sleep for the night: this
is my inheritance, to keep as long as possible, that is
what I tell myself, compel myself to feel.
Kleis has the grape leaf woven in her loom and as she
weaves she faces me and smiles and I know how much love
is in that smile.
Sappho stands by the seaward window in her
library...
carved ivory racks hold books, ancient
papyri,
Egyptian clay tablets, copies of hymns.
Blue from the bay inundates the library, her
face,
obliterates the books.
Alcaeus, an old man,
holds a tattered manuscript.
Mytilene, Lesbos
S
uddenly, he stood in front of me, in my library, dressed
in black, beard soiled, deep wrinkles underneath his
eyes.
“Alcaeus, I didn’t hear you and Thasos.”
“Exekias let us in. Are you working?”
“No...sit down.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
He leaned on Thasos: I felt that he hadn’t been sober
very long; he leaned forward, almost stumbling.
“Can I sit down?”
“Here, here,” said Thasos, helping him, laying aside a
package.
Silence troubled us.
I watched Thasos go and then Alcaeus said:
“I understand your loss. I understand what has happened
to you. Phaon’s death has overpowered you. I put it
badly...but we have shared...be patient...I
understand...Sappho; I have brought you my Homer.
Remember, when I got it years ago? Remember? I want to
share. I should have given you this before...What good is
it to me?”
“Alcaeus.”
“Where is the book?”
“The package Thasos left?”
“Yes...take it...open it...”
I opened it, remembering how we had thrilled long ago,
and, after a while, reaching out to him, grateful, hoping
I could make him sense my gratitude, I kissed his
forehead and his hands, his hands motionless, the
sightless eyes confusing me.
He went on slowly:
“I’ve come to share my strength...it’s a poor strength,
drunk, blind, but it does go on. You, my dear, are
blinded by grief. Let me tell you your grief can’t be as
bad as mine. Or, if it is, let’s share...share...we’ve
shared before... I’ll take your dark away...hide it in
mine...lose some of your burden at least.
“Sappho, let me help.
“Accept the old book, find hope in it... I have kicked
aside death on the field...look at my eyes and then look
at yours...you need no mirror.
“He’s dead...dead by the sea...you have your love of
beauty to uphold you. Let it live! Give it new life! Soon
enough death will claim both of us, but, till then, let’s
find comradeship...come to my house tomorrow, read to
me...
“Will you?”
I nodded, then remembered he could not see and
remembered his gift and his grace and knelt by him and
put my head in his hands and pressed between his knees,
as he patted me, chuckling a little.
“I’ll come tomorrow, Alcaeus,” I promised.
“Good.”
“I know your lot is worse than mine... I must find
courage.”
Beauty, I thought, beauty, what can I say to help this
man?
“Yes, tomorrow; then I’ll tell you, Sappho... I’ll tell
you what I’ve learned, living in my black sea. How my
ship drags anchor. What I’ve heard. I’ve heard some
strange things. I can sense someone moving, almost before
he moves, a shift of air, let’s say.
“Watch me play jacks with Libus, old soldiers at their
fun. I could cheat you...if you gave me half a chance.”
Again that chuckle.
The book lay open and his great arms lay across his
lap, fingers up. My father had owned that book. With age
it had come unsewed and hung in tatters: the smell of age
was there: I rubbed my fingers over pages...
Quickly, he said:
“I like to feel those pages... I wanted to write a book
as full of life...give back the thunder of the
storm...look how the bugs have eaten the book...see that
ripped page...well, where will you keep your Homer?”
And he smiled.
“Shall I read something?”
“Yes...now!”
Turning the pages so he could hear them I searched for
a favorite passage.
I read as slowly and as distinctly as possible,
allowing each word time.
Cercolas, mother, Aesop, Phaon...gone. When shall I go?
I have been unable to write for days. I have nothing to
say...there is only emptiness.
Yesterday a nightingale sang, a song of tattered
leaves, scraps of Nile, bits of Euphrates, papyrus
against night, against impending doom, against
depression. Tender notes whispered insanity. Other notes
urged self-pity. Others shattered—with sheerest delicacy—
any hope of contrition.
A feather drops...a pause. One could die during such a
pause.
