Sidelong Glance at the Earth Mother

Say a little prayer for the adventure we concocted

For ourselves on the fly. The tragedy unfolded

On golden days, with calla lilies and oxygen tanks,

Expecting, like for a baby to come to the world.

But, instead, one is leaving, gathering her things,

Without a voice now, with muddled mind,

Only the heart remains. Death moves in but needs

To find the breakpoint energy to take a soul

So that another can move in. There were white

Flowers at the ranch for the horse that they had

To put down, when, the usual miraculous,

A new foal! Charging at the very world itself,

In whirling, willful motion, a filly, Friesian 

Black as midnight coal, with a glowing coat

And a mare who won't let her fall, or run free

On spindle legs only a step away

And we must take it easy, let the world revolve

Without our shared skull as tiktoc clock

Measuring the shortage of Purina

Heeding the vapor deposited by fear

That clings like tar (barnacles if you are nautical)

Or monsters if you've emerged from the subterranean,

For there are demons at every portal, treasure

In every moment, pearls of inestimable price

Beyond the reach of all but the intrepid

Who care enough to seek -- at an opening of cave

What draws one in? What compels one to explore?

It's something so familiar, you know there is an answer

At some further convolution, where faith and the forks

Are one, and you could be anyone, that is your decision,

Your one job. To remember, is all, that sweet bird

Hidden in the trees, and rabbits under cars.

A hawk appears to squawk, then disappears

With a message to share what you've remembered

And the rabbit munches the grain beard of grass,

Gentle with fear. Now we can only see what isn't there. 

The filly I'll call Midnight was sprawled now in the hay

In the late sun Chinese restaurant, 4 days old, already

Tearing it up on the turnout, but Mama's Mt. Rushmore eyes

Fixed at all times on what doesn't even move.

Sappho Eros Sequence

Sappho is perhaps best known for her "erotic" fragments, which seem to have burned through the now-marred papyrus. The feeling has come down to us as "Eros," left untranslated here. Eros is the child of Póros (Resource/Plenty) and Penía (Poverty/Lack). The plenty is desire - an intense state of longing to merge with another. This aspect has come through in English but Sappho is equally interested in lack -- the bodily system failure that comes with.

Eros detaches me

Like an oak tree ripped – my wits – from glades.

Set fire to me,

Sappho, first.

I don't know which way to race – there are two minds in me.

You came, and I desired 

And you cooled my burning with thirst.

Untie my anxiety; 

Drops atop an ache bay

For all night feasting.

Soft laps ... in your lap ... wrapped in linen.

You smeared yourself until the rose was sealed

With plasma,

Strummed and stretched the flesh of mattress ...

Penetrable ...

Erupting lack.

I brushed against … but not, I suppose, the sky.

Who’s this country girl … at work on my mind ...

Girl who wears a skirt … from the country ...

Doesn't know ... how to pull the leggings up 

Above her ankles.

As for Sappho … among the doves,

Whose cold stirred the beating of their wings.

Indeed I loved you Atthi, long ago ...

When you were a girl and seemed so small, graceless.

How can the hurt go on

Kypris, when one loves

And won't release the pain

Heedlessly tearing me,

The one with buckled knees?

I want you ... Goddess ... to suffer this

But I know it too well myself.

Oh Mother I can't weave --

Desire broke me.

Eros swings loose my limbs again,

The pleasure pain serpent jurisdiction.

Across the hill

The rose

...

Glistens

Hunger

Moan

Dripping

Mm

-------------------------------------------

47

Ἔρος δ᾿ ἐτίναξέ μοι

φρένας, ὠς ἄνεμος κὰτ ὄρος δρύσιν ἐμπέτων.

38

ὄπταις ἄμμε

Σαπφὼ πρώτῳ.

51

οὐκ οἶδ᾿ ὄττι θέω· δύο μοι τὰ νοήμ⟨μ⟩ατα

48

ἦλθες, ἔγω δέ σ᾿ ἐμαιόμαν,

ὂν δ᾿ ἔψυξας ἔμαν φρένα καιομέναν πόθῳ.

23

... τὰι σᾶι

παίσαν ...

δροσόεν]τας ὄχθοις

ταιν

παν]νυχίσ[δ]ην

100

ἀμφὶ δ’ ἄβροισ’ . . . λασίοισ’ εὖ ⟨ϝ’⟩ ἐπύκασσε.

94

καὶ πο̣λ̣λ̣ῳ[             ] . μύρῳ

βρενθείῳ . [            ]ρ̣υ[ . . ]ν

ἐξαλείψαο κα̣[ὶ βασ]ι̣ληίῳ,

 

καὶ στρώμν[αν ἐ]πὶ μολθάκαν

ἀπάλαν πα . [         ] . . .ων

ἐξίης πόθο̣[ν           ] . νίδων,

52

ψαύην δ᾿ οὐ δοκίμωμ᾿ ὀράνω δυσπαχέα

57

τίς δ᾿ ἀγροΐωτις θέλγει νόον . . .

ἀγροΐωτιν ἐπεμμένα στόλαν  . . .

οὐκ ἐπισταμένα τὰ βράκε ᾿ ἔλκην ἐπὶ τὼν σφύρων;

42

ἡ δὲ Σαπφὼ … ἐπὶ τῶν περιστερῶν·

ταῖσι <δὲ> ψῦχρος μὲν ἔγεντ᾿ ὀ θῦμος,

πὰρ δ᾿ ἴεισι τὰ πτέρα

49

ἠράμαν μὲν ἔγω σέθεν Ἂτθι πάλαι πότα·

***

σμίκρα μοι παίς ἔμμεν᾿ ἐφαίνεο κἄχαρις.

26

πῶς̣ κε δή τις οὐ θαμέω̣ς̣ ἄσαιτ̣ο,

Κύπρι, δέσ̣π̣ο̣ι̣ν̣’̣, ὄτ̣τ̣ι̣ν̣α δὴ̣ φι̣λ̣[είη

καὶ] θέλοι μάλιστα π̣ά̣λ̣ι̣ν̣ κάλ̣[εσσαι;

ποῖ]ον ἔχησθα

νῶν] σ̣άλοισι̣ μ’ ἀλεμά̣τ̣ω̣ς̣ δ̣αΐ̣σ̣δ̣[ην

ἰμέρ]ῳ λύσαντ̣ι̣ γ̣όν̣’ ω̣μ̣ε – [

. . . ]. α . α .. [ . . ] α̣ι̣μ’ ο̣ὐ̣ π̣ρ̣ο[. . .] . ερησ[

. . . ]νε̣ερ . [ . ] αι̣

] . . . [ . . ] σέ θέλω [

. . . τοῦ]το πάθη[ν

]ι . αν, ἔγω δ’ ἐμ’ αὔτᾳ

τοῦτο σύνοιδα

] . [ . ] . τοις [ . . . .] .

]εναμ[

] . [ . ] . [

102

γλύκηα μᾶτερ, οὔτοι δύναμαι κρέκην τὸν ἴστον

πόθῳ δάμεισα παῖδος βραδίναν δι’ Ἀφροδίταν.

130

Ἔρος δηὖτέ μ’ ὀ λυσιμέλης δόνει,

γλυκύπικρον ἀμάχανον ὄρπετον

74a

]ων ἔκα[

]αιπόλ[

]μ.[

]βροδο[

]ο̣νθ[

]φαιμ[

74b

]α[

]ποθο̣[

].ώβα̣[

74c

].[

]ας ἴδρω

].υζ̣αδ.[

]ι̣ν[

74d

].[.].ε[

]ν̣πο.[

]μ̣[

Go to The Digital Sappho

Sappho 44 (The Wedding of Hector and Andromache)

This long but heavily effaced fragment records the coherence of an historically important, divinely ordained wedding, giving maximal lyric intensity to a purely civic event. But no degree of gonzo pomp can prevent – or anticipate – the horror of what was to come for this perfect, doomed couple.

Kypris.

Crier came.

From Ida -- fast courier.

Rest of Asia -- imperishable fame.

"Hector and partners transfer the eye-turner

Thebe from the fertile and sacred place,

The gentle Man-Battle, in ships 

On the salt sea; and many bangles gold-coiled,

Subdued purple, patterned playthings,

Countless cups of silver with ivory inlay."

Nimbly he leapt when he heard, King Priam, the father,

And word swept through the city of ballrooms, for the sons of Troy 

To appoint well-turned, mule-drawn carriages for all 

Slender-ankled maidens and ladies to ride,

And away from the crowd went Priam's daughters,

Horses were harnessed by men to chariots,

Young bachelors, who stirred great dust as they drove,

Charioteers holding the reins.

Likening to Gods

They mobilized to holy Ilion

With a sweeping as sweet as flutes and kithara 

And the beating of castanets.

