flaming coldly. Perspiration glowed on our bodies. A cat jumped on our
bed and Phaon pushed it away: wind rustled: leaves shook: flames
swayed: this was the love I had wanted and I accepted it and made it
live: no little girl’s love, mine was glorious, damning all loneliness,
knowing he would be gone again.
A dried flying fish revolved on a string above Phaon’s cabin door.
His boat rose on a gradual swell, seemed unwilling 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 cheese spoils...our meat...our
water. Sometimes we can’t land a fish.”
A smile wrinkled his face, as he hulked against the cabin 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 so many years
lapsed? I said no more. He had silenced me effectively for I could not
endure those prolonged trials and no doubt the sea voyage was
impossible: luxury had softened me. The spinning fish would have
horrified Atthis. And was I very different?
But we sailed along our coast, hugging it, unloading fruit, getting
away from the windless heat of Mytilene, selling dates, lemons and
limes. As we sailed in a faint wind, the crew sang. Lolling under an
awning, I heard stories of catches at the deeps just beyond us, deeps
where the water shimmered flatly, as if of rock. One crewman, not much
bigger than a monkey, dove for shells while we crept through shallows.
Pink shell in hand, treading a wave nakedly, he offered me his prize,
as I leaned over the side. Kelp floated around him and tiny blue fish
darted in and out, under his legs and arms, angel fish lower down,
perhaps frightened.
While the monkey-man dove for shells, youngsters swam from small
boats, hailing us, boarding us, some bringing fish as gifts. A blond,
husky body, his shoulders thickly oiled, shared an orange with a girl
who had his oval face and fair skin: twins, I thought, and went to the
stern to talk to them, comparing their arms and legs, their features
and hair. The flock of youngsters cluttering our desk found us amusing
and laughed at us.
The twins talked about a wrecked ship, “from a strange land...you can
see her at dawn, when the water’s quiet...she has a sunken deck, a huge
rudder turned by chains. A great red and gold beast is carved over the
stern...”
As we shared our oranges, juice trickled between her breasts.
Someone shouted and there was more laughter, and, as if prearranged,
the youngsters abandoned us, dove overboard and swam shoreward,
splashing, calling, wishing us luck.
I wish I were that young, I told myself.
That night, heat lightning brushed the sky, forming kelp-shaped ropes
of yellow. Huge clouds massed about a thin moon and Phaon prophesied
rain.
My head on his lap, we drifted, watching, listening to a singer,
invisible man at the bow. His words made me uneasy as he sang of lovers
lost at sea. Our sail had enough wind to fill it and yet we appeared
immobile.
I drew Phaon’s face to mine and his mouth tasted of oranges.
Above us, behind us, his flying fish rocked.
The lightning played among the stars and wet the sail and our
helmsman bent sleepily over the rudder: it was a night for love and
when the cabin had cooled, Phaon and I sought each other: he placed an
orange in my hand, the singing went on, the sea sobbed, the orange
fell.
“Phaon?”
“What is it?”
Keep me, wait, go on, love me, don’t...I wanted to say so much.
I caressed him, breathed him in, the sanctity, the favor, the
graciousness, the ephemeral. I wandered through caves. I dove to the
wreck of the red-gold ship. I...
Later, we divided the orange and its sweet dribbled over 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 how beautiful he
was, his ship and fish swaying as a fresh wind 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 sensuous softness coming
from inside. When my girls are dancing on the terrace or in the garden,
I wonder who is most beautiful.
Kleis spins. Atthis bends, arms upflung. I see a grape-tinted breast,
fragile ankles. Yellow hair flies over shoulders. Gyrinno’s throat is
perfect. Malva’s thighs. Look, Atthis and Anaktoria are dancing
together. For an instant, their lips meet.
Tiles are blue underfoot.
Our wonderful harpist, an old woman, watches with burning, 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
waiting a long time for me; they were here when I returned from my
birthday trip.
Alcaeus’ face is deeper lined: it has been lined for years but
something has happened abruptly, pain has pinched the flesh into new,
tiny, angry wrinkles.
Friends have reported that he is drinking again and yet this is more
than drink because I realize it is inner debauchery: the eyes cannot
confess: instead, the voice tells.
