Venus hung over us.
How unlike my Kleis, in her singing and her songs: her songs aresongs mother knew: they made me tremble and I wanted to clasp her tome: Phaon had forgotten most of them but joined us sometimes. We sangof lovers and wanderers.
She, the daily wanderer, was less a wanderer than any of us: hernatural resources 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 likelyplaces. We stopped in an orange grove to eat, water rippling by us inan irrigation ditch. Cross-legged we ate cheese and dates and drankwine Kleis had given us, the summer smells around us, flowers, so manykinds of flowers in this place. Lying beside me, Phaon told me moreabout his life:
“...We met a storm off the Egyptian coast, the wind rushing us,tearing our sail. I was at the rudder when the sail split. I ordered mymen to huddle in the lee and mend the sail. How we shipped water. Thebow crashed. All of us thought we’d go down but they kept on with themending, folding the fabric, squeezing out the water, wiping rain andspray from their faces. I’ve never heard a fiercer wind, raging offstarboard...
“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 slantedtoward me. Out of the side of my eyes, I thought I saw something on thesea, a man, a tall man. I said nothing but worked hard: I couldn’t talkor yell in that sea. Part way up the mast, I looked down. Nothing. Inspite of wind and rain, we hung our sail and swung out of the troughs.Back at the rudder, I saw him, saw him moving, white, tall, through thewhipped 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 are rubies 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 you proud of Phaon?”
The whole misadventure leaves me cold. I think of the burial of ourdead. I see the blood rushing down the neck of the wounded man. Therewas blood on Phaon’s sword. He and Alcaeus had bellowed over theirvictory. Victory?
I pushed away the pirate’s sword, and said: “It would be better ifthere were no pirates.”
Gyrinno is disgusted.
What is wrong with man? Is man’s piratical weakness an instinct?Women don’t go in for piracy. We know the value of living andappreciate life’s perilousness. We give birth to kindness...each babyis kindness itself.
I have forbidden Gyrinno to keep the sword: she must get rid of it,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 thewindows and sea. I am weaving a white scarf, quite blemishless.
Weaving has always been the most delightful pastime: I sit and weaveand the wool goes in and out: I can see nothing in front of me or I cansee my whole past, or tomorrow, or Phaon, the ocean, my house, thefaces of my girls...
I work silently sometimes, planning, composing. The art of weavingthoughts must have begun with the loom. The rain falls, and weaves itssounds. Atthis and Anaktoria sit on either side of me, Anaktoriasinging to herself. She is dressed in white and Atthis wears blue.
Across the sea a wedge of rain scuds, slowly approaching our island.Shepherds are in their huts. Seamen are ashore. It is a time for all torest.
?
At the bridge in town where I had watched the migratory flight ofherons, I met Alcaeus. He was perched on the rail, cane crossed overhis legs, waiting for Thasos. Glad to see me, he pulled his beard,fragrant and carefully oiled. I found him cheerful. He talked about aCarthaginian ship, in harbor because of broken oars, after sideswipinganother boat in a thick fog. As I listened his face altered: it was asif 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 thembetter than 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 I bellicose?
“I could have kept to my books. I understand it takes infinite timeto probe, time to evaluate, time to mature. I have always wanted skill—like yours, working, as you work, through intuition and knowledge ofthe past. By probing I could have 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.Something hurt in me. Wasn’t I deluding him? Was there freedom? When hestumbled, 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, buoyedme and, talking swiftly, I promised him help, promised closerfriendship.
Standing at his door, leaning on his cane, eyelids closed, he recitedsomething heroic and it was my turn to change: my expression must havealtered as quickly as his: his sincerity was an answer to mine: I knewhe could not see and yet hid my face in my arm. Walking on, I felt hewas still in his doorway, trying to see me, 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 overmy sandal, 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 yardof crumbling walls, twisted, neglected vines, where bees hummed andswallows flicked apricot bellies. It was unduly warm and we threw offour clothes and lay on old leaves, in the shadow of a wall, the wavesgrumbling behind the stones, coming up, as it were, through masonry andground.
I noticed her hand in the grass. I noticed my own. It seemedanother’s hand. The grass altered its identity. I felt my naked knee,pressing a stone: it seemed another knee although I felt the stone. Ithought: nature tries to claim us before we are aware, before we arewilling to let her. Swift, she likes to confuse, preparatory to thateternal grasp of hers.
Crickets piped under the wall, asking for cooler weather. Abruptly,they stopped, perhaps to listen to Anaktoria’s singing. She sang untilI fell asleep, to wake and find her sleeping, hands cupped over herbreasts, afraid the bees might sting them. The wall’s shadow hadlengthened and birds were quarreling. Summer’s integrity stretched fromvineyard 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 anunblemished body: I know 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 earlylamps sputter out; the stars gleam in the windows; there is talk ofleaving, another trip to sea. But we shake off impending loss with eachother’s hunger; he says, your perfume stays on me; I say, t
he smell ofyou stays on me. He says, come closer, farther under. I say, I can’t,I’m stifled, I’m submerged. Oh, impetuous lips. The depth of havingsomeone your own, the depth of being the heart for someone. Phaon...thename, 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,you know he is kind...care for him!
