on the steps; softly
as those lion-paws on sand,
Theseus and Achilles
lifted the catafalque, the bier
and you sleeping, exhausted
with the fight, your struggle
to understand Leuké, the light;
silently, Thetis commanded,
Thetis in her guise of mother,
who first summoned you here
with Achilles waits;
I waited before the frozen portal,
the gates; yes, you had come home,
but the long way (Theseus told me
of your prayer, your Wheel),
the long way (Theseus told me
of your Achilles-Hercules),
the long way was revoked
by your longing, your prayer,
I would endure with him;
Thetis summoned you here,
Theseus protected, renewed you,
not for your starry circle
in a crystal sphere,
but for the brand, burning here,
the Wheel is a seal;
Theseus revealed all your secrets.
[3]
Who is Formalhaut? We gather that this is a synonym for “the Nameless-of-many-Names,” Proteus, King of Egypt. It is the same Amen-temple, at all times, in all places, on all planes of existence, whether they are symbolized by Athens, the intellect, or by Eleusis, the mysteries.
This is Formalhaut’s temple,
not far from Athens,
not far from Eleusis,
yet Egypt; not far
from Theseus, your god-father,
not far from Amen, your father
but dedicated to Isis,
or if you will, Thetis;
not far from the blessèd isles,
the Hesperides, or from Amenti;
not far from life-in-death,
another portal, another symbol.
[4]
But the innermost mystery of “life-in-death,” it seems, must be balanced or tempered by outer circumstance. Paris, or the voice or image of Paris, would call Helen back to “my small room.” Even before she left him to find Theseus, Paris had been apprehensive, perhaps not so much fearing the loss of Helen to Achilles, but of her final translation to the transcendent plane, the fragrance of “Egyptian incense wafted through infinite corridors.” Now he would denigrate the “young hero,” reminding Helen of the incident of Scyros. He says, “call on Thetis.” Is this ironical? It has been Thetis from the first, who reconciled Helen to Achilles. But Paris would reduce the valour of the hero to “woman’s robe and ornament.”
Paris: Your moon, your shell, your crystal
was a tomb; Paris? Achilles?
you asked this,
while we rested days, nights,
in my small room;
Helen, enchantress,
are you doomed to enchantment?
a sharp sword divides me from the past,
I had escaped — Achilles;
would you go back,
would you go back
to myrrh, olibanum,
storax, sandarac,
the incense of magic?
(or what you will,
he would take you
with white-poppy,
with black-poppy,
clove, sandal;)
call on Thetis,
the sea-mother,
remember how she decked the young hero
in woman’s robe and ornament,
and hid him in Scyros,
that Achilles escape Troy,
that Achilles escape death,
the arrow of Paris.
[5]
There is challenge and defiance in Paris, as he recalls Helen’s own words to her. By tribal law, the young priest slays the old one, the son, the father. Helen had recalled the Oedipus story in her talk with Theseus. “It is very simple,” she had said. It does not seem simple, nor does the explanation of Paris help much. He evidently represents a secondary order, “completing the circle, the triangle, the broken arc” In that sense, he is the third of the inevitable triad.
Theseus spoke; all myth,
the one reality dwells here;
so you are right
with Helen-Persephone,
with Pluto-Achilles;
but there was another,
incompatible in life,
yet in myth, completing the circle,
the triangle, the broken arc,
Dionysus-Paris; you were right,
he of the house of the enemy,
Troy’s last king,
is Achilles’ son, he is incarnate
Helen-Achilles; he my first lover
was created by my last.
[6]
Now Paris himself refers to the legend. He will accept the accredited Hero, as father-symbol, if Helen will take the place of his mother, Hecuba, the Trojan Queen, who had left him “like Oedipus to die.” But first, he would rescue Helen from what he seems to consider “a death-cult.” It almost seems better, he seems to say, to have a new war, “new Myrmidons,” than to “call by stealth, ghosts, phantoms of old legions.” Though the conventional image of Paris is of an effete youth, we must remember his claim to the title, “Wolf-slayer,” and the fact that he was chosen as deputy to the god Apollo (or even as legend states, that Apollo had manifested in his image) to strike down “the greatest hero in Greece.”
Pluto-Achilles — his is a death-cult
to drag you further and further underground,
underneath vault and tomb;
to rise in long corridors,
to re-read your old script?