We huddle in our warm robes, the wind howling, and he says, 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 its masculinity? 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
was weakness on my part, or acceptance or hope. Listening, while we
drank, I asked what hope he had? He was deriving some satisfaction from
his relationship with Libus. There seemed nothing else. Little by
little, he forgot why he had come to see me: happy birthday became
grimaces, guffawing, vituperations over battles. He and Libus grew
excited, enacting scenes with their hands, shuffling their feet.
“This is how I beat off his genitals...”
Alcaeus roared, hand on his beard.
“I beat open his helmet...”
Yes, the war...
And in my room, I found relief listening to the wind, remembering the
boat’s passage to Limnos, my friends there, the festival in the
vineyard, flute and drum, carom of bodies, laughter: Was it Felerian
who laughed that low pitched melodious laugh? Was it Marcus who hurled
his spear through the target? I erased Alcaeus: so much of life demands
voluntary forgetfulness!
My girls had clambered about me at the dock, detaining me. Why does
their love soften me? So often there are petty squabbles but, at
reunions, they dissolve: the moment becomes a moment of accord, making
life worthier: Gyrinno insists on carrying my basket, another smooths
my scarf, another offers flowers. Kisses. They buzz into a flurry of
plans.
“Tomorrow, we’ll go up the mountain...”
“Tomorrow, we’ll...”
Ah-hah-who, ah hah-who, the quails cry, as night comes.
I light mama’s lamp, so smooth to the fingers after all these years,
like alabaster. The wick struggles into flame, as if reluctant to leave
the past.
My Etruscan wall girl comes alive.
“Ah-hah-who.”
I take off my chain and pearl cluster and lay them in their scented
box, pausing, sensing, dreaming.
Perhaps Phaon will be back soon—unexpectedly. I could not remain
longer in Limnos, thinking he might return—tonight. I long for his
mouth, the jerk of his legs, his obelisko’s tyranny.
Hunger—let me sleep tonight, tired after the voyage.
No sooner have I returned than I am upset. Life is constricted... I
stand among Charaxos’ Egyptian treasures, confronting him: a twisted,
gilded serpent god sneers at me: fragments of gold leaf blink: mellow
gold is underfoot: I sway, as I talk, my parasol clenched across my
belly.
“Now, I know,” I say to him.
“You know what?”
“That you schemed with Pittakos, to have me exiled, with Alcaeus.”
“What?”
“After all these years I’ve found out. Stop lying. You tried to get
our home, that’s why you wanted me exiled. What a brother you’ve been!
What a fool I’ve been!”
For once he shut his mouth.
“During the war years you made many trips, to sell your
wines...refusing to help me financially...yours is a debt you won’t
pay...and you don’t care. I’ve dedicated my life to writing...I live no
lie. I work to make life significant.
“And now, why have I come? To quarrel? No, to tell you the truth.
I’ve nothing more to say. I want you to know that I know. It’s a
satisfaction...”
I could have talked on, but I left, snapping open my parasol,
clutching Ezekias’ arm, walking swiftly, curbing my pulse, hearing a
seagull, the wind icy at the corners of the town, dogs sleeping in the
sun, carts passing.
I tried to believe something was settled, that life was worth more
for having told the truth. Yet, I wanted to return to Charaxos, demand
apologies and restitution, apologies for impertinent, biased
criticisms, as if apology, like a brand, could stamp out wrong, as if
there were restitution for my cheated years.
Somehow, as I walked, as Ezekias chattered, Aesop commiserated: his
hunchback shoulders squared my shoulders: his doll had the dignity of a
scepter to prod my spirit.
A tow-headed youth greeted us and I thought: I wish I could have a
son. Yes, to give birth again. That glory cancels many defeats.
In Libus’ house, I turned to him and said:
“I told Charaxos what you told me weeks ago.”
“But I shouldn’t have told you, Sappho.”
“It was time I knew the truth.”
“And now you have an enemy,” he said.
“He has been my enemy all the time, Libus.”
We sat on his veranda, an agnus-castus sheltering us from the wind.
His boy brought us drinks.
“Are we better friends?” he asked.
“I trust you more.”
Tree shadows moved across his mouth and chin.
“Trust is not always friendship. I shouldn’t have informed. How
shallow we are, the best of us. We bungle. Friendship, yours and mine,
it’s hard to measure, perhaps we shouldn’t try: isn’t it better left
alone? Friendship, that’s what we’ve had all these years...I
overstepped propriety.”
