Sappho's Journal

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

  Exekias babbled dully about food and flagrant cheating, her basketbumping my hip. I wondered how I could wait, through the days ahead,how could I occupy myself, until Phaon and I sailed? It was a questionfor water clocks and gulls, spindrift and wind, thought unfolding in myroom, scudding across the floor to the window, stopping there, leapingout, to other lands, other times, backlashing with the net thatcontains yesterday...flames in a cruse...Atthis, slipping her perfumedhands over my eyes...

  ?

  My lips burn, my hands are moist, I feel faint... Is that my voice,the sound of my laughter? Am I walking over these tiles?

  Did I have supper last night? Drink? Rehearse a song?

  My girls realize I am lost—wandering. I can’t look into their eyesfor long. When I see Kleis cross the room a trickle of ice slips downmy back.

  What if he finds me too old, what if my love doesn’t please him...ifhe mocks me, or stands in awe, or wants to amuse himself?

  Phaon...

  I see you against every wall, against the sky, in the dark, in thesun under the trees. My flesh aches, my arms melt. Never has passionfermented so strongly in me.

  Yet no messenger comes.

  I can’t bear the nights, to lie alone, to feel my breath on mypillow, feel the cool sheet.

  In the morning, I ask Exekias questions, just to hear her voice, notlistening, for how can she know whether he has forgotten me or isafraid or sick?

  He is busy with his boat and port affairs. He has gone to visit hissister, with no thought of returning soon. He has sailed. He talks withhis men—coarse talks. He eats, drinks, works, sleeps, snores.

  No—he is fixing our boat for our trip.

  No, he has many sweethearts, dark, tall, frivolous, lusty, daring—allyoung.

  Why do I punish myself?

  I hurt with weariness and desire. I will simply face the bedroom walland shut out the light. No, I will concentrate on my work. What shall Iwrite about?

  ?

  Where is the sea that we sailed?

  Was it a long trip?

  Was our sail grey or brown?

  Was the water rough?

  The answers mean so little. Born of the sea, where is love morebeautiful than on the sea? Like water, light, warm, swaying, theindispensable ingredient, the transformations, the necessities, theluxury, with the whites of the waves whiter than salt, with gullsflashing in the sun, with the bow of the boat swinging.

  We swam, dove, played, laughed. There was bread soaked in honey andnuts dipped in wine and fruit, whose peelings we tossed to the birds.There was the creaking of the sail for our silences, the long browntiller arm reaching to the sun, his hands on my shoulders.

  He padded the bottom of the boat and we lay there, the wind heelingus briefly, the water sucking and his mouth sucking mine and the hungerof his body—the hunger I knew no sea could satisfy. Cradled, we talkedsoftly:

  “Was your trip good?”

  “We had good weather for several days, then storms... It’s like that,you know, most every trip. I try to keep far away from the coast, toavoid shifting winds. I keep farther away than most sailors. Itshortens the trip...”

  “You’re not afraid?”

  “No.”

  “When will you be leaving?”

  “I have no cargo.”

  “Stay...Phaon...”

  We had supper and I hated the food that kept us from our love-making.

  A sponge lay on the floor and he dipped water over me as the sunwashed over us, sinking rapidly. Why couldn’t it stay for us? I saw himas Cretan, as Babylonian, as Persian, inventing his lineage. Hisatavistic hands moved certainly, oarsman’s hands, netman’s hands, thesea’s...mine.

  Nothing’s more rhythmic than love with waves for bed, rocking,sucking, soothing. I lay there in his arms, thinking of the plantsbelow, the glassy window of the water, the fish, coral, ruinedcities...the lovers of other days, the mother of us all, love, pulsingin the rigging, in the pull of his legs, the hasp of his fingers. Therollers were kind to us, never too violent yet tingling the blood. Thebacks of waves looked at us. The spray spilled salt on our skin, gullsscreaming.