Piercingly the maidens sang a holy song

And it reached all the way to the ether

Echoing like a God ... down every boulevard.

Vats of wine and offering bowls ...

The resins of cassia, frankincense and myrrh

Fused the very air.

The elder women shrieked their ritual ululation;

The men aligned like a bowstring to the wail

Calling with Apollo, master of the lyre,

The one who strikes at a distance, to weave them 

Into hymn, Hector and Andromache -- like Gods.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Κυπρο̣ . [ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .]ας̣·

κάρυξ ἦλθ̣ε θε̣[ . . . . . . . . . .]ελε̣ [ . . . ] . θεις

Ἴδαος ταδεκα . . . φ [ . . ] . . ις τάχυς ἄγγελος

⟨ ⟩

‘ τάς τ’ ἄλλας Ἀσίας . [ . ] δε . αν κλέος ἄφθιτον·

Ἔκτωρ καὶ συνέταιρ̣[ο]ι ἄ̣γ̣οισ’ ἐλικώπιδα

Θήβας ἐξ ἰέρας Πλακίας τ’ ἀ[π̣’ ἀϊ]ν⟨ν⟩άω

ἄβραν Ἀνδρομάχαν ἐνὶ ναῦσιν ἐπ’ ἄλμυρον

πόντον· πόλλα δ’ [ἐλί]γματα χρύσια κἄμματα

πορφύρ[α] καταΰτ[με]να, ποί̣κ̣ι̣λ’ ἀθύρματα,

ἀργύρα̣ τ̣’ ἀνά̣ριθ̣μα ποτήρια κἀλέφαις.’

ὢς εἶπ’· ὀτραλέως δ’ ἀνόρουσε πάτ[η]ρ̣ φίλος·

φάμα δ’ ἦλθε κατὰ πτ̣όλιν εὐρύχο̣ρ̣ο̣ν φίλοις·

αὔτικ’ Ἰλίαδαι σατίναι[ς] ὐπ’ ἐυτρόχοις

ἆγον αἰμιόνοις, ἐ̣π̣[έ]βαινε δὲ παῖς ὄχλος

γυναίκων τ’ ἄμα παρθενίκα[ν] τ . . [ . . ] . σφύρων

χῶρις δ’ αὖ Περάμοιο θυγ[α]τρες[

ἴππ[οις] δ’ ἄνδρες ὔπαγον ὐπ’ ἀρ̣[ματ-

π[    ]ες ἠίθ̣εοι, μεγάλω[ς] τι δ̣[

δ[     ] . ἀνίοχοι φ[ . . . . . ] . [

π̣[     ]ξδα .ο[

⟨ ⟩

⟨ ⟩

⟨ ⟩

⟨Probably 6 or 7 verses are missing ⟩

⟨ ⟩

⟨ ⟩

⟨ ⟩

ἴ]κελοι θέοι[ς

] ἄγνον ἀολ[λε-

ὄ̣ρ̣ματ̣α̣ι̣ [                ] νον ἐς Ἴλιο[ν,

αὖλος δ’ ἀδυ[μ]έλης̣ [κίθαρίς]1 τ’ ὀνεμίγνυ[το

καὶ ψ[ό]φο[ς κ]ροτάλ[ων, λιγέ]ως δ’ ἄρα πάρ[θενοι

ἄειδον μέλος ἄγν[ον, ἴκα]νε δ’ ἐς α̣ἴ̣θ̣[ερα

ἄχω θεσπεσία̣ γελ̣[

πάντᾳ δ’ ἦς κὰτ ὄδο[ις

κράτηρες φίαλαί τ’ ὀ[ . . .]υεδε[ . . ] . .εακ[ . ] . [

μύρρα καὶ κασία λίβανός τ’ ὀνεμείχνυτο·

γύναικες δ’ ἐλέλυσδον ὄσαι προγενέστερα[ι,

πάντες δ’ ἄνδρες ἐπήρατον ἴαχον ὄρθιον

Πάον’ ὀνκαλέοντες ἐκάβολον εὐλύραν,

ὔμνην δ’ Ἔκτορα κ’ Ἀνδρομάχαν θεο⟨ε⟩ικέλο[ις. 

[From The Digital Sappho]

Sappho 132

Names were more than labels in 7th-century BCE Greece; they were "instruction manuals" for a child's desired qualities. Sappho named her daughter Kleis (Κλέις), which literally translates to "Key," the heavy, L-shaped bronze clasp used to shift a massive door bolt in archaic Lesbos. She named her -- as was common at the time -- after her own mother, to evoke the matrilineal keykeeper to the access gate not only of the home but a higher value than the one represented by wealthy and decadent Lydia.

There's mine a luminous child, called Key, the same name as my mother's,

​Who carries the auric luster in her form of golden flowers;

I would not exchange her for all of Lydia or her lucre.

------------------------------------------------

132 

 ἔστι μοι κάλα πάις χρυσίοισιν ἀνθέμοισιν

ἐμφέρη⟨ν⟩ ἔχοισα μόρφαν Κλέις ἀγαπάτα,

ἀντὶ τᾶς ἔγωὐδὲ Λυδίαν παῖσαν οὐδ’ ἐράνναν . . .

Sunday at the Golden Lotus

The surfers of Encinitas loll like seals on their Ghosts

As the channelers look out to sea like fisherman’s wives,

The endless horizon ever diminishing.

The ground where you are now, Yogananda’s garden,

Becomes, for want of anywhere better,

The center of the Universe.

Everything revolves around everything,

To show to the different sides

Passing in the night --

Both halves are whole –

Each will recognize its missing perspective

Although it cannot see itself

And thus will never know how truly large it is,

Larger than any microcosm in miniature

That never stops being all there is

In every moment that never misses anything,

Like the pond with ferns placed perfectly, the sound

Of falling water to match the open mouths of koi,

And the benches in the trees

Where the metaphysical was hashed out,

Which still retain the love of truth

Even if all that was once chosen has fallen

Into disrepair if not outright error

Some time ago,

But the blue hats still sit by the pool,

Empty as usual, like the minds here try

Resolutely to be …

The cliffs though --

The cedars twisted into spirals by the hillside

Where the temple once fell to the sea.

The distractions are endless.

Century Plants in Bloom

Pumping gas by the Ali Baba motel

When the world has changed:
We know now the photos of the earth

Are faked, the wars are agit-prop,

The people who run the shows

Not actually people at all. The clouds

Have rolled in from another planet

It seems for good, along with our new friends

From the old mind re-training us, gently --

They are like that frog in the old 

Warner Bros. cartoon -- one by one.

Mothman take the wheel!

Out at the ranch the ice blossoms

Are the season's Phoenician purple, 

But it's the same now as it ever was

Albeit the shitshow's completely new:

The mules are gone, the chickens

Were eaten, and Brio's on stall rest

Because he can't stop kicking at fences,

But the rabbits are out in force

Bringing the estrogen back to Ostara

With the feminine in the air

Waiting in the trees to wake up

At the same time as we do, exactly,

A timeline substantially revised

By the solar flares and asteroids,

Their recent plasma igniting our every cell

To party, in misery's company like before

Or to leap into the bliss of uncertainty

Knowing we are held, by the maternal sun

And all it represents, as light agent

Pressing its release upon our

Temporarily lost minds, the short-term

Memory hole that squeezes our belief

Sometimes it seems now to an infinitesimal

Cell, from which we can resist all we want

But we won't be included in what's all around,

Unexplainable but still for sale

Even though its limited time offer 

Seemed to have expired long ago

Like Easter with its second chances galore,

The egg still waiting to be found

Decades later in the bookshelf, which has

Itself been sold for parts by now, for

All unities false and otherwise

Have been in the process of dissolution,

Because there is only one

As we are starting ... to understand.

There's noise from the Draconians

But I've been given a gold card

To wait as long as it takes

For the inevitable flower to open.

Birth and Death in Brief

Jesus dying is now dead —

It is done —

The drone of air siren

Nuclear holocaust alarm

And the afternoon

Can proceed

Now that the belief slate

Has been cleared

And the sun

Is as endless

As it was.

The Cicada (Sappho 101)

We’re accustomed to believe spiritual power is vested in objects: the lucky rabbit’s foot, the Roman cross that transformed ego death into a literal one. But it was the opposite impulse in Sappho’s day; objects had to be neutralized first so they wouldn’t overwhelm the initiate with the energy they carried, so that both object and initiate would be receptive to divine attention. The mystery schools anointed the objects to survive being seen by the Goddess. 

The object in question for the fragment 101 set is an elaborately patterned, exquisitely weaved murex-purple hand cloth ("handkerchief" is used here because English has lost the memory of such a sacred vehicle of reception) from Phokaia, a syndicate of independent city states that dominated the 600-700 BCE luxury market in the highly networked Mediterranean trade. Whether the cloths were passed by initiates (my guess) or acquired as material objects (the consensus), they certainly needed to be "saged" (in the modern parlance) before the initiates could be "possessed" by the Goddess frequency. Murex production alone, as indicated yesterday, was a particularly rank and brutal process. This "gentling" was done by breath. 