How pale Libus was, in his grey robe, shadows ridging the fabric,
chalking his face, thickening his lips, greying his hair. His sandals
moved nervously yet he never moved his hands: they remained weighted to
his lap.
I ate supper there, lingering with the ancientness of his rooms, dark
mosaics, the crowning of a king behind him, Libus’ chair of white
leather, the king in the mosaic studying his crown, his jewels flashing
red, a hint of Corinth and a hint of Crete.
Remembering my shepherd visit, I wrote this:
EVENING STAR
Hesperus, you bring
Homeward all that
Dawn’s light disperses,
Bring home sheep,
Bring home goats,
Bring children home
To their mothers.
What is it urges the mind to seek beauty? What is the challenge? Why
go where there are no charts?
Beauty says it is a kind of love.
So, I make love, in my quiet room, the word symbolic of man, life’s
continuity, my paper taken from reeds and trees. I write of birth,
love, marriage and death, sensing that the unrecorded is vaster than
the recorded. I sense the stumbling: the past could be a gigantic
storm, fog obliterating at moment of revelation, fog fumbling from man
to man, saying come, saying stop. The past is a wave through which no
swimmer passes. As surf it inundates, then vanishes. On windy nights,
it moans at my window, beautiful and hideous. I struggle on.
I quote from my journal kept in exile:
For three days we have had little to eat, days of
quarrels, bitterness and savagery.
I gave myself to a merchant and he has returned the favor
by feeding Alcaeus and me. We ate in the kitchen, glad to
find considerate slaves. We can remain long enough to
recover our strength, if not our hopes.
How I long for home and my servants, fish as Exekias can
prepare it, onions in Chian wine, olives from Patmos. It
helps to list the good things. Surely they are not lost.
How wretched to cheat myself to keep alive, to cheat the
face, the mooning eyes, the stupid mouth, the odor of
flagrancy, the disbelief...chattel, cringe, lie still,
perform.
Copying those lines I remembered things I have never recorded, our
filthy clothes, windowless room, flies, thirst, sickness...Alcaeus in
jail... I was fined...authorities jeered at us...no sympathy, no luck
until Aesop, his fox, raven and rooster.
I never thought him brilliant but he was always entertaining,
agreeable about the smallest problem. Nuances come to me, as he told of
a turtle that ferried a small turtle and then, at the end of the
pleasant ride, said:
“Little turtle, you must pay.”
“How can I pay?” asked the little turtle.
“By doing me a favor.”
“Well, what can I do?”
“Hump along the beach and snatch me a fly.”
“I’ll do my best,” said the little turtle.
After humping and snapping till almost noon, the little turtle
brought a fly to the big turtle. Finding the big fellow asleep, the
little one had to cuff him.
“Here,” said the turtle, between closed lips.
“Ah,” exclaimed the big turtle, swallowing the fly, tasting it with
care. “Umm, that’s the first fly I ever ate! You see a little fellow
like you can do things a big fellow can’t.”
During the night an earthquake woke me and I wandered through the
bedrooms, to see about my girls. Atthis needed covering and as I
arranged her covers she murmured, “Mama, mama.” Before I could slip
away, she grasped my hand.
“Are you homesick, darling?”
When I kissed her, I found her face wet with tears. “Why don’t you go
home for a few weeks?” I whispered. “You were calling your mama in your
sleep. If you’re homesick, you must go home. Let’s talk about it
tomorrow. Do you want me to sleep with you?”
So we cuddled together and almost at once she relaxed and, after a
few endearments, slept with her head on my shoulder, her violet
fragrance around me. I held her fingers a long time. Drowsily, I asked:
where do we go...why can’t we remain young...happy? The last thing I
recalled was the sweetness of her perfume.
The earthquake had been forgotten.
Alcaeus sat on his leather stool, his dog at his feet, sunlight
behind him; elbows on his knees, he said:
“...I prefer that hymn. There’s really no finer. In spite of time
it’s full of force, spring’s arrival, the brevity of summer, the dying
year. It has the shepherd’s power, the forest’s—passion tamed and
sanctified. Another one I like is...
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall...
Libus, sitting near Alcaeus, quoted his favorite, huddling in his
robe, his face averted:
Alone, in sea-circled Delos, while round on beach and cove,
before the piping sea wind the dark blue storm waves
drove...