Boar? Lion? he would sacrifice
Boar, Lion, Stag, Man,
aye, and another Hippolyta
for her star-zone;
leave him to the sea-ways,
let him re-assemble new Myrmidons,
rather than call by stealth,
ghosts, phantoms of old legions;
he would turn you to Pythoness,
Priestess — is there no magic
left above earth?
remember my arrow
that found his heel;
the brand he would proffer
is burnt-out, extinguished;
Achilles is old, his war is over;
my war? defence of the shepherd
against wolf, panther,
ravaging eagle; his war
was death of brother by brother,
blight, ruin, plague, famine;
his war? my war? … Helen’s?
if Achilles is my father
in this new spirit-order,
I will acept the Hero
if you are my mother,
for I, I was left by Hecuba,
like Oedipus to die;
Jocasta, Oedipus? Hecuba, Paris?
this is the old story,
no new Euphorion.
[7]
And now Paris repeats the names of those women whom Theseus had told us were “sacrificed in one way or another.” It is however especially with the sacrifice of his sister, Polyxena, that Paris is concerned. He seems to intimate that this special sacrifice might have a parallel. Polyxena was slain to propitiate a ghost. Even the pretended marriage of Iphigenia to Achilles was by way of a pledge “to War and the armies of Greece.” Her sacrifice was to have been to a living, even if to an inimical concept. But Polyxena’s sacrifice was to one already dead, and so by implication, Paris seems to say that Helen’s might be.
It was not only Iphigenia,
(you told me the story),
there was always another and another and another,
(I read all your thoughts, the words
of you and Theseus together);
remember Polyxena, golden by the altar,
remember Pyrrhus, his son slew her;
where did she wander?
O golden sister,
are you still subjugated? enchanted?
are all the slain
bound to this Master?
Achilles spoke, Theseus commands me,
but where is he?
do he and I stand over
a new victim? do we meet
to defraud the future
of life, light?
(yes, it was light upon Leuké);
remember my golden sister,
you saw her, you loved her
as your own daughter,
and I, I was that other,
Orestes, my sister’s son,
my son, driven by Fate;
remember Clytaemnestra’s
last words to Orestes,
remember Iphigenia;
remember Iphigenia,
remember Polyxena,
remember that other and that other and that other,
Briseis, Chryseis,
priestess of Apollo.
[8]
Helen seems to start awake — was this dream? delirium? She has been lying where Theseus left her, “everything is as it was before.” But she is alone, though she knows that “Theseus will come if I call.” Is the room dark? She wakes to confusion of images, “a catafalque, a bier, a temple again.” Was all her effort for nothing? Someone has mocked her, “the script was a snare.” Where is she? In “a tomb; a small room?” Her heart, her head are alike anguished. But now she remembers, “how I stumbled here out of the snow.” Yes, she has “come home.”
Helen: I do not see Achilles,
Paris is far, far —
it was a dream, a catafalque, a bier,
a temple again, infinite corridors,
a voice to lure, a voice to proclaim,
the script was a snare;
a name of incense,
I can not remember,
sandarac? sandal?
my heart beating,
my head enclosed in a ring, a band,
someone defined as crystal
and a tomb; a small room?
a taper, a candle, then
a blaze of splendour, a brand
to flame through long halls,
we would find bliss again;
but he reviled us — who? who?
I ask myself who said this,
who spoke (if any), who answered;
was it Paris defied the kiss
of his very begetting?
a name that was foretold
would bring ruin — ruin?
it is I, Helen, who took the blame;
what flame over Troy?
no, it is only the dim glow
of the brazier; I remember,
I stumbled here out of the snow;
I sat there, I lay here,
and everything is as it was before;
Theseus will come if I call;
what flame over Troy? was I ever there?
Book Two
[1]
We have had the dream, delirium, trance, ecstasy. We have had Helen in Egypt and Helen in Leuké, l’isle blanche. Where is she now? She had said to Theseus, “I must have time to remember.” She had said to Theseus, “teach me to remember … teach me not to remember.” We feel that there is a balanced perfection in her surroundings, her state of mind, “as light begins — but far, far to show outline through the curtain.” This is waking-dream or day-dream.
Helen: Why do I call him my son and Achilles’?
because of an ember, because of a Star?