And this breath in turn evokes the cicada, whose invisible tymbal discharge at 400 beats a second only happens when time is thick, in the heat and stillness. The sun calls it from an underground home to tell us when to pay attention — not unlike that high-pitched ringing we may hear inside our ears. Plato’s Phaedrus myth remembered it that cicadas were once humans who sang when the Muses were born. They sang so unreservedly they forgot to eat, and were transformed into beings of pure voice. After death, they “report” to the Muses which humans honor each Muse  — who can remain lucid when the high-frequency "music" overwhelms.

This fragment offers a tantalizing glimpse of archaic mystery school practices — it almost reads to modern eyes as a how-to manual — one broken either by time or intention. 

Turn me the Aphrodite:

Infuse my breath into the moistened

Purple handkerchief, entrusted

To us from the masters of Phokaia

To touch to our cheeks.

Activate the cicada voice
Carried on keen wings,

Seeping its high-frequency song,

Powered up when the sun hangs down

Low, to hover up the cry in transmission.

----------------------------------------------------

101

πρὸς τὴν Ἀφροδίτην·

χερρόμακτρα δὲ καγγόνων

πορφύρα καταΰτμενα

τατιμάσεις ἔμπεμψ’ ἀπὺ Φωκάας

δῶρα τίμια καγγόνων

 

101A

ἐπὶ τοῦ τέττιγος·

πτερύγων δ’ ὔπα

κακχέει λιγύραν ἀοίδαν,

ὄπποτα φλόγιον καθέ-

ταν ἐπιπτάμενον καταυδείη

More at Digital Sappho

The Purple of Sappho 98

Purple has always been the color of enlightenment and the enlightened ones. It is Aphrodite's color and the Greek mystery religion cultivators bound it to song, scent and movement to enact her frequency. But the rich dyes of that age came from murex, a gland in the sea snail that only turned purple when exposed to the sun. This photochemically converted it into 6,6′‑dibromoindigo, an unusually deep, refractive and unstable purple that can shift toward red, blue, or black depending on angle and wear. Thus the purple of Sappho changed its behavior in response to light — it was alive, that is, to spirit. 

Purple also exposed the holy — as it does today when spied between the cracks. But in those days it was palpable. It allowed the wearer to be seen as a Goddess, knowledge the Romans later used to project themselves as Gods — and punish any non-elite who wore the color with death. It took 12,000 snails to produce 1.4 grams of dye, making murex highly prized as a kind of condensed sunlight. And it became, as Sappho recounts in this fragment, a controlled substance. The Persian ransack of Sardis cut off the Lydian snail trade to all but the elect ... but not the spiritually elect. In fact, Cleanaktidai — the local mafia of the time — could be heard as Illuminati without veering too far from the Greek. Sappho portrays the capture lyrically, balancing hope and grief for her daughter Kleis. 

... Mom — who bore me to life

Incorruptible in her prime,

She plaited her hair in purple

To coil highest truth around her feeling.

She existed without a doubt.
But my daughter has hair so gold

It is a torch even brighter than the sun.

Fresh flowers heavy with vapor

Spun spiral to form fit her head

And now something has happened to the mitra:

The iridescent purple 

Gone from the Ionian ports.

I can braid you, Kleis, in patterns

But have no means to change that fact;

The mitra is for the Mytilenians.

Exile can't hold luminescence ...

These things of the Cleanaktidai ...

Mementoes ...  they have flowed horribly away.

------------------------------------------------------

98a

. . ] . θος· ἀ γάρ με γέννα[τ

 

σ]φ̣ᾶς ἐπ’ ἀλικίας μέγ[αν

κ]όσμον, αἴ τις ἔχη φόβα⟨ι⟩ς̣[

π̣ορφύρ̣ῳ κατελιξαμέ[να πλόκῳ,

 

ἔ̣μμεναι μά̣λα τοῦτο δ̣[ή·

ἀ̣λλ’ ἀ ξανθοτέραις ἔχη[

τ̣αὶς κόμαις δάϊδος προ[

 

σ]τεφάνοισιν ἐπαρτία[ις

ἀ̣νθέων ἐριθαλέων·

μ]ι̣τράναν δ’ ἀρτίως κλ[

 

π̣οικίλαν ἀπὺ Σαρδίω[ν

. . . ] . αονίας πόλ{ε}ις1

 

98b

σοὶ δ’ ἔγω Κλέι ποικίλαν

οὐκ ἔχω πόθεν ἔσσεται

μιτράν⟨αν⟩· ἀλλὰ τῲ Μυτιληνάῳ

. . . . . . .

παι . α . ειον ἔχην πο . [

αἰκε̣ . η̣ ποικιλασκ . . . . [

 

ταῦτα τὰς Κλεανακτίδα̣[ν

φύγας̣  . . ι̣σαπολισεχει 

μνάματ’· .ἴ̣δε γὰρ αἶνα διέρρυε̣[ν

Sappho on Adonis (fragments)

More repackaging of fragments a la a philologist, this time with a recurring theme of Adonis, the doomed mortal who became Aphrodite's lover.

 

The moon has now entered the void,

The Pleiades follow, sweeping

Low and moving the small hours on.

I, when I sleep, do so alone.

He died there Cythera foam form,

Gorgeous Adonis, what can be done?

Clap on your breasts, illumined girls,

Tear open your pious blouses.

Mourn for Adonis.

Leda they say once laid an egg

From a solar womb, hyacinthine

And occulted, an egg pure enough

To be shadow free.

------------------------------------------------------

168B

δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα

καὶ Πληΐαδες· μέσαι δὲ

νύκτες, παρὰ δ’ ἔρχετ’ ὤρα,

ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω.

140

κατθνάσκει, Κυθέρη’, ἄβρος Ἄδωνις· τί κε θεῖμεν;

καττύπτεσθε, κόραι, καὶ κατερείκεσθε κίθωνας.

168

ὦ τὸν Ἄδωνιν

166

φαῖσι δή ποτα Λήδαν ὐακίνθινον

… ὤιον εὔρην πεπυκάδμενον

167

ὠΐω πόλυ λευκότερον

Cretan Goddess (Sappho 2)

A nice Veneralia surprise for me that fragment 2 is in Sapphic stanzas and is about my favorite subject, the divine feminine.

Diffuse here from Cretas to this very shrine

That’s sanctified to you, by graceful apples

In the sacred grove, where we burn frankincense.

Altars are smoking.

And the cold water flows its song through branches,

The floor all roses dances in the shadow,

Leaves convulse in extra-sensory death as

Your possession pours.

In the meadow spring releases its being,

The horse grazes whole heart into the earth,

Ecstasy breezes, the vapour of the goddess,

Honey plasma breathes.

Cretan Aphrodite! Pour your nectar gold

As our tongues yield softly to each sensation

And we taste of the ubiquitous ocean

In your gnosis cup.

----------------------------------------------------------------

[Δεῦρύ μ'] ἄλλοι, Κρή[σ]ιαν πρὸς ἄλσος

[να]ίϊον, ὄππ[α]ι [τ]εάϊνον τ[ε] μέλιννον

[ἄλ]σος, ἐν δὲ βῶμοι θυμιά[η]νοι

λιβανώτῳ·

ἐν δ᾽ ὕδωρ ψῦχρον κελάδει δι᾽ ὔσδων

μαλίνων, βρόδοισι δὲ πᾶς ὀ χῶρος

ἐσκίαστ᾽, αἰθύσσομένων δὲ φύλλων

κῶμα κατέρρει·

ἐν δὲ λείμων ἰππόβοτος τέθαλεν

ἠρίνοισιν ἄνθεσιν, αἰ δὲ λῆναι

μέλλιχα πνέοισιν [---]

[ἔνθα σὺ Κύπρι]

βροσίαις ἐν χρυσίαισιν [κύλικες]

ἁβρώως [ ]

νέκταρ ἐγκεκραιμένον [ ]

[---]

Fuller interpretive synthesis at The Digital Sappho

Sappho's Wedding Song

I took the conventional road of seeing the scraps of Sappho's Epithalamia as separate expressions, only to find out it's all one coherent, ritually-correct, deliciously subversive satire.

Evening star, you remember the scattered and bring them back to us,

Bring sheep, bring goats, bring us ... mothers, but then you take their child away,

The most beautiful of the stars.

Something sweet reddens, the last quince, up at the last of the branches.

Do the hands that would caress and turn it for harvest just forget?

No, of course they couldn't forget, not entirely — just couldn't reach.