  We made love again, better than before, this time under the moon, ourbodies wet from swimming, the summer night blowing over us, bringing uscloser to shore where the surf boomed. Moonlight ignited inside thewater and phosphorescence added to the brilliance. Flying fish sprangfree. His body was so dark, mine so white...la, the rough of him!

  Were any other lovers as happy that day?

  As we stretched side by side, he said, with sleepy tongue:

  “I remember an evening like this, a night of phosphorescence. I waslying on the deck, almost asleep. A flash tore the sky, silverlight...it came streaking nearer and nearer. I woke some of my sailors.My helmsman shouted. We pointed and argued. The light hit the water andsent up boiling steam. We smelled something. Stripping, I swam wherethe light had hit the water. We were becalmed and I thought I had seensomething white but found only dead fish, their bellies shining. Thelargest one filled my arms and I swam back to the boat and hauled itaboard. It had a brand across one side. We argued, and threw it back.”

  “What was it that fell?” I asked.

  “Some said it was a star,” he said.

  ?

  “I was born in Pyrgos,” Phaon tells me, his head on my lap. “I wasborn in a terrible thunderstorm, in my father’s hut. He was a veryclever fisherman but there were times when we got very hungry and onone of those times we waded out to sea, he and I, to throw a net...wewere hungry. I wasn’t helping much but I was there, small, perhapslearning something. Ah, that little island was barren and poor. Andthere I was in the water, the sun coming out of the sea, blinding me.And then my father screamed and I saw him fall. I tried to reach him. Isplashed. I ran. I fell. I shouted. We were alone, we two. My fatherwas thrashing about. It seems he had fallen into a pool, a rock pool,you know what they are. Maybe he forgot it was there, or didn’t know. Ican’t say. But he had been hit by a shark and was bleeding. So I helpedhim, as best I could, both of us splashing, falling, the surf risingaround us, big. He fell on the beach and I ran for help but before Icould find help and come to him he had bled to death, on the sand, hishands on his wound, the wound from the shark.”

  ?

  We went up the mountain, to the outcrop and the temple, spent all dayalone, the sheep tinkling their bells, the heat steady. He knew of aspring unknown to me and a hollow olive where bees had a hive. Onlydeep in the olive grove was it cooler and we buried ourselves under thetrees.

  The watery brown of his body was mine. I found his voice deeper thanI had thought. I found his mouth. Discoveries went on, nothingrepetitive, the wind, no, the olive shade, or the moss and mushrooms.Crushing a mushroom he rubbed it against his thighs. The smell ofmushroom in the cool, dark place! His smell and mine; the smell ofearth: life was a vortex of fragrances, peace on the fringes, then ashepherd’s bell!

  “I’ve wanted to be a shepherd,” I said.

  “It would be too lonely for me,” he said. “It’s lonely enough at sea.I look for a sign of land, a strip of floating bark, land bird orturtle. I look...there at the bow I’m always looking...now it will beyou, ahead, in the sea. At sea I have my crew...no, I couldn’t be ashepherd. But you?”

  “For me, I’d have more time to think, to write, to gather the worldof stillness. I could weave it into a pattern we’d recognize asimportant: succor, inspiration, hope. There is a cliff...you know it...the Leucadian cliff... I’d go there with my flock and dream as they fedabout me, the sea below us, the murmur of antiquity around us.

  ?

  It wasn’t easy to visit Alcaeus and hear him talk, as he reclined atsupper, his hands close to a lighted lamp, restless fingers, perturbedin a blunted way: the tensility of the battlefield gone from them:moving, they move in on themselves.

  “Sometimes, I want
to see a face...your face, Sappho. I want to seemany faces, the faces of my men. I’d like to see a helmet and plume,the scarlet horsehair plume...color...what a great thing...

  “My house has no window or door. Who wants a house that way?

  “What of other blind men and their darkness! What good can thatdarkness do them?

  “When my father was small he was scared of the dark. I never was. Butthis dark has become fear...words can’t break it. Only sleep breaks it.When I’m lying in bed, on the verge of waking, I think, remembering theold light, I think, the sun’s up. But where’s the sun!”

