Sappho's Journal Read online

  As I stared back at the stricken town, I heard the gulls. “Phaon, itwas 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. Nowfor some sleep.”

  ?

  Today, I had a letter from Solon: he discussed politics and hisimmediate intentions and then went on to consider my poetry, praisingit for its lyrical quality, refreshing themes, compassion and sense ofbeauty.

  I respect his judgment and his quotations sent me to my books, toreconsider and evaluate. For a while, I sat at my desk, thinking overpassages, contemplating the ocean, serenely blue as usual. Life, forthe moment, was balanced: it had acquired profundity and calm: here wasmy reward since I believed his assessments just: for once, I needed noone to share: I needed nothing.

  But I picked up Aesop’s clay fox and recognized my need: the bite ofyesterday cornered me.

  ?

  Kleis has fallen in love—this time with a cousin of Pittakos. I amamused, and have done all I dare to make the pair happy, picnicking andboating.

  I have seen him at play on the field, built well, long of leg, with ahomely, genial face and grin that consistently makes up for mediocrity.Like his cousin, I could add. But that’s unfair. When I see him screwup his mouth in front of Kleis, I sag. The next moment he brightens andseems 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, knowingwinds 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 andexpect her golden head to settle down?

  She confides in me and I conceal my smiles.

  However, doubts from deep inside prompt me to accept and not go infor ridicule: where is another daughter, where is the boy suited toyour taste? Is she to fall in love your way? Deeper, I discern thesacredness of life, elements of faith and love.

  Thinking these things, I go where the hills plunge to the bay: Ilisten, under my parasol: there is much more than sound or silence: Iam confronted by yesterday, in the gulls: I squint, and there, on milkyhorizon, I glimpse the spirit of man, blundering, a plant in his hand,a rope dragging behind him, a dog by his side: what is the rope for?

  I think of my school and how taxing it is to teach kindness,moderation and beauty: yet, I am confident, teaching is worth while andliving worth while: good meals, laughter, music, dancing, love: theyare there with him and his dog and the rope, in sound or silence.

  Kleis, may you find a good way, all the way.

  For my part, my relationship with Phaon affords discovery, Sumerianlassitude, great rivers and forests, prowling sand, the bay and itscurrents, the hull dipping, the rower heaving his arms, groaning.

  Illusion, deceit, whatever it is, this is the happiest period of mylife.

  As I walked by the columns of my garden, I recognized that never haveI accomplished so much. I have unlocked doors. I see my esthetic way:my personal recollections have pulled out of ruts. I have uncovereduniqueness, sensibility... I have seen what it has cost man to survive:dunes against dunes, lack of water, perilous heat: I have weighed hispotential, his grace, his beauty. I have sensed that appalling blackthat existed before the coming of books. I have heard torn sail andsmashed rudder. I have felt the foundering.

  That darkness must not come again!

  We must see to that!

  I walked among my statuary and benches, absorbing the difference inroses: home and happiness were secure in me: my writing must be a partof this place: marble benches, a face augustly seaward, lichened withgreen: another face turned toward the sun, his enigma personal, hisserpent’s head prowling through a disc.

  ?

  I found this in my journal, written more than fifteen years ago:

  Yesterday, Cercolas and I spent the day in an olive grovewhere men were knocking olives off the trees...we walkedfar.

  That is all I wrote and yet that was one of the most joyous days.What kept me from describing our happiness? Was I too close to it? Orwas the next day one of those hurried days and I thought I would writeabout our day later on? Later?

  A year later Cercolas was dead at war.

  And what made those hours precious? It was our accord, the day itselfand everything we saw and did. I realize this now. His arms were aroundme, or mine curled about his waist. His mouth went to mine, many times.Mine to his. I wish I could remember what we said but I remember hissmiles and I remember his coarse brown Andrian robe and I remember howwe looked at this and that, making each thing ours.

  Cercolas...your name is euphonious...your fingers reach out ofdeath...I glimpse your smile.

  But is this all that remains when we are gone?

  Is this the answer?

  ?

  I have often relived the experience of giving birth. Had Cercolaslived, there would have been other children. Kleis was born on asummer’s day, the ocean lapping after a windy night, a dragonfly in myroom, clicking its wings over my bed. Mama saw it and murmured:

  “There...see it above you. Now, I know you’ll have a girl!”

  Shortly afterward, Kleis was born, the dragonfly still there: howblurred, it seemed, and how the ocean faded and reappeared as I fought.I felt I would drown in sweat, drops pouring down my neck. Mama wipedmy face and hands, her voice soothing, as she cooled me. I wasn’tafraid: no, a new happiness surged through me, even while my wristswere breaking and my knees afire. Even while the pain tore me, I wasaware of this happiness: I was bringing life, defeating death, addingto our world. My heart sang, though sweat drenched me, and thedragonfly, clicking its green wings, seemed a ragged dot or great bird.