Blown by Zephyrs to high altitudes, bruised purple by the blue,

The feet that don't know shepherd hyacinth in the tread of their boots.

The preeminent Lesbian singer in the Mediterraine;

Do I still throw myself upon my virgin?

Oh holy, oh full of grace,

"Mine to give," says her dad.

The fair fiancee, tell everyone, arrives,

A child of Kronos, violet mounds.

They set the table for desire.

Enshrine them, Muses and Graces!

With songs to move the heart and minds,

Light-ray tones.

An offering:

Communal joy,

Twin fortunes with favor

To capture the bay,

Receive the earth.

Sailors may

Choose high winds

And dry land,

Where she sets sail ...

The cargo.

Many accomplishments ...

Flow from the shore.

Before the gate, to keep the bride inside

Her room, 10 cobblers and 5 cows

For the doorman's sandals, 7 fathoms long.

Big enough to let the groom in

To the hymen.

Carpenters to raise the roof high;

To the hymen.

For the bridegroom is as long as the God of War;

To the hymen.

Better hung than gargantuan men,

To the hymen.

The bride with perfect rhythm 

Enters the bridal chamber.
Now ...
Me.

All night long

The maidens sing

In the customary way,

Things of love and brides with violet mounds.

The bridegroom's men are quarrelsome.

Such phobias unsettle the lyre

Suspended like the golden sandals of dawn.

Wake up every eager buck now,

Sow your oats with your own boys groom, go

Until the light-sounding bird cracks --

Only then, the sandman.

As to how bad it will be

Go, let us see!

The sovereign mistress of dawn,

Strong in gold, nods.

Happy groom, the wedding you prayed for is done.

You perspire your desire all over your lovely face.

You are blessed above all by Aphrodite's fertile glance.

There is no other girl like her ... that one,

Honey in her eyes.

“Virginity, Virginity, where have you gone?”

“No longer will I come for you, no longer will I come.”

To what, beloved groom, would I place you in comparison?

The new shoot that bows in the evening — this is my comparison!

O not another girl now, O bridegroom, such as she.

Be happy, nympha, be wealthy ... hombre!

May you endure, bride -- at your command, groom?

Gods at the door, carved in marble;

Leave your blood with the evening star

Like Adonis, who died.

------------------------------------------------------------------

104a

Ἔσπερε πάντα φέρων ὄσα φαίνολις ἐσκέδασ’ Αὔως

φέρεις ὄιν, φέρεις αἶγα, φέρεις {ἄπυ} μάτερι παῖδα.

 

104b

ἀστέρων πάντων ὀ κάλλιστος . . .

 

105a

οἶον τὸ γλυκύμαλον ἐρεύθεται ἄκρῳ ἐπ’ ὔσδῳ,

ἄκρον ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτῳ, λελάθοντο δὲ μαλοδρόπηες·

οὐ μὰν ἐκλελάθοντ’, ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐδύναντ’ ἐπίκεσθαι.

 

105b

οἴαν τὰν ὐάκινθον ἐν ὤρεσι ποίμενες ἄνδρες

πόσσι καταστείβοισι, χάμαι δέ τε πόρφυρον ἄνθος . . .

103

] . εν τὸ γὰρ ἐννεπε[ . ]η προ̣β

] . ατε τὰν εὔποδα νύμφαν [

]τ̣α παῖδα Κ̣ρ̣ο̣νίδα τὰν ἰόκ[ολπ]ον[  

] . ς ὄργαν θεμένα τὰν ἰόκ[ολ]π̣ος α[

] . . ἄγναι Χάριτες Πιέριδέ[ς τε] Μ̣οῖ̣[σαι  

] . [ . ὄ]π̣π̣οτ’ἀοιδαι φρέ̣ν[ . . . ]αν . [

]σ̣αιοισα λιγύραν [ἀοί]δ̣αν

 

106

πέρροχος ὠς ὄτ’ ἄοιδος ὀ Λέσβιος ἀλλοδάποισιν

 

107

ἦρ’ ἔτι παρθενίας ἐπιβάλλομαι;

108

ὦ καλή, ὦ χαρίεσσα·

 

109

‘δώσομεν,’ ἦσι πάτηρ

20

]επιθ̣ε̣σμα[

]ε γάνος δὲ και̣ . . [

]

τ]ύχαι συν ἔσλαι

λί]μ̣ενος κρέτησαι,

γ]ᾶς μελαίνας

]

]έλοισι ναῦται

]μ̣εγάλαις ἀήται[ς

]α κἀπὶ χέρσω

]

´.]μοθεν πλέοι.[

]δε τὰ φόρτι ᾿ εἰκ[

]νατιμ᾿ ἐπεὶ κ.[

]

]ρεόντι πόλλ̣α̣ι̣[

]αιδέκα̣ [

]ει

]

]ι̣ν ἔργα

]χέρσω[

].α

]

.]..[

 

110

θυρώρῳ πόδες ἐπτορόγυιοι,

τὰ δὲ σάμβαλα πεμπεβόηα,

πίσσυγγοι δὲ δέκ’ ἐξεπόναισαν.

 

111

Ἴψοι δὴ τὸ μέλαθρον,

 ̓ Υμήναον,

ἀέρρετε, τέκτονες ἄνδρες·

̓ Υμήναον.

γάμβρος (εἰσ)έρχεται ἶσος Ἄρευι,

̓ Υμήναον.

ἄνδρος μεγάλω πόλυ μέσδων.

̓ Υμήναον.

103Β

]ρηον θαλάμω τ̣ωδεσ̣[

]ι̣̣ς εὔποδα νύμφαν ἀβ̣[

].νυνδ[

]ν μοι· [

]ας γε̣ . [

30

νυκτ[ . . . ] . [

πάρθενοι δ[

παννυχίσδοι̣[σ]α̣ι̣[

σὰν ἀείδοιε̣ν φ[ιλότατα καὶ νύμ-

103 (Con't)

γά]μβρον, ἄσαροι γ̣ὰρ̣ ὐ̣μαλι̣κ[

]σε φόβαισι θεμέν̣α λύρα . [

. . . η χρυσοπέδι̣λ̣⟨λ⟩[ο]ς Αὔως   

30 (Con't)

φας ἰοκόλπω.

ἀλλ᾿ ἐγέρθε̣ι̣ς ἠϊθ[έοις

στεῖχε σοὶς ὐμάλικ̣[ας, ὠς ἐλάσσω

ἤπερ ὄσσον ἀ λιγ̣ύφω̣[νος ὄρνις

ὔπνον [ἴ]δωμεν.  

6

ὡς δα.[

      κακ̣κ̣[

ατρ[

κτα̣ .[

.].[

      θα[

Στεῖχ[ε

ὠς ἴδω̣[μεν

τ̣ὰς ἐτ.[

      πότνια [δ’ Αὔως

χρυσόπ̣[αχυς

καππο[

.ανμ[

      κ̣ᾶρα . [

    ].[

 

112

ὄλβιε γάμβρε, σοὶ μὲν δὴ γάμος ὠς ἄραο

ἐκτετέλεστ’, ἔχῃς δὲ πάρθενον ἂν ἄραο . . .

σοὶ χάριεν μὲν εἴδος, ὄππατα δ’ . . .

μέλλιχ’, ἔρος δ’ ἐπ’ ἰμέρτῳ κέχυται προσώπῳ

. . . τετίμακ’ ἔξοχά σ’ Ἀφροδίτα

 

113

οὐ γὰρ

ἀτέρα νῦν πάις, ὦ γάμβρε, τεαύτα

 

114

(νύμφη).παρθενία, παρθενία, ποῖ με λίποισ’ ἀποίχῃ;

(παρθενία). οὐκέτι ἤξω πρὸς σέ, οὐκέτι ἤξω.

 

115

τίῳ σ’, ὦ φίλε γάμβρε, καλῶς ἐικάσδω;

ὄρπακι βραδίνῳ σε μάλιστ’ ἐικάσδω.

 

116

χαῖρε, νύμφα, χαῖρε, τίμιε γάμβρε, πόλλα

 

117

χαίροις ἀ νύμφα, χαιρέτω δ’ ὀ γάμβρος

 

117A

ξοάνων προθύρων·

 

117B

Ἔσπερ’  ̓Υμήναον

ὦ τὸν Ἀδώνιον

from The Digital Sappho

Sasquatch by the Mailbox

The tack rooms are deserted,

A red woodpecker sings

Clinging to the pole

As the silence grows loud.

There is always room for a solo voice

When the stalls are in the shade,

The prints grow deep in the arena.

It's like humans are never here

With the buckets empty, the chairs in sun,

The racks and posts rattling in the wind,

Or that I'm even one, pulled back

From a fly mask, silent with my eyes,

Hearing foreign tongues decide

The higher plan, of which I’m not a part,

The joyous grackles, dropping to worms,

The squirrels running for the fun of it.