  Someone had dusted his shields and spears on the wall: I noticed theblack point of an Egyptian lance, the cold grey pennons on a Persianhide: perhaps they had decorated the sand outside his tent.

  This contrast troubled me and yet I longed to share my happiness: thechild in me wanted to discountenance reason: the brown shoulders androlling sea never left me as we talked and I tried to comfort,reminding him of days when it was fun to climb the hills and explorethe beaches, fun all day: he admitted there had been time without painand wondered why we were eventually cheated?

  Fog leaned against the house and I described it and he asked me towalk with him. As we followed the shore, he talked of warriors he hadknow, “strategists,” he called them; he boomed his words, excited bymemories and the walk and the fog, which he could feel on his face andhands. His cane cracked against driftwood and I restrained him, to findhis hands trembling.

  ?

 

  The blue of the Aegean is reflected

  in the faces of the 50 rowers of the trireme

  as they chant and pull;

  the blue is reflected on the ship’s hull

  and the banks of oars.

  P

  haon and I were offshore in his rowboat, the small sail furled, thesurf near by, doubling into smooth green, sunset brazing the horizon.We had been gay, drifting, oar dragging, taking chances with the surf.Upright at the stern, Phaon looked about idly: we had been talkingabout going for a swim. Suddenly, he faced me and shouted:

  “Over there...see them...pirate boats!”

  “What?”

  “Over there, the other way...those three boats...see the red shieldsat the bow...Turkish pirates...they’re attacking Mytilene. I’ll row forthe beach. Hang on.”

  His oar splashed and the boat pitched; pulling with all his strength,he drove us toward the shore, the surf rising, the bow high. I thoughtwe would capsize but before I could make out the pirate ships hebeached us and we scrambled ashore, drenched and shoeless. Together, weraced for the square, shouting at everyone we met. Together, we dashedfor Alcaeus’ house, and threw open his door.

  Men in gold, red and blue uniforms stormed our dock and invaded thetown. I hung on, behind shutters, unable to tear myself away as thearmed gang rushed past the house, forty or more, most of them yelling,one of them, in silver turban, whistling through his fingers,brandishing a scimitar. My mother had described such an attack...Icould hear her and see her pained face...a terrible story I had neverquite believed.

  Phaon yanked shields and spears off the wall and armed Thasos andanother man I scarcely knew, a visitor. Women and children hollered andscuttled inside, making for the rear of the house. Something crashedagainst our street door and men bellowed wildly at us. I saw wood ripthe door. Thasos moved in front of me, urging me to hide. Phaon, withshield and sword, his clothes still sopping, threw open the door andbeat off a Turkish spear. Catching two men by surprise, he wounded onein the neck and both fled, the uninjured man, a youngster, helping theother one, his shoulder turning red, their short swords rapping theirlegs as they ran. The injured man lost his turban as they rounded acorner...

  “What happened...What’s going on?” bellowed Alcaeus, behind Thasos.

  “Turks,” Phaon shouted, checking the damage to the door, swinging iton its hinges, his hairy shield high on his arm.

  Long after dusk, men scouted the streets, all the Turkish boats atsea: the town buzzed with shouts and whistles: a drum throbbed: theraiders had killed two and injured several and plundered a winery andmill, removing flour and filling goat skins with fresh water at severalfountains. I piloted Alcaeus about for a while, until my girlsdiscovered me and begged me home, dreading a repetition, though by nowarmed soldiers had set up guards.

  Stars shone brilliantly.

  The bay, mirror-smooth, seemed utterly innocent of piracy and death.It accused us of our own folly.

  Alone in my room, I reviewed the raid, our floundering ashore, ourdash to Alcaeus’ house, the brilliant uniforms, wild faces, wild cries,Phaon at the door, Thasos wanting me to hide, children whimpering.

  The drummers were signaling each other, the surf sullen, the windrising.

  In a room near me, someone was sobbing. Peace would not return to myhouse or Mytilene for a while: how long, I wondered? Peace, how frailit is, how carefully it must be protected.