  I was glad Cercolas wasn’t there: I tried to remember his love-makingbut all I could remember was pain and mother’s voice and the chatter ofExekias and the sound of the sea. When Kleis had come, I thought: mywrists are broken and my knees burn but I’m glad, glad...and motherkissed me and said: Go to sleep, darling.

  When I woke, the top of the ocean had become pink and pink webbed thesky: it seemed I was staring through woven stuff, skeins in rows, withwool dropped and tumbled between: the pink darkened nearest the waterand stars were visible—a sunset like many others and yet differentbecause Kleis was here: this was her first sunset.

  ?

  During exile, when Alcaeus and I had the same room and bed, he triedto make me feel our bad luck couldn’t last. He would roar against it.He might begin the bleakest day with a song.

  “Hungry—let’s go beg!

  “Thirsty—let’s find a fountain. There’s cool water in the shade of acarob.”

  Our feet grew blistered. Days I lay on my mat, too sick to move, hebrought me bread or a flower. Kneeling by me, smelling of the streets,he’d rub my hands...

  “We’ll find a way.”

  When we shared the big bed at Aesop’s, its sides painted withflowers, Alcaeus cheered, reminding me of our luck.

  “Remember those candle stubs I found?” he laughed. “Remember theroast lamb I stole—how the guy rushed after me, jabbing the air with aknife. Remember...”

  I remember my gratitude to Alcaeus and Aesop must not end. Withouttheir help I would have died.

  I dreamed the other night that Alcaeus and I were exiled again, thatAlcaeus came to me, as I lay between heaps of dung: he crawled towardme, clothes in rags, exhausted, blind. I opened my cloak and offered mybreast—wanting to suckle him.

  Waking, I realized how late it was.

  ?

  Four of us, with Li
bus as guest, had supper at a table on the porch,a reception to honor Anaktoria’s return...bourekakia and stuffed grapeleaves, Anaktoria serving, maturer with that overnight bloom, thatovernight assurance.

  “Do you like bourekakia?” she asked Libus, too obviously thinking ofhim, offering him stuffed leaves instead of bourekakia, offeringherself, at least for the night, something in that spirit, making funof Telesippa, her newcomer rival, who was also interested in Libus,diverted, momentarily by someone’s comment about my harp, a point tobandy for effect: how charming they were, bathed and perfumed,Telesippa in her city clothes, Anaktoria in her Cretan style, Gyrinno’sjewels amusing us, the topaz swallowing her throat.

  “You see Sappho’s harp has twenty strings and is for Mixolydiansongs.”

  The topaz tinkled and a smile went round, coaxing us to feel better.

  I told them about the harp I had invented, admiring them as I talked,hair, shoulders, arms...enjoying each girl. I realized they wereespecially mine. No one else would have such an opportunity toinfluence them.

  We listened while Anaktoria described her visit, her baby sister, thesailor who died on the wharf, the arrival of an Ethiopian girl, slavefor a merchant. She talked as I had taught her, gestures well timed,head poised. She has lost her island mannerisms, such as gulpingimpulsively and biting off chunks of food.

  Brushing aside her shoulder-length hair, blue eyes a little wild,Telesippa gossiped about her dressmaker, “the best in Athens,” whose“tattling is incessant.”

  Libus steered the conversation to something sound and Atthis carriedon: yes, no doubt, teaching helps.

  Later, we sat on our terrace and passed around sweets and nuts andLibus joked, sultry jokes of the last generation, wanting to impressthe girls.

  Old tiles underfoot...youth around me...the thick walls of my houseabove the sea... I relaxed until someone mentioned Phaon and I saw himworking on his boat, hands stained with oakum, knees rough from theplanking.

  “Phaon—I say good night to my girls. You’ll be with me, soon. Soon,I’ll be buried under your mouth.”

  Tomorrow, we meet after the games on the field.

  I’ll see him there, legs flashing, discus flying, his spear diggingits hole. I’ll see him rock with laughter and splash himself clean.

  ?

  Alone, I rubbed my hands over my body, thighs, breasts, ankles,wrists and shoulders: my flesh is firm: I know, as I sense my ownintegrity, that before long I must lie in death.

  No waking touch on my belly and knees, no chance to comb and dress myhair at leisure, no mirror for dawdling, no winging of gulls.

  ?

  Poseidon

  Of the poems I have written recently, I like these most:

  Love, bittersweet, irrepressible,

  Loosens my legs and I tremble.

  .

  I could not hope

  To touch the sky

  With my two arms...

  .

  The sun sprays the earth

  With straight-falling flames...

  .

  O, Gongyla, my darling rose,

  Put on your milkwhite gown...

  .

  When seastorms scream across the water,

  The sailor, fearing these wild blasts,

  Spills his cargo overboard...

  .

  The night closed their eyes,

  And then night poured down

  Black sleep upon their lids.

  Alcaeus prefers the last two.

  ?

  In a vase, on my table, a white rose opens and I see the face ofAnaktoria. The rose is the most perfect flower, some say. Of the twokinds, the garden and the rambler, I prefer the rambler, climbingthrough the night, bringing its fragrance into my room, white in thestarlight, ivory in the moonlight.