Mouths fill with alfalfa, shaking dusty hides

At the parliament of flies that rewrite the rules 

For the few short days they are alive. 

The sky is so clear any one thing could break it.

It's only held together by blue,

Maybe a feather, a quill pen cloud

For something not even a memory

But a thought that it's been felt

Somewhere, the pain of this being,

Never enough, always too much,

Waiting and willing ...

Then one by one they come,

The hay man, the farrier,

The lady with the hat,

Like pieces of me

Mysteriously put in place.

I can't hear the voices,

At least what they are saying,

But the ranch is alive, now,

This invisible hour

With my own being --

How far did I go

To never leave,

To get away?

The hay truck comes up, 

A man and his girlfriend, Sunday

Smiles, offering the timothy

To the mule and donkey

And I, no less than them,

Outside their pen,

Devour what the gloves

Dropped down.

All High-Fidelity Translations Aside

I light the sage

And literally create

God in the sky, 

Real only in my belief -- 

That's the revolution,

The real altar of belief,

The thing to view

Is you.

Can you reverse the charge

Of the entire cosmos

To find that tiny seed

That has it all?

Or should I be

Like Brio,

One apple and enough

Foam to breed a Venus,

Every moment

Is a choice,

That's the thing.

The world exists to be seen,

Other people exist

For your mirroring,

The holy obligation

To accept these gifts

As gifts,

For every universe

In every cell turned

To bring it to you

Without complaint,

Without confusion,

For you are the end of the search,

The alpha and  -- the omega,

The black and the white 

On the cookie

Traumatized or amused

In the New York minutes

By the bird song

Of cab horns,

Every peep for attention

Measured, to infinite degrees.

So broad is the experience

In the band where you landed.

Nothing is lost,

Nothing went missing,

Nothing is real

But the moment of contact.

It can only be love

That doesn't come from you 

Exactly, nor does it come

From anyone you long for.

The only thing you can know it as

Is truth. 

Sappho 96

As I explore these Sapphic fragments I notice they are not broken things at all but concentrated. Emotion lives on in words that demand release, even, in this case, when release is never granted. Fragment 96 actually scans as a complete poem in the Sapphic style.

  

Sardis.

I've held you many times there,
As if we are alive.

Visible frequency of the divine —

Who took the most joy out of my song.

 

Now she stands out, glows among the Lydians

As when the sunset burns

And the rosy-fingered moon turns sovereign 

 

And has everything, every star, in its hold,

Presses its brilliance on the brine

And every flower plowed into the worked earth.

 

All the dew has been beautifully poured, roses

Have already bloomed, sweet clover

And tender chervil are yielding in the dark;

 

So fragile Attis roves through my memory.

My heart is devoured for someone

Vulnerable, in some direction, feeling something.

 

I came to this place, we did not. Not unknown

What's pointed to, what has a name.

My wailings release what is left in between.

 

It's not within our hands to model the Gods

For the beauty from desire 
Has no match ... and what I have of you, to hold.

Peitho works with persuading hands 
To pour Aphrodite's nectar.

And I get vapour ... for all my desire.

Remembered and gone ...
My anointed friends wait in Geraistion.

I will go.

----------------------------------------------------------

]Σαρδ . [ . .]

πόλ]λακι τυίδε̣ [ν]ῶν ἔχοισα

ὠσπ . [ . . .] . ωόμεν, . [ . . .] . . χ[ . .]

σε θέᾳ σ’ ἰκέλαν ἀρι-

γνώτᾳ, σᾳ δὲ μάλιστ’ ἔχαιρε μόλπᾳ.

 

νῦν δὲ Λῦδαισιν ἐμπρέπεται γυναί-

κεσσιν ὤς ποτ’ ἀελίω

δύντος ἀ βροδοδάκτυλος σελάννα

 

πάντα περρέχοισ’ ἄστρα· φάος δ’ ἐπί-

σχει θάλασσαν ἐπ’ ἀλμύραν

ἴσως καὶ πολυανθέμοις ἀρούραις·

 

ἀ δ’ ἐέρσα κάλα κέχυται τεθά-

λαισι δὲ βρόδα κἄπαλ’ ἄν-

θρυσκα καὶ μελίλωτος ἀνθεμώδης·

 

πόλλα δὲ ζαφοίταισ’ ἀγάνας ἐπι-

μνάσθεισ’ Ἄτθιδος ἰμέρῳ

λέπταν ποι φρένα κ[ᾶ]ρ̣[ι σᾷ] βόρηται·

 

κῆθι δ’ ἔλθην ἀμμ . [ . .] . .ισα τό̣δ’ οὐ

νῶντ’ ἀ[ . .]υστονυμ̣[ . . .] πόλυς

γαρύει̣ [ . . .]αλον̣[ . . . . . .] .ο̣ μέσσον·

 

ε]ὔ̣μαρ[ες μ]ὲ̣ν οὐκ̣ ἄμ̣μι θέαισι μόρ-

φαν ἐπή[ρατ]ον ἐξίσω-

σθ̣αι συ[ . .]ρ̣ο̣ς ἔχηισθ’ ἀ[ . . .] .νίδηον

 

]το̣[ . . . .]ρατι-

μαλ[                           ] . ερος

καὶ δ[ . ]μ̣[                  ]ος Ἀφροδίτα

 

καμ̣[                       ] νέκταρ ἔχευ’ ἀπὺ

χρυσίας [                        ]ν̣αν

.. . . .]απουρ̣[                    ]χέρσι Πείθω

[                                 ]θ[. . .]ησενη

[                                           ]ακις

[                                        ]. . . . . .αι

 

[                               ]ες τὸ Γεραίστιον

[                               ]ν̣ φίλαι

[                                ]υ̣στον οὐδενο[

 

[                                ]ερον ἰξο[μ

This fragment can be examined at The Digital Sappho

Sappho 95

Modern translations of Sappho can probably be summed up by how Ezra Pound famously or infamously translated or violated only the first three of four words or parts of words from fragment 95, landing at Gongula, while every contemporary translator (except, it turns out, me) start there, as if what's before it is (and what's after the few intact lines are) untrustworthy, domain of scholars not its effaced creator. But damn if I don't hear Sappho's voice.  

Ooh

Air …

Delay.

Gongyla.

Surely it’s a sign.

Appears to be.

The foreigner comes.

Master Hermes, I said,

By Aphrodite at least, I swear:

There's no enjoyment for me above the earth,

Dying by desire has its hold,

The cold and sensuous lotus

Along the margins of the river of woe.

To see …

Unbound …

No one.

------------------------------------------------

οὐ [

ᾖρ’ ἀ [

δηρατ.

Γογγυλα .

ἦ τι σᾶμ’ ἐθε .

παισι μάλιστα .

μας γ’ εἴσηλθ’ ἐπ .

εἶπον· ̔ὦ δέσποτ’ ἐπ .

ο]ὐ μὰ γὰρ μάκαιραν̣ [ἔγωγ’

ο]ὐδὲν ἄδομ’ ἔπερθα γᾶ [ς ἔοισα,

κατθάνην δ’ ἴμερός τις [ἔχει με

καὶ λωτίνοις δροσόεντας [ὄ-

χ̣ [θ]οις ἴδην Ἀχέρ [οντος

. ] . . δεσαιδ . . ] . ν̣δετον̣ [

μητισ̣ε̣ [


This fragment can be found at The Digital Sappho

Sappho 94

There are break-up poems and there's this Sappho break-up poem, still next-level despite inventing the genre. The papyrus has lost much of its words, but what it hides only adds to the shock.

It's honest this ardor of death.

Oh the leaving, shatters on the marble floor.

Can't be told one time, many more.

Our mark, our passion, permanent.

"Sappho, when I leave it's with your will."

But I answered her, obedient,

"Be glad that you got rid of me,

Remember your witness, how you were pursued.

The other you, the other I,

We suffered the beautiful." 

Palace of our lavender rose

Enclosed by crocus, the garland 

You slipped on, willing, we were all-encompassed.

My necklaces harnessed your heart

In weaves around the supplest neck.

How you toss off lightly the beauty you've made.

So much ... oil, it breathes with our rose.

You smeared yourself 'til you were sealed,

Made royal.

You melted into the pillows

... Yielding ...

Accomplished your longing.

It wasn't me ... it wasn't you,

It was a temple from which we were excluded.

No sacred grove ...

Dancing ...

The sound of falling.

-------------------------------------------------------

τεθνάκην δ’ ἀδόλως θέλω·

ἄ με ψισδομένα κατελίμπανεν

 

πόλλα καὶ τόδ’ ἔειπέ̣ [μοι·

̔ ὤιμ’ ὠς δεῖνα πεπ[όνθ]αμεν,

Ψάπφ’, ἦ μάν σ’ ἀέκοισ΄ ἀπυλιμπάνω.’