  I realized I should comfort my girls and not sit and watch the ocean.It was hard to go to them, harder still to listen to their fears andaccusations. When they questioned me I felt that what I described hadnever happened or happened to someone else. Atthis, holding a puppy inher arms, said she wanted someone to protect her and burst into tears,realizing how unprotected she had been.

  Why hadn’t I come with Phaon? What if the Turks had climbed the hill?

  “You forgot all about us, you just left us here! Oh, Sappho!”

  ?

  Next day, with my house quieted, I had time to write:

  Accomplishments require sacrifice of mind and body; for some,accomplishment will be slow as the sea eating sand. I prefer the swiftattainment—it is most inspiring. Death, because it is an incessantthreat, retards progress, inhibiting our will to succeed, seeping underus at unexpected moments.

  Surely, if we are to conspire against death, if we are to get themost of life, we must be clever, relying on intuition and knowledge, toreach any goal. Surely, the most important element in life is thehumane, the kindly, the uncorrupted, tying together little things intosomething worth while, that will have significance now and later.

  ?

  Poseidon

  641 B.C.

  Then, what is love? Isn’t it sharing a personality never encounteredbefore? I think it is this kind of interchange and it is exploringsomeone’s thinking, with and without words. With Phaon, it is sharingthe sea, the oarsman’s hands, the swimmer’s legs, yarns on the beach inthe firelight. With Alcaeus, it has been our friends, our families, ourtown, our writing, our exile—years of knowing each other. Thedifferences between Phaon and Alcaeus are so many it would be foolishto try to list them. Comparison gets me nowhere.

  I suspect that love is too subtle for any analysis: love is so subtleit escapes while we look. Being in love is rather like being someoneelse, laughing someone’s laughter, tasting someone’s wine, dreamingsomeone’s dreams. I feel that close to Phaon. Together, we share thefire, the fire that wakes us in the night, that flies into our eyes,the fire that makes my mouth tremble, that makes me laugh in my mirror,that makes me test my perfume bottles and sends my girls for newpowder.

  I steal to him—with dignity. I crush him to me, dignity gone. I lose,I gain. I cringe, I lunge. Phaon, you are my body, in me, wanting you,wanting... We are the wanters, haters of nights that keep us apart,haters of time.

  Its roaring deafens me: I, I didn’t hear you. I, I was wrapped inthought. I was making love...I was reliving the sea, I was in the boat.I was planning our next meeting...I was singing... Darling, I wassaying.

  ?

  Riding donkeys, Phaon and I set out across the island, to visit hissister, riding all day in slow stages, to reach her hut and sleepthere. I thought we would never find it, but that was my thinking.Phaon led us through a jumble of hillside rocks, through littlevalleys, right to her door, a hut of rocks and straw, her shepherd’scrook beside the door.r />
  Kleis is so unlike my Kleis.

  She seems able to speak without words, perhaps because words are notvery useful to her since she lives alone. She nods and smiles, hersmile serene. Small, dark, light-boned, she appears out of the past, nosister of Phaon, unrelated to our island. I had not expected her to beso unlike us. Using her particular mystery, she made us comfortable,made us feel at home, a gesture now and then, a word, some roastedseeds, another word, as we talked. Her delight in having us wasobvious, coming from deep inside. She has wonderful wind-swept sight,from the rapture of lonely skies, her communions. She is priestess ofself-contained youth. She shared her food and we shared things we hadbrought. Phaon talked of his sea trip, the Mytilene raid, his voice inaccord with her quality.

  As our relationship deepens, I am more and more aware of his quality.It is best seen in his slow, slow gesture. Or in a spontaneous grinending in a chuckle. It is in his carriage—his calculating look. Hisqualities are older than mine, seasoned by the primordial: his speechis older, in vocabulary, accent, intonation.

  Kleis and I sang after supper, the supper fire burning.

  Her sheep were near us, muffled, shuffling contentedly.