“Why do you break off?” I asked.
He did not answer but said:
“They knew, those ancients, how to supplicate the lowliest...they
preferred the virginal...snowy peaks...whispering groves...the hunting
cry...”
Warming my feet on a warming stone, I said I preferred the golden
hymn and repeated fragments...
Long are their ways of living, honey in their bread,
and in their dances their footsteps twirl, twirling
light...
Fragment of talk:
“We can’t marry, unless we have a child...you’ll be twenty-three
soon...it must be like that...my house is a house of women...”
I thought of those words as I passed Phaon’s house, beyond the wharf,
isolated. As I passed, waves climbed its base, licking at boulders. Its
walls are thicker than most, cracked and mottled. I used to be afraid
of that house as a girl and as I passed these thoughts brought back
some of that apprehension. I glanced at the seaward balcony, tottering
on wasted beams, painted years ago. Seagulls squatted on the flat roof,
as they have day in and day out. There are five rooms underneath those
tiles and his mother and uncle lived and died there, a harsh struggle
in rooms of simple furnishings, coils of rope, nets, brass fittings and
bronze anchors.
Phaon lives there with two men, their servants and a hanger-on. Kleis
visits occasionally. A parrot, some say nearly two hundred years old,
gabbles sayings and fills the sea-sopped silences.
Yes, his house troubles me—its darkness, its evocation of poverty and
my own exile.
While I was ill, Libus cared for me, the mastery of his hands
relieving pain. By my bed, talking soothing talk, he brought gradual
relief, just as two years ago. His hands are more than hands, it seems.
Magical masseur, he explores yet never gropes: his fingers, padded at
the tips, press, release, wait. Our friendship, with all its
confidences, in spite of differences, weathers the years and is
stronger at such a time, under his mastery. As he obliterates pain, he
blinks absently or smiles his pale smile, withdrawn yet assuring. He
learned his art from a young Alexandrian, a man he met while studying
in Athens, who spoke many desert languages.
“I’d like to see him again. I’ve learned something through my own
experiments; we would share. Of course, he’s a great man.”
And when I asked Libus about my illness, he said:
“Too much work, too much rich food, too much concern. You haven’t
been using common sense.”
I didn’t care for this and said:
“I know from what Alcaeus says, you help him more than anyone. You
can help me.”
“I’m not able to help him all the time.”
“You mean his drinking?”
He shrugged.
“Let’s call it something else. He does nothing so much of the time.
That’s where the trouble lies. He’s not thinking...doesn’t care.”
“He wouldn’t let me in when I went last. Thasos had to turn me away.”
“The great soldier...drunk.”
“What can I do?”
“Try again, Sappho. You and I know what he is—and was. You used to
understand him better than anyone. Now, well, I do what I can. He’s
growing worse...have you heard him bellow at me or Thasos, as if he
were commanding officer? No doubt you have...and more...”
Libus’ hands pushed and then, feather-weight, stroked upward, over
and over, inducing me to breathe steadily: his hands brought warmth, my
thinking became clearer. As he pressed, the weight on my heart
lessened; as his fingers covered my stomach, rotating their tips, I
felt bitter anguish might not come again.
Lecturing me, he cautioned me about food and advised less exercise:
rest, let the days flow by.
So, I sail with my girls, lie in the sun, walk, poke along lazy
trails, fuss in my garden. Winter is hard on me. Chills come, leaving
my stomach knotted, my eyes afire.
Phaon has returned.
Phaon and Sappho kneel in a grove,
a cithara beside them:
age-old trees shade the lovers:
the age of a ruined temple is part of
the timelessness of the grove:
bronze Phaon and white Sappho,
dusk takes over their whispers,
their motions, the wind in the olives.
Mytilene
U
nder the olive trees we faced each other, alone, the sun coloring the
ground, patching yellow and brown. A butterfly circled, as if
considering us. Tenderly, Phaon fitted his hands over my breasts and I
held him in my arms; swaying, we kissed: we had not talked much and we
knew talk could come later: his legs crowded mine: his hand undid my
hair, spilling it over my shoulders: confirmation was in that un-
disturbed place and accord burned our mouths and throats. Encystment
was the slipping down of robes, our knees touching, the feeling, self,
and underneath self, the ground, our earth: yet we were not aware, only
before and later: the consummation dragged at the trees: I forced him
to me, forcing back his face, his mouth: how warm his stamina:
tenderly, we rose, to fall back: tenderness, how it becomes ash, taking
us by surprise: I couldn’t stop quivering till his hands stopped me:
his voice was real so all was real: then, he was home and this was not
a lie: I knew it on the slope of hills sloping to the ocean: I knew it
in the boat, far at sea.