 

τὰν δ’ ἔγω τάδ’ ἀμειβόμαν·

̔ χαίροισ’ ἔρχεο κἄμεθεν

μέμναισ’, οἶσθα γὰρ ὤς σε πεδήπομεν·

 

αἰ δὲ μή, ἀλλά σ’ ἔγω θέλω

ὄμναισαι [. . . .] . [. . .] . .αι

[            ] καὶ κάλ’ ἐπάσχομεν·

 

πο̣[λλοις γὰρ στεφάν]οις ἴων

καὶ βρ[όδων κρο]κ̣ίων τ’ ὔμοι

κα . .[           ] πὰρ ἔμοι περεθήκαο,

 

καὶ πό̣[λλαις ὐπα]θύμιδας

πλέκ[ταις ἀμφ’ ἀ]πάλᾳ δέρᾳ

ἀνθέων ἔ̣[βαλες] πεποημμέναις,

 

καὶ πο̣λ̣λ̣ῳ[             ] . μύρῳ

βρενθείῳ . [            ]ρ̣υ[ . . ]ν

ἐξαλείψαο κα̣[ὶ βασ]ι̣ληίῳ,

καὶ στρώμν[αν ἐ]πὶ μολθάκαν

ἀπάλαν πα . [         ] . . .ων

ἐξίης πόθο̣[ν           ] . νίδων,

κωὔτε τις[           οὔ]τ̣ε̣ τι

ἶρον οὐδυ[                  ]

ἔπλετ’ ὄππ̣[οθεν ἄμ]μες ἀπέσκομεν,

 

οὐκ ἄλσος . [                χ]ό̣ρος

    ]ψόφος

 . . .οιδιαι

Sappho's Ode to Aphrodite (#1)

Hat tip Dionysus of Halicarnassus for allowing us to read the one remaining complete poem of Sappho.

On rainbow throne hear my plea Aphrodite,

Immortal girl of Zeus, the spider trickster,

I won’t yield to anguish nor to nausea

Mistress, seat of breath.

But come near now, as you have come here before,

'Cos my voice warbles hearkening from afar

For when you heard you left your father’s domain

And came with your gold,

War chariot yoked, a torso who’s carried

By sparrows around the black and fertile world,

Wings whirring through the friction, breaking through from

The aethers of sky –

To arrive so quickly, can-do hummingbird

Cucumber cool, smooth smile, all perennial

To ask, of my personal emergency,

“What’s the mess this time?”

What I mostly want, to make suffering stop

In a heart that’s been ransacked, partitioned:

“Take her hand. Make her want to love me again.

I know that you can.”

“If she flees, is it not true, she will pursue?

If she’ll not receive your gifts, she will bestow;

And if she cannot love you, unwillingly

She will. She was born.”

Then come here now and loosen the bonds of birth.

Free me from the everlasting servitude

And let my heart now burn to be completed,

Partner in our crime.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

ποικιλόθρον᾽ ἀθάνατ᾽ Ἀφρόδιτα,

παῖ Δίος δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε

μὴ μ᾽ ἄσαισι μηδ᾽ ὀνίαισι δάμνα,

πότνια, θῦμον,

ἀλλὰ τυίδ᾽ ἔλθ᾽, αἴ ποτα κἀτέρωτα

τὰς ἔμας αὔδας ἀίοισα πήλοι

ἔκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισα

χρύσιον ἦλθες,

ἄρμ᾽ ὐποζεύξαισα· κάλοι δέ σ᾽ ἆγον

ὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας

πύκνα δίννεντες πτέρ᾽ ἀπ᾽ ὠράνω

αἴθερος διὰ μέσσω·

αἶψα δ᾽ ἐξίκοντο· σὺ δ᾽, ὦ μάκαιρα,

μειδιάσαισ᾽ ἀθανάτῳ προσώπῳ

ἤρε᾽ ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι

δηὖτε κάλημμι,

κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι

μαινόλᾳ θύμῳ· τίνα δηὖτε πείθω

ἄψ σ᾽ ἄγην ἐς σὰν φιλότατα,

τίς σ᾽, ὦ Ψάπφ᾽, ἀδίκηει;

καὶ γὰρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,

αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ᾽, ἀλλὰ δώσει,

αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει

κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα.

ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον

ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι

θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον,

σὺ δ᾽ αὔτα σύμμαχος ἔσσο.

Sappho 58

For centuries, fragment 58 existed only as a series of scraps that seemed to end with a mythological Tithonus rotting in the arms of the Dawn—a grim memento mori on the betrayal of the body. ​However, in 2004, archaeologists at the University of Cologne identified a new scrap of 3rd-century BC papyrus that had been used as mummy cartonnage (essentially ancient recycled cardboard). This discovery didn't just add lines, it revivified the poem’s soul, shifting its focus from biological decay to the aesthetic inheritance of an artist. Still fragmentary, the "complete" poem offers a translation opportunity into the more loquacious English to better capture the Sapphic stanza "gallop" of the original Aeolic Greek.

Violet bandeau of muses, on my students,

Girls, who love song, and tune a clear shell tone on

The tortoise lyre, skin now corrugated,

Hairs have turned, from black.

Lioness no longer light, gone in the knees

Which used to traipse as nebulous as fawns.

I moan and groan but there's nothing to be done;

It's impossible.

Sunrise armed with roses as the story goes,

Eros bears us ferociously to the end,

Beautiful and young it's all the same game trap,

Immortal ash wife.

The codicil holds that death is what follows

But I believe only in exquisite things

And as long as my desire is for the sun

Brilliance is my cut.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

. . . ἰ]ο̣κ[ό]λ̣πων κάλα δῶρα, παῖδεϲ,

. . .τὰ]ν̣ φιλάοιδον λιγύραν χελύνναν·

. . . π̣οτ̣’ [ἔ]ο̣ντα χρόα γῆραϲ ἤδη

. . . ἐγ]ένοντο τρίχεϲ ἐκ μελαίναν·

βάρυϲ δέ μ’ ὀ [θ]ῦμο̣ϲ̣ πεπόηται, γόνα δ’ [ο]ὐ φέροιϲι,

τὰ δή ποτα λαίψηρ’ ἔον ὄρχηϲθ’ ἴϲα νεβρίοιϲι.

τὰ ⟨μὲν⟩ ϲτεναχίϲδω θαμέωϲ· ἀλλὰ τί κεν ποείην;

ἀγήραον ἄνθρωπον ἔοντ’ οὐ δύνατον γένεϲθαι.

καὶ γάρ π̣[ο]τ̣α̣ Τίθωνον ἔφαντο βροδόπαχυν Αὔων

ἔρωι φ̣ ̣ ̣α̣θ̣ε̣ιϲαν βάμεν’ εἰϲ ἔϲχατα γᾶϲ φέροιϲα[ν],

ἔοντα̣ [κ]ά̣λ̣ο̣ν καὶ νέον, ἀλλ’ αὖτον ὔμωϲ ἔμαρψε

χρόνωι π̣ό̣λ̣ι̣ο̣ν̣ γῆραϲ, ἔχ̣[ο]ν̣τ̣’ ἀθανάταν ἄκοιτιν.

. . . ιμέναν νομίϲδει

. . . αιϲ ὀπάϲδοι

⸤ἔγω δὲ φίλημ’[11]ἀβροϲύναν, . . .⸥ τοῦτο καί μοι

τὸ λά⸤μπρον ἔρωϲ ἀελίω καὶ τὸ κά⸥λον λέ⸤λ⸥ογχε. 

[Nagy text]

Sappho 16

Fragment 16 is one of only five reasonably complete fragments that remain from Sappho, who Plato called "the 10th muse," the inventor of lyric poetry as we know it, whose influence lasted for centuries. How conveniently ironic this erasure was of a woman - a woman for whom the word Lesbian was coined in fact. This incomplete poem -- another one where (especially in stanza 2) translations go to die -- provides a hint why her poems were burned by popes. One can only guess how provocative what is missing must be.

Some say men will come, flex arms or lay the ground

Or from boats they say, over black the earth realm.

Immensely it satisfies them, but I say

It’s what turns you on.