All of us wait—life waits!
A bubbling deceives the spirit, a trill alienates the
heart. Something summons the past, other songs on other
nights, other songs of other people, the bone flute, of
course.
This was not a bird, not a beak, not a feather but sail
and spar, rigged to go at dawn, course along many shores.
“Beauty, you’re frail. Your bones are able to carry
next to nothing and yet your song travels, spreading as
if a pebble had dropped on water...”
I walked under olive trees along the coast, following
grassy paths, the breeze with me until I met Gogu,
carrying a piece of kelp and a shell. At first, he did
not seem to recognize me. How thin, how sick he is!
Shadows of the olives shadowed him. When he spoke, I
hardly listened. Each of us is going the same way, I
thought, and so we parted and stillness put its
loneliness about me. The words he had said mixed me
because I had not listened, mixed with my love-memories,
adding incoherence.
Why was Gogu carrying kelp and a shell? Why was I
walking where I had often walked?
In a hundred years, this path has changed little: the
trees have become more gnarled, the shadows darker, the
air quieter.
The marble shrine at the end of the path crumbles year
by year and yet remains about the same: I can remember it
when another brought me: Phaon remembered it: and now,
memories are re-dedicated and burned, their ashes under
my sandals, under my fingers and heart.
The best of life is illusion, I do not doubt. The best
of Phaon may have been illusion.
Ah, the nettles of desire, the sleeplessness, the
gnawing of regrets in my skull. These are emotions we can
not share but must suffer alone till dawn, the dipper
proving we are children.
I believe that we, as human beings, prove nothing:
there is really nothing to prove except kindness and
decency: all else is more illusion.
I take my harp but there are no words to accompany the
notes. I urge Atthis to sing: play, darling, help me
forget...let me see your face as I love to see it. Move
your head with that fragile alacrity. Stretch your bare
legs under your dress.
As I open the shutters in the morning, I miss him...the
ocean has grown much, much wider.
My favorite olive tree says nothing to me.
Alcaeus wrote me:
“I know I can help you. Come over for the day. Courage,
friend.”
The note repulsed me. What could he know of Phaon, of
man’s cleanliness and beauty!
I did not answer. Instead, I climbed the hills with
Atthis and Anaktoria, to lay a wreath at an altar that
has been our shrine for a while.
The sea was rough and the wind was rough.
Tears overcame me at the altar and I made them leave
me: I hoped to die there: I wanted my bitterness to kill
me: Why couldn’t it happen? Why couldn’t there be this
finality?
I pulled flowers from the wreath and wrote his name on
the ground. A thrush hopped close by. The wind, gusting
from the bay, scattered blossoms and I found Atthis
beside me, kneeling to comfort me. We had shared so much,
the three of us, days and weeks, grief and joy. She and
Anaktoria got me to eat, under pines sheltered from the
wind; she and Anaktoria fixed my hair.
Their sad faces made me long for happiness for their
sake, and I tried to see beyond myself. There must be a
trick that I can use to deceive others.
The placid sea carries a few boats,
small clouds on the horizon,
a series of silver cat’s-paws;
and as though through a sheet
of green glass the faces of
Sappho, Atthis and Anaktoria:
a laurel wreath whirls above the Aegean:
herons fly, dolphins leap.
K
leis left her shepherd’s hut and came here and we have
talked far into the night:
“He liked a gold cup...he liked the mountains...he
liked the cove...yes, he went farther out to sea than
anyone...his sailors liked him...he...”
Kleis stayed several days and each day was a mirror of
his personality. Her beauty brought out his quality,
imaging it in various ways, her nature shaken from its
customary silence to talk of him. I recognized the effort
and appreciated the communication. I wanted to write her
notes but she could not read. I wanted to thank her in
some special way but it was she who thanked me, before
slipping away.
Afterward I counted other friends: Alcaeus, Libus,
Helen, Exekias, Atthis, Anaktoria, Gyrinno, Heptha,
Gogu... I also counted those who have died. Dreaming, I
counted our island, our town, our trees, mountains and
sea. I added my home. However childish to enumerate like
this, I went to sleep easily.
Perhaps, as I grow older, I may find an idea, a seed.