?
A man speaks before the Acropolis in the moonlight:
“Stranger, you have come to the most beautiful place onearth,
the land of swift horses, where the nightingale sings
its melodies among the sacred foliage,
sheltered from the sun’s fire and the winter’s cold.
Here Bacchus wanders with his nymphs, his divine maidens;
and under the heavenly dew forever flourishes thenarcissus,
the crown of great goddesses...”
Mytilene
I
have not seen Phaon for days and I feel eaten by rust, the rust thatconsumes bronze. I feel myself flake between my own fingers. Nothingdistracts me. I tell myself I have no right to such feelings; it iswrong: be aware of the beauty around you, I say.
I have always believed that those who live beside the ocean shouldknow more about beauty than others. Their minds should be richer, theirfaces kinder, their stride freer. Rhythm should be their secret.
I know this is false but I must evoke beauty. I must capture themagnificence of the sea and use its power. I must trap changes andrepetitions, the storm’s core and summer’s laziness. There issuperiority in these things, to help us through life.
But, with Phaon away, few things come alive: I am seaweed after thegale. Husk, why trouble others? So, I sulk. Or, when my girls insist, Irevive briefly.
When will the atavistic fingers come and when will I smell thecabin’s wick and the nets? Oh, drown me, Egyptian lion, Etruscancharioteer, lunge and shield: yours is the tyranny.
Surely feminine love is kinder, less responsible, graced withevasions. Masculine love is a beginning, an intensity that goes on.Masculine love pushes into the future, asking roots, a thread ofcontinuity.
. . .
Last night, Phaon took me among terra-cotta lamps, their wicksflaming coldly. Perspiration glowed on our bodies. A cat jumped on ourbed and Phaon pushed it away: wind rustled: leaves shook: flamesswayed: this was the love I had wanted and I accepted it and made itlive: 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...ourwater. Sometimes we can’t land a fish.”
A smile wrinkled his face, as he hulked against the cabin wall, hissmile 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 yearslapsed? I said no more. He had silenced me effectively for I could notendure those prolonged trials and no doubt the sea voyage wasimpossible: luxury had softened me. The spinning fish would havehorrified Atthis. And was I very different?
But we sailed along our coast, hugging it, unloading fruit, gettingaway from the windless heat of Mytilene, selling dates, lemons andlimes. As we sailed in a faint wind, the crew sang. Lolling under anawning, I heard stories of catches at the deeps just beyond us, deepswhere the water shimmered flatly, as if of rock. One crewman, not muchbigger 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 fishdarted in and out, under his legs and arms, angel fish lower down,perhaps frightened.
While the monkey-man dove for shells, youngsters swam from smallboats, hailing us, boarding us, some bringing fish as gifts. A blond,husky body, his shoulders thickly oiled, shared an orange with a girlwho had his oval face and fair skin: twins, I thought, and went to thestern to talk to them, comparing their arms and legs, their featuresand hair. The flock of youngsters cluttering our desk found us amusingand laughed at us.
The twins talked about a wrecked ship, “from a strange land...you cansee her at dawn, when the water’s quiet...she has a sunken deck, a hugerudder turned by chains. A great red and gold beast is carved over thestern...”
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 ropesof yellow. Huge clouds massed about a thin moon and Phaon prophesiedrain.
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 loverslost at sea. Our sail had enough wind to fill it and yet we appearedimmobile.
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 ourhelmsman bent sleepily over the rudder: it was a night for love andwhen the cabin had cooled, Phaon and I sought each other: he placed anorange in my hand, the singing went on, the sea sobbed, the orangefell.
“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, thegraciousness, the ephemeral. I wandered through caves. I dove to thewreck of the red-gold ship. I...
Later, we divided the orange and its sweet dribbled over us and hepressed his mouth there and we laughed, thinking with body.
I woke to see the moon sink below the ocean, to see how beautiful hewas, 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 comingfrom 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 isperfect. Malva’s thighs. Look, Atthis and Anaktoria are dancingtogether. For an instant, their lips meet.
Tiles are blue underfoot.
Our wonderful harpist, an old woman, watches with burning, lidlesseyes, 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 beenwaiting a long time for me; they were here when I returned from mybirthday trip.
Alcaeus’ face is deeper lined: it has been lined for year
s butsomething 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 morethan drink because I realize it is inner debauchery: the eyes cannotconfess: instead, the voice tells.
We huddle in our warm robes, the wind howling, and he says, in thisnew 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 handsnever 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 seemedno way to get by. I sat, waiting, blind to life. That sort of blindnesswas weakness on my part, or acceptance or hope. Listening, while wedrank, I asked what hope he had? He was deriving some satisfaction fromhis relationship with Libus. There seemed nothing else. Little bylittle, he forgot why he had come to see me: happy birthday becamegrimaces, guffawing, vituperations over battles. He and Libus grewexcited, enacting scenes with their hands, shuffling their feet.
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