(was there ever such a brazier?)
because of an old flint
he found in his pouch,
(“I thought I had lost that”)
because of the armful of dead sticks
he gathered and dried weed
I stooped to scrape from the sand
and fling on the fire? I remember
the crackle of salt-weed,
the sting of salt as I crept nearer
over shale and the white shells;
O, I remember, I remember,
here with the embers glowing,
but fainter, growing dimmer
as light begins — but far, far
to show outline through the curtain,
as of a ladder — an old shutter
with a broken slat? — but the ladder is even,
seven slats and seven —
what do I remember?
we met on a desolate coast,
maybe he is old — adepts are ageless,
and Paris has far to go,
in that he is young, in that he is our son;
yet what have you accomplished,
O, Paris, beautiful enchanter?
you would re-live an old story,
Oedipus and his slain father,
you would re-create Troy
with Helen, not Hecuba for mother;
did I ever stand on the ramparts?
did you ever let fly the dart?
I only remember the shells, whiter than bone,
on the ledge of a desolate beach …
[2]
Yes, Achilles spoke, Paris spoke. Greece and Troy challenged and contradicted each other in her fantasy. She had said to Theseus, “there is a voice within me, listen — ” But we do not feel that Achilles and Paris were “a voice within” her. They were disparate beings, separate from each other and separate from Helen. How bring them together? But why bring them together? Perhaps it is the very force of opposition that creates the dynamic intensity of “the high-altar, your couch here.”
Achilles said, which was the veil,
which was the dream?
truly, Troy had never been
till I came here;
then I encountered or seemed to remember
an old enchantment, an old lover;
it seemed real till he insisted,
she died, died, died,
when the Walls fell;
Helen was never dead,
or is this death here?
Achilles said, a catafalque, a bier,
the high-altar, your couch here;
surely, it was his voice that spoke,
and Paris reviled him,
though I did not see them, or did I?
their words contradict each other,
Theseus would have the answer,
but no, I will not call
until I review all the past
in the new light of a new day.
[3]
The opposites have been reconciled, actually, in Theseus. “The lyre or the sword? Theseus has both together.” Where Theseus is, Athens is. Where Helen is —? For the first time in our sequence, she is in Sparta. What had she lost? What had she gained? She had lost her childhood or her child, her “Lord’s devotion” or the devotion of the conventional majority.
The lyre or the sword?
Theseus has both together,
this is Athens, he said;
this is Athens or was or will be,
but O the ecstasy — familiar fragrance,
late roses, bruised apples,
now I remember, I remember
Paris before Egypt, Paris after;
I remember all that went before,
Sparta; autumn? summer?
the fragrant bough? fruit ripening
on a wall? the ships at anchor?
I had all that, everything,
my Lord’s devotion, my child
prattling of a bird-nest,
playing with my work-basket;
the reels rolled to the floor
and she did not stoop to pick up
the scattered spools but stared
with wide eyes in a white face,
at a stranger — and stared at her mother,
a stranger — that was all,
I placed my foot on the last step
of the marble water-stair
and never looked back;
how could I remember all that?
Zeus, our-father was merciful.
[4]
What had she gained? She had gained “a rhythm as yet unheard.”
What was
the charm?
a touch — so a hand
brushes the lyre-strings;
a whisper — a breath
to invite the rose;
a summer touch,
night-wings or vermillion
of the day-butterfly;
was Troy lost for a subtle chord,
a rhythm as yet un-heard,
was it Apollo’s snare?
was Apollo passing there?
was a funeral-pyre to be built,
a holocaust of the Greeks,
because of a fluttering veil,
or because Apollo granted a lute-player,
a rhythm as yet unheard,
to challenge the trumpet-note?
[5]
There is no question of Helen’s integrity nor even of the old antagonists, “Eros? Ens?” There is a story, a song “the harpers will sing forever.” It is a play, a drama — “who set the scene? who lured the players?” The players have no choice in the matter of the already-written drama or script. They are supremely aware of the honour that “all song forever” has conferred upon them. They would play their parts well.
Was Troy lost for a kiss,
or a run of notes on a lyre?
was the lyre-frame stronger
than the bowman’s arc,
the chord tauter?
was it a challenge to Death,
to all song forever?
was it a question asked
to which there was no answer?
Helen in Egypt: Poetry (New Directions Paperbook) Page 11