Painfully easy to imagine longing

For everyone, but a woman was the mold

Of perfect allure, Helen and her husband,

The best of all men,

Him she left behind, and for Troy put to sea

Kissing off her daughter and her family,

Kissing what’s not there, completely swept away …

[…] swayed […] 

[…] reminds me of my Anactoria

No longer here

I would rather watch her swirl across the flames

Lighting with a glance my incandescent eyes

Than the Lydian archers raining their fire

On distant cities.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

[ο]ἰ μὲν ἰππήων ϲτρότον οἰ δὲ πέϲδων

οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖϲ’ ἐπ[ὶ] γᾶν μέλαι[ν]αν

[ἔ]μμεναι κάλλιϲτον, ἔγω δὲ κῆν’ ὄτ-

-τω τιc ἔραται·

[πά]γχυ δ’ εὔμαρεc ϲύνετον πόηϲαι

[π]άντι τ[ο]ῦ̣τ’, ἀ γὰρ πόλυ περϲκέ̣θ̣ο̣ι̣σ̣α

κ̣άλ̣λο̣c̣ [ἀνθ]ρ̣ώπων Ἐλένα [τὸ]ν ἄνδρα

τ̣ὸν̣ [πανάρ]ιϲτον

κ̣αλλ[ίποι]σ̣’ ἔβα ’c Τροΐαν πλέοι̣[ϲα

κωὐδ[ὲ πα]ῖδοc οὐδὲ φίλων το[κ]ήων

π̣ά[μπαν] ἐμνάϲθη, ἀλλὰ παράγ̣α̣γ̣’ α̣ὔταν

[. . .]ϲαν [. . .]

[. .]μ̣ε̣ νῦν Ἀνακτορί[αc ὀ]ν̣έ̣μναι-

[-ϲ’ οὐ ] παρεοίϲαc,

[τᾶ]c <κ>ε βολλοίμαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα

κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον ἴδην προϲώπω

ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρματα †κανοπλοιϲι

[πεϲδομ]άχενταc.

Sappho 31

Fragment 31 is arguably the most translated —and "untranslatable" — piece of lyric poetry in Western history. For 2,500 years, it's been the "Mount Everest" for translators due to the percussive, almost clinical way a lovesick heart describes its own physical erasure. To translate it is to grapple with a ghost: it's one of the only Sappho poems that is reasonably preserved, thanks to the critic Longinus quoting it as an example of "the sublime," but the words are disoriented, the self-consciousness jarring, and the way to feel about it postponed to a much later age.

Appears to me that one’s unmoved, like the gods

That man, across from you, whoever he is,

Installed and close by, for that sweetness of voice

Overheard, obeyed –

You, having laughed, erotic charge, but not mine

Whose heart is caged in a temple of panic,

For when I see you, even briefly, my voice

Won’t work anymore,

Even my tongue muscle locks up and subtle

Fire ignites suddenly under my flesh,

Whited out eyes can’t see anything at all,

Ears rung to a roar.

Sweat’s pouring out and tremors are everywhere 

Seizing my being; I turn greener than grass

And I have died, or maybe less, or so I

Appear to myself.

Risks are required – even for one without rights ...

-------------------------------------------------------------

φαίνεταί μοι κῆνοc ἴcοc θέοισιν

ἔμμεν’ ὤνηρ, ὄττιc ἐνάντιόc τοι

ἰcδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί

cαc ὐπακούει

καὶ γελαίcαc ἰμέροεν, τό μ’ ἦ μὰν

καρδίαν ἐν cτήθεcιν ἐπτόαιcεν,

ὠc γὰρ ἔc c’ ἴδω βρόχε’ ὤc με φώναι

c’ οὐδ’ ἒν ἔτ’ εἴκει,

ἀλλὰ κὰμ μὲν γλῶccα ἔαγε λέπτον

δ’ αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμηκεν,

ὀππάτεccι δ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ὄρημμ’, ἐπιρρόμ

βειcι δ’ ἄκουαι,

κάδ δέ μ’ ἴδρωc κακχέεται τρόμοc δὲ

παῖcαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίαc

ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ’ ὀλίγω ’πιδεύηc

φαίνομ’ ἔμ’ αὔται.

ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον, ἐπεὶ καὶ πένητα

Sundays in Taiwan

A piece of spiritual journalism

I arrive at the purple yang gate. The lioness asks
“Attain the Tao how?” I’m immorally immortal
Now, but I talk around the treasures
At the thunder entrance, before the 8 divisions
Of divine dragons in charge
Of my cultivation of self-nature.

To restore my innate perfection
Is surprisingly hard
When I’m already perfect
And don’t know it.
Heavenly decrees are needed
To transcend to what you already are.

Red purity and purple virtue
Are used to supplement the merits,
By, for instance, washing dishes,
But when the ten lords of the underworld
Execute me for too much karma
What is my … next act?

The punishment comes from heaven
But the pain occurs in hell –
So, how, again, are they not the same?
Who does all this banishing anyway?
Does anything guard Quinguang Hall?
Does it know me … at all?

Whose fault is it
When vengeance is silent,
Repentance inherently insufficient?
That’s a note to match with my heart
In the first nourishing room
Where habitual nature is cleansed.

There are those who already wear
The purple robes and golden crowns,
Who everyone admires from afar without
Ever knowing what the fuss was about,
What brought the honored escort
Not the one of endless suffering.

“Who is your master?” The lioness asks,
As the question always is, but there are
Many titles piled before God incomprehensible
And no answer that works for both
Erroneous and Pious – the better I suppose
To rectify shortcomings til time ends

In renovation underground,
The cultivation chamber,
Where the Lords of Karma
At every mistake they notice
Further tighten the wheel
Of another sentient sentence

For violations of the social norm,
Sentenced to its judgment,
Hellfire’s torture, in yet another body
Because the one that was released
Craves the endless pain so much
For daring to exist in defiance of others.

The work on what triggers is repentance;
To polish the mind there’s the flying bugs room
And the freezing-ice gate for detailed inspection
Of my meritorious deeds, and a welcoming
Goodness pavilion for punishment because
I can’t see my original being.

I may give a dollar to wash a dish
But is it ego or duty that performs?
Or is the giving formless?
My true, original nature knows all this
Unconditional benevolence, one hand
Not knowing what the other hands over.

I’ve only retained a dollop of
Heavenly instruction, only enough
To make me recognize myself
In other humans … so I can lose them.
Telepathy comes when translation fails,
When the words become impossible on purpose.

Would I do what can’t be done,
Undoom the world
Not with fear of consequence
But gratitude that I even have the chance
To cast all I am aside for the void
Because I judged all my sins to be wrong?

There are some, you can tell by their
Demeaner, people kneel down to them
And others ask them why. That’s all I get
To aspire to, as I contemplate in rooms
For rites learning, merit makeup, where I’d
Visualize 3,000 virtues and 800 fruits indeed!

The mind-favoring pagoda for false pleasure lost,
Transparent monument tower that records each
Erroneous thought, so judgment can
Be passed, on those for whom it is impossible
To reach their natural state of purity,
So easily deluded to think they can.

That’s how deep in our awareness our true nature lies
We believe our evil thoughts created hell
And heaven has the outrageous task
Of balancing, so that we must repent
With gratitude, not by spiritually-charged streams
For too many teachings turn the dharma into venom.

It is Satanic to hold one’s thoughts to oneself
And Satanic to hold to one’s own ideas with others,
For every dispute is with your inner demons
As a test of your mental stability. Before you can
Register as an immortal, the hall that leads to hell
Is the only coherent possibility.

The sincere cultivators ask at this point,
“Are there no exceptions to these seemingly strict
Rules?” But the lioness calmly enjoins them
To be humbly unsuccessful. If you can watch
Your mind, you can eliminate the human mind,
Attain the greater harmony as nothing.

At the Frequency of Mustard Weed

The grass stalks are thick as trees,

The moth flies lightly, as the breeze.

Each taper of mustard vibrates the field

On hills inundated with its yellow

To make it almost disappear

For a moment, as the vapor

Moved by wind shivers and seems 

To wipe the earth slate clean

Until the equation you remember kicks in,

The farm machinery that plied this ground,

The grasses now transcended

In golden seed.

So it is with me,

Bursting star stuff from the tar

As if its disappearance is an end,

And what has ended never gone

In spiral time recursion

Is the stop watch to align,

The ticking tails of the pinto and the mule

Sharing one vibration.

Two grackles dive and spray

Across the empty sense of play

In one frequency of thought.

A blackbird bounces 

On a branch

Like a pharaoh being rowed 

To the after-world

Its eyes reflect

But all I know

Is how to attend the flow,

The mangy trailer cat that demands

The same neck scratches

In the same hypnagogic zone

Under the chin 

As my white king at home,

Who spares me his knowledge now

And his jealousy, which will come

For no apparent reason anyway.

I sigh. The horse tail clocks 

Are no longer synchronized anyway.

The cat remembers she 

Doesn't even really know me, 

A white horse replaces a black 

At the wash bay.

The talk is of rattlesnakes

As seasonal threat, the downside

Of shade, so to speak

But birds are in their music

And the black flies manure,

Where they whirr

Temporary pockets

As random as their bites

Of whatever is white —

The pure can take it,

The discomfort, as experience,

Like old vine Zin.

The grayer among us 

Must be guided

By ice plant blooms,

Gopher holes.

There's one now, with a broken arm

From arching too harshly

From the rattler curled 

Around a tack room saddle.

Follow-Up on Vince

High Point beats Wisconsin

“The boys we’re fighting for”

The siesta is over

Bottom dogs win again

Sons are there to ignore

High Point beats Wisconsin

His face was on the poster

His hand was on the door

The siesta is over

I had to drop a dime on him

He robbed my mercy store

High Point beats Wisconsin

He was a local hero

Vodka all over the floor

The siesta is over

He'd recruited Marginado in person

The rich become the poor

High Point beats Wisconsin

The siesta is over

Clean-Up Crew for Yet Another New Year’s Eve

A few last flakes of fear

Exhale like smoke in the glare

— This weapons-grade retrograde

Disconnected the dots

Dust of the fallen world

What would otherwise

Annihilate attention

For what was never real

Must be grieved.

There’s a truth in here somewhere

Beyond the choice of the individual

To receive

The kind of experience

Souls crave

— Something outside, not just

Happening for me.

Ah but there are as many worlds

As stars

And I won’t feel so imprisoned

If I set them free

From mine

That place of terrifying

Mystery,

Where boundaries bleed.

The shuttle almost hit

A car

There was air

Then no more.

The Exploding Pass

People can talk sometimes about something besides

Themselves, what has been done to them.

They can transcend the relief of their belief

Into the clear light of disorientation:

Enoch in neon at Pismo, a blinking Speedee

Whose blue pants scramble above an archless McDonald’s

Amid the Valencias of Fillmore – so we are pinned

To moments, with memory the only permanent thing.

Sharing isn’t understanding, exactly. It’s more like looking

Through the common eyes of pain, earth school style,

At the hay stacked green in late Lemoore sun, or the careful

Regildings in the gently haunted Darling Hotel …

That’s how thankful I am, full of poppy and lupine

That something will even emerge from my mouth at times,

While other times the roadside stands are only as real as the rats

Who, despite our best efforts, will not be rehabilitated.

Some identities do not survive, it's not resolvable,

What's inside festering and has been since birth,

That wants to squeal like a pig right now. Eyes must learn

To see themselves outside, not who's looking within.

One time I lingered with my flute too long, watching two ducks

Float down Los Angeles aqueducts near dusk,

Dreaming the river lamps into the solidity of film noir

When a brain-damaged gluey gestured with a gun

As micro-turf-falcon obliged to some gang dragon master.

I was lucky I turned into Jesus when he came,

Heart impeccably radiant with such love for his being

He decided to trade my life for the small bag of weed

I sincerely released into his hand, as I did at that moment

All resistance to the world my mother spoiled, with my best friend.

Now I am a cautionary tale at Journalism schools, notorious

For fakery so miniscule readers almost wanted to believe that it was real.

Definition as it Expands

The ghostly gnats that drift in the slant sun

Like electrons in silicon, these are

My assistants, to help me understand 

The world is much larger than what I am

And what I am's more vast than anything 

I can even conceive, unless I believe 

There's no I -- just the multi where they fly

Their mandalas of the hivemind vying,

Each pulse a bristled reaction, a move

Away to where it's free, temporarily --

Energy bunches and releases like that,

In every thought the universe makes real

Though we're lucky to see even that.

More likely, it's only sovereignty 

For as far as the little I can see,

A going to war to be who we are.

"Blue Wind" at the Curve

It's the kind of wind with voices in it

All unresolved and whispering

For the fabric of resistance,

That limestone that must choose

On whether to let the water through

Or hold it at the willcall for the people.

It's much like the cops on Santiago

Blocking up the road at one

Head-on collision too many,

The one where the casualties are fatal.

Static comes off with the dust in the brush.

The horses bray like mules in the gusts

For the donkey in heat, each scent evokes

A consequence, as each bluster of breath

Turning in the blue leads somewhere,

A further avenue for deeper reflection

On illusions learned, truths overcome,

Ways of being no longer essential to the mind,

The glass sphere that takes in all of the light

But only becomes what is shadow,

The mask of clothes that become the man,

That fly like scarves now along the road.

The EZ-Go is loaded with shit and hay. 

It still rolls uphill, just so you know.

7 by Susana Thenon

"I am stretching language, breaking it, pushing to the limit all the possibilities that Spanish can offer me, even with incompatibilities.” 

Love

If I hated you

The world would not bend:

Never does the world make sane

The ones who hate.

My preference is to love you

And all catastrophizes around us:

The voices, the hands, the faces,

They all want to stone us.

Search

I caress my instinct

Embargo it

With the other dogs

I dwell

I savor the mortal

On the point of a pool noodle

Leftovers

Soon

In all you encounter

A reason more powerful

And you silent submit

Pared of a rising smile.

Your balance is rebellious,

Your being

Human,

The taste of death

Fills you

Like a city you recently left.

Resident of the Abyss

(She touched her the mans)

In the witching moon, barely.

Remembered nothing mattered

Although her shadow still races

The perimeters of night.

(...)

She tied the ache of being suffocated

To her throat and recalled

How she went to the errant hue,

Nibbling without eyes in night shades and

Heard silence purr

And the odor of time that came with her tide.

Night.

(She cut her the mans).

Unrelenting Age

Why must it never be

Our hands

That can rise, that can voice

The wound, at the stargate of thunder?

The Impossible Dwelling

Firmament of mine.

I sleep in your silence as inside a tree.

Soft salt, I will love you without end.

In yonic flower and unknown name.

Distances VII

This is the place.

There's no way out.

The air is a wall of mirrors

And the voice is detained

Before birth.

Hold the fire to your breast

Lest the cold

Be the key legatee.

The bridge is of threads

Across the abyss to the nameless:

Cross but don't look

Keep the center unvoiced 

So the eye of the void

Cannot learn your song.

-------------------------------------------------

"Yo estoy estirando el lenguaje, rompiéndolo, llevando al máximo todas las posibilidades que puede ofrecerme el español aún con incoherencias"

20-II-58
(uncollected at death)

Si te odiara,

el mundo no se inmutaría:

nunca el mundo se ensaña

con los que odian.

En cambio te amo

y todo es catástrofe alrededor:

las voces, las manos, los rostros,

todos quieren apedrearnos.

12-VI-57

(uncollected at death)

Me acaricio el instinto

y lo largo

junto a los otros perros.

Me duelo,

pruebo la muerte

con la punta del miedo.

12-VII-57

(uncollected at death)

De pronto,

en todo encuentras

una razón más poderosa

y te sometes en silencio

pero sin sonrisa.

Pierdes tu rebelde equilibrio de

ser

humano

y un gusto a cosa muerta

te puebla,

como una ciudad recientemente abandonada.

Habitante de la nada

(From "Habitante de la nada", 1959)

(ella se tocó las manos).

En la madrugada, apenas.

Recordó que nada importa

aunque su sombra siga corriendo

alrededor de la noche.

(...)

Ató la angustia a su cuello

y recordó su color equivocado.

Mordió a ciegas en la sombra y

oyó gritar al silencio.

Y aprendió a reírse

del olor a tiempo que daba su sangre.

Noche.

(ella se cortó las manos).

Edad sin tregua

(From "Edad sin tregua", 1958)

¿Por qué no han de ser nunca nuestras manos

las que se alcen, las que proclamen la voz

del asco, el advenimiento del trueno?

La morada imposible

(From "La morada imposible", 1959)

fundamento mío.

yo duermo en tu silencio como en un árbol.

suave sal te amaré sin fin.

en tu florecer y en tu nombre.

Distancias VII

(From "Distancias", 1984)

He aquí el lugar.

No hay salida.

El aire es un muro de vidrio

y la voz se detiene

antes de ser.

Cuida el fuego,

no sea que el frío

herede la llave.

Hay un puente de hilos

sobre el abismo del nombre:

crúzalo sin mirar,

callando el centro,

para que el ojo del abismo

no aprenda tu canción.

The Vertical Work

The silence of home is the stillness of God.

It does not belong here, the adamantine 

Plasma, in soaked papyrus, with the people 

Who get you as incompletely as you do.

And what of Gate 10, the solar womb, 

How does one explain, in the wirecrossing hum,

The terminal teams, the friction interactions, 

Sun blue over a city captive held?

We are all of us needy, none of us needed,

Pulling at time until it breaks in our favor,

Talk of Mexican Donuts and estrogen mares,

Ways to experience stasis as flux, flux as movement.

It's clockwork the sun, or used to be. Lately

The councils have called in from other worlds,

Many people here are not people at all, many systems

Intrinsically flawed and failing exactly for that.

Our eyes now see the purple through the cracks,

Higher dictates pulling reins, unyielding loss of