When we learned of a terrible earthquake at Chios, we loaded Libus’
boat with food, wine and water and set out, before dawn, across choppy
water, Phaon and I at the stern, under blankets, Libus managing the
sail. We were part of a small fleet but I couldn’t discern another
boat. Spray swished overhead and fog, ahead and astern, seemed ready to
pincer us. Under our hull the water flooded ominously; the sky, without
its stars, might have been the ocean.
Our hard trip brought us into Chios tired and hungry; we had been
unable to look after ourselves but, without eating, we began to
distribute food and wine.
Chios—happy town—lay broken. I walked about, remembering, stopping
here and there: all the central part, shops and temple, were
dismembered, had windy dust blowing across it, greyish dust that seemed
mortuary. Yet, I saw no dead, only the injured: Libus helped them,
bandaging, talking: I gave wine and water, afraid: he was annoyed by my
fear: I could not find Phaon and that worried me. Wine, and water,
dribbling them, my hamper shaking, the wind icy and dust in my mouth, I
felt sick again. A child raced to me, wailing: crouching down, I
mothered her, fed her a little bread: as we crouched, a slab of
building fell, tottered forward and disappeared in a wave of dust.
“The quake came and came and then came again,” an injured woman said,
accepting dates and cheese.
By now, I saw others from Mytilene and their hearty faces cheered me.
But how the gulls screamed. Flocks wheeled and screamed.
On the beach we lit fires and cooked our suppers, wind and dust still
bothering us: Phaon and I ate with people from home, our fire put
together from the prow of an old boat, the talk about Chios and the
injured, their lack of food and care. We slept in beached boats, the
surf snarling, stars breaking through fast clouds: I remembered the big
dipper and frightened people... Libus woke us early and we did our best
to help, using splints, caring for a head wound, bandaging a boy’s
chest... Libus scarcely allowed himself time to eat.
The wind had subsided, and I felt less fear and went about with my
basket of food and wine. In the afternoon, we welcomed other boats from
Lesbos and after a second night on the beach—this one calm, all the
stars awake—we sailed for home, three of us leaving at the same time,
our boats so many grey corks on a line.
As I stared back at the stricken town, I heard the gulls. “Phaon, it
was bad,” I said.
“Yes, very bad, though I’ve seen worse.”
“I hope I never do.”
“These people had help...sometimes there is nobody to help.”
“We’re in the lead,” Libus cried. “We’ll be the first ones home. Now
for some sleep.”
Today, I had a letter from Solon: he discussed politics and his
immediate intentions and then went on to consider my poetry, praising
it for its lyrical quality, refreshing themes, compassion and sense of
beauty.
I respect his judgment and his quotations sent me to my books, to
reconsider and evaluate. For a while, I sat at my desk, thinking over
passages, contemplating the ocean, serenely blue as usual. Life, for
the moment, was balanced: it had acquired profundity and calm: here was
my reward since I believed his assessments just: for once, I needed no
one to share: I needed nothing.
But I picked up Aesop’s clay fox and recognized my need: the bite of
yesterday cornered me.
Kleis has fallen in love—this time with a cousin of Pittakos. I am
amused, and have done all I dare to make the pair happy, picnicking and
boating.
I have seen him at play on the field, built well, long of leg, with a
homely, genial face and grin that consistently makes up for mediocrity.
Like his cousin, I could add. But that’s unfair. When I see him screw
up his mouth in front of Kleis, I sag. The next moment he brightens and
seems about to say something intelligent. Then, the cycle resumes.
Love, I remind myself, with inward nod, can be curious.
Well, I am playing the game—if it is a game—circumspectly, knowing
winds can be fickle. I gather news from my girls who too often babble.
“See, how she conducts herself! She’s grown up!”
“My, they’re serious!”
I am aware of her airs.
Am I to forget her clandestine meetings of a few months ago and
expect her golden head to settle down?
She confides in me and I conceal my smiles.