  ?

  The sea and its waves are something we never forget yet neverremember: how the surf leaps and splits into foam, how the foamcascades into white and divides into blue. From shore to sky there isblue, in patches like marble, areas like grey and porous granite,ribbons of blue that submerge in whorls.

  How quiet the blue, how serene where afternoon sun polishes a pathaimed for the shore, Cretan, Ethiopian, Etruscan, where men and shipshave sailed—their hieroglyphs ruddered by chance. The ocean is alwayschance, yet it is subdued, finally modulated by place and time.Wherever we travel, there is the element of chance, rain, storm, heat,cold, before us, deceptive, feminine, wrapping us in fog, cities,deserts, islands, birds, starry decks and windless watches.

  We never remember the sea because it alters momentarily, makingrainbows, spreading colonies of butterflies, floating celery stalks,turtles, heaving shells and driftwood—beaching itself with footprintsthat fill with seepage or disappear underneath the wave.

  ?

  Cercolas and I had such fun, when we were newly married and rode ourwhite mares, across the island and along the shore, sometimes swimmingthem. When the oldest became sick, I put a pillow under her head andtended her until she died, on the beach, beneath the thatch of herstable.

  Cercolas took the other mare, to die with him at war, I suppose itwas. How can I know?

  Our horses have gone, six or seven at a time, until there are onlycolts and old ones—I see them on deck and in holds, their white facespeering, yellow manes shining: white, in memory of our mares, white asgulls. I wish I could hear their whinnying across the fields, as theyrace toward me.

  Warriors brag about their fearless horses but I prefer mares that nipmy hands and tug my clothes.

  ?

  Music is a tree, a cave with sea water sloshing, a shell to the ear,a baby’s laughter, the lover’s “yes.” I suppose it came from the flint,the arrow. Cercolas was music. Mother was music. The loom and harp aremusic. I have heard music in my dreams. I dream many kinds of musicwhen I play the harp.

  I like music best at night, under the stars; I like it when I liedown in the afternoon, aware, yet not truly aware; I like it when I amup the mountain, the wind harsh; I like it when I am on the shore, thebeach fire low, sparks rising, the sea almost at rest.

  I like music when I eat, when I am at the theatre, or alone. Lonelymusic is marrow-wise, aware of secrets, revelatory in surprising ways,prying, blurring—altogether deceitful. I like the harp better than thehorns. Drums frighten. The voice is best: its story is man’s, thesea’s, the mountain’s, and the sky’s.

  ?

  How I used to laugh at rimes Alcaeus wrote against Pittakos:

  Old Pitt, we found your cloak

  Among the fish and fisherfolk;

  We saw your mouth gape and perk

  Whenever a blouse made something jerk.

  I suppose Pittakos paid many a visit to the fisherfolk—he was youngenough then. And Alcaeus was clever enough to wring every drop ofsatire out of P’s doings. His foolery endangered many of us. What adisgrace Pittakos remains in office. How fine it would be if Libus wereempowered.

  Libus says:

  “There aren’t enough of us to overthrow this man...he’s entrenchedtill he dies. It’s better to wait. Look at Alcaeus, what has his fightgotten him? Part of his tragedy comes from his inability to overthrowthis man.”

  Yesterday, when I visited Alcaeus, I shivered and pulled back.Alcaeus stepped forward and grabbed my hand.

  “Come, darling, we’re having a drink. Join us.”

  Libus signaled me to sit down: their dining room was full ofphantoms; shields glared; pennons dragged at me. With an apish grin,Alcaeus reeled across the room to bump against a table and chirp adrunken song.

  It was rainy and dark and the melancholy afternoon and room closedin. You must pretend, I said to myself. Pretend he can see. Pretendthere’s nothing wrong...imagine...

  As the three of us drank together, a scrawny, red-fleshed boy servedus, downcast, looking as if recently beaten.

  As we drank, the melancholy of Alcaeus�
� soul spread, seeping throughtaut throat muscles: intelligent things said with difficulty, goodthings said badly, reminiscences slightly distorted. What is moredismal than a damaged life, damaged beyond alteration, no matter howmuch we care? What more futile than communication at such a time?

  I could not look at him but looked at Libus instead, his ephemeralface growing more ephemeral as he continued drinking, wrestling withhis dogged silence.

  Drink could not help... I fled home.

  ?

  Mytilene

  641

  Three soldiers have been washed up on a raft, scarcely alive: all ofthem were taken to Alcaeus’ house to recover, if that is possible.Libus wanted them there, to care for them. They are islanders and hadbeen imprisoned over a year. For days they had been adrift, paddling,foodless except for fish and birds. I hear from Thasos that one ofthem, not much older than Phaon, throws himself against walls andstalks about babbling to himself, begging for water.

  Alcaeus is in his element, determined to help these derelicts: he’scaptain again, in command: he’s kinder and more resolute with thistrio, which he believes he understands: oh, I sympathize with thesesun-blackened wanderers, these lovers of freedom who defied jailers. I,too, know what it is to defy, and what it costs.