Part I
When
a deer in the field lays down its head
in
Orithyia’s lap, cooking smoke, rise
from
the wide courtyard, then the North Wind cries,
flaps
to and fro like a moth almost dead.
It
could once render the earth a frozen
wasteland,
where I could not, when thirsty, drink
from
the glassy river, not even think.
A
man with ice in his beard had chosen
me
for his wife, and his cloak billowed long
behind
him in the gale, unyielding late
had
I been, and not domesticated,
but
a lush garden of hyacinth, fawns
were
born in my arms as it was my fate.
I
held all Athens, bright, honey-sated.
I
was a mortal princess, who gathered
flowers
for garlands divine, my sisters
danced
with me on the banks of the river
Ilisos
near Athens’ gate and powers.
We
twirled and sang like school girls, innocent
long
into the afternoon where plovers
plaintive
called, grey herons bent, sandpipers
rose
and flew with our cries, then reticent.
Under
chaste branches, we grabbed hold, fingers
delicate
laced around the birds and trees,
oleander,
light and fresh, blossoming
where
light and harmony early linger,
their
allure: spices radiate in tea,
like
the warmth of afternoon in late spring.
It was here the Anemoi, bearded wind,
stole
my cluster of grapes while I was wrapped
in
a cloud, in the viciousness grappled,
the
elements’ finesse both matte and thin.
This
was no bludgeoning dark storm’s thunder,
it
was immediate, I was sucked dry
by
my aggressor who ignored my cry:
Boreas’
violet-winged horse of winter.
Carried
away, I was dark-abducted
while
the cormorants circled empty grave,
and
the Old World sycamore wept and fought
off
winter while turning from green, blood red,
bowed
its luminous spreading head and staved
off
death before the river’s horrid plot.
He
made me goddess of the mountain winds
but
I would rage in my mind, voice escaped
my
throat in a roar in our stony cave
on
Mount Haimos. No, I would not rescind,
and
became the goat-like mother of snow,
both
fallen and immortal, I bequeathed
pearls
and threw them in his face like fine lace,
before
his goatish hair had burned coals low.
Earth-coloured
mantle swept divinity,
as
I was cast in women’s ravished role
of
pouring and pouring soup in black pot,
where
witchcraft’s heavy cauldron tempted me,
of
the wintry herbs I grew from dank holes—
the henna soil of humanity’s lot.
Part
II
I
gave him two sons, the bright dusk Boreads,
the
gold-haired children named Calais and Zetes,
who,
from whitened nodes, sprouted their smooth wings
of
feather or stone it was rumoured, lead
swans
that eat the chaste berries from the trees,
as
locks of graceful hair fell long from them,
as
grape-white roses grow from gracious stem,
as
monks’ collectives desire chastity.
I
collected my ashes where they lay,
gathered
up my tears from the cooking fire,
and
here, I found my rough hands exhausted,
white
willow bark was extracted for pay,
for
the pains of loneliness and the dire
end
of bitterness of those accosted.
Cleopatra,
Chione, two daughters
I
bore, with eyes of rain, and hair, sunshine
threaded:
the oils of Damask rose and thyme,
distilled,
gathered in the soul of laughter.
In
token fertile soil of ancient Greece,
my
first daughter grew figs, apples, and pears,
my
second grew lettuce and cucumbers,
garlic,
and onions, from small seeds of peace.
Beside
their green vegetable beds, they grew
windflowers
with vivid velvet petals,
Dianthus,
to make ceremonial
flower
crowns for the Olympics, when threw
the
discus in competition, medals
of
the gods, as a reward, bountiful.
Cleopatra, illustrious daughter,
was
a vision of the moonlight alone,
was
subject to the tide’s pull, and sea’s moan,
carnation
crown in her hair, the former
capricious
goddess was solemn vision
as
she then married Phineus of Thrace,
her
faith in him no demon could erase,
with
vigour she carried out her mission
to
live in the valley, not icy falls,
and
grow like a vineyard of heady grapes,
to
once and for all avenge her mother.
For
she was a heroine, and stood tall;
she
was averse to the North Wind’s cold rape,
and
she was loved, she could love another.
Part
III
When
the Boreads reached manhood, boasting
of
their long curling hair, they rose ringing
into
the sky from their soft sprouted wings
against
all demons of darkness fighting.
They
stood with Cleopatra, side by side,
unflinching,
they warm-wind-like hummed through rain,
and
drove the freezing ice away of pain,
while
heavy grotesque monsters could not fly.
The
Boreads carried spears, with iron
points,
and their engraved shields were polished bronze
mirror,
so you could see your hair-framed face.
In
the handles of their shortswords, lions—
on
the xiphos, their double-edged weapons.
For
midnight attacks, enemies would brace.
The
wind brothers, fit athletes, thrust their spears,
blood
of the lower levels dripped dark orange,
the
caverns of the deep were dragon’s lore,
when
scaly creatures were gored to arrears.
The
Harpies appeared on the horizon,
they
had with them their wind-royal hostage:
Phineus
the king, of Zeus—demi-god,
for
he had been seduced by a second
wife,
who told him to condemn his children
to
blindness and torture. The gods punished
him,
sentencing him to Harpies’ torments.
Wings
carved the rising sons of the North Wind:
they
would not kill the Harpies; they gave chase,
sending
them reeling to the underworld.
When
all earth hangs sorrowful, in despair,
I
am like the morning after the night,
binding
up the old dark with glowing light,
and
gather up the sheaves in my black hair.
I
am wild blue hyacinth after rain:
in
an earthy garden, satin and smooth,
nonchalant
above the ebony hues
of
the soil, banal and bright floral pain.
With
my brush I paint a thousand flowers,
with
my ear, I lean to the music of
each
new greenly species under the oak
Time,
rings in broad trunk, of living bower,
with
its flax-grey thin scarves for my pale doves
to
fly out, under little eaves they broke.
Emily Isaacson