Perhaps it can grow in someone’s mind: compassion,
courage, grace, love—it could become one of these.
I shall continue to put down my thoughts, the handprint
of my days.
Could it be that the greatest thing in life is
perseverance?
Somebody, I tell you,
Someone in future time
Will remember us.
We are oppressed by
oblivion, by the idea
Of nothing at all,
Yet are saved by the
Judgment of good men.
CHRIST’S JOURNAL
Peter’s Home
Elul 10
T
he sun is setting. The evening is very warm. Across the
fields I hear children’s voices as they play.
This evening I have been reading the Psalms and their
beauty fills my mind. I have decided to write my
thoughts, not because I am a psalmist, but because I hope
to get closer to the meaning of life. Of course I should
have started writing long ago. When I was in the
wilderness I had an opportunity. Now, it is hard for me
to find the time, and writing is not a habit of mine and
does not come easily.
However, like a shepherd, I shall gather together my
thoughts, watching for strays. In spite of vigilance my
thoughts may wander.
It is pleasant sitting here at this table, the night
air blowing in; a star is caught in a tree. Peter is
talking to a friend; Peter’s voice has always pleased me,
so deep.
Elul 20
Yesterday, when I was in Naim, someone pointed out a
sick man huddled in rags at a street corner. It was one
of those windy days and dust spun around us. The man
reached up his arms and mumbled; I remembered seeing him
before and maybe he remembered me. I felt his hope; I
felt I could help, and I said:
“Pick up your mat, get up...walk... God will help you.”
The fellow trembled. He seemed to shrink inside himself
as if afraid of me. He closed his eyes and doubled his
hands. I waited and then repeated my command slowly. Like
someone in a dream he untangled his rags and knelt. As he
rolled his mat I encouraged him. Glancing about
furtively, he stood, tottered. I thought he would fall
but he kept his eyes on mine and I urged him to walk.
“Master...master,” he muttered, staring about
uncertainly. “Master...where... how can I?”
Limping, carrying his mat under one arm, he headed for
the synagogue and as I watched he began to walk easily.
He threw down his mat and began to run. Dust swirled
around us and he disappeared from sight.
Later, someone told me he had been bedridden, crippled
for almost forty years. Forty years—he had been crippled
longer than I had lived! Now he was walking...running...
I felt such joy, such joy, all day. I couldn’t eat when I
sat at the table at Peter’s; his mother scolded me. To
please her I nibbled a little fruit. I couldn’t find
anyone who could share my joy so I walked alone, roamed
the countryside. As I walked I could see his tortured
face, dirty beard, beggar’s clothes. Forty years...
His name is Simeon.
Probably I will see Simeon soon. And what shall I say
when he thanks me? What can he say? I will see a changed
man and that will be enough.
ÿ
Tishri 2
I
t seems only yesterday I was in Nazareth yet that
yesterday was years ago. Regardless of the passage of
time I feel the summer heat and hear flies buzzing.
Father is at work in his shop. Whitey comes to me and
meows; she’s scared of the thunder rumbling in the dis-
tance; she’s hungry too. Mama is cooking and the smell of
beef is everywhere.
Father begins to saw and sawdust spills over his feet.
I lean against a wall and sunshine spreads and I feel
everything impregnate me, the stucco, earth floor, the
bench, the broken handle of the saw, Father batting flies
that try to settle on his beard. This will last forever.
Caught in the web of time we will eat supper together,
before lamp lighting, and Whitey will sit on my lap.
I recall another afternoon years ago—the same place.
But Father is upset, talking volubly, denouncing Herod
and his tyranny, an old, old story for all of us. I have
tried to deny the truth of that story but there it is,
Herod’s soldiers slaughtering innocent children, hoping
to kill me. Surely I hate the man and yet I have learned
to pity his blundering.
As a boy I wandered, praying, asking understanding. The
dry hills were uncommunicative. If it is impossible to
forgive it is possible to look ahead. I felt too that my
guilt might become a disease. I saw that the past can
have too powerful an influence.
ÿ
Peter’s Home
Tishri 6
Tomorrow I am to preach on a hill... Peter says the
weather will be fine. I hope so, after windy days. For
weeks we have had wind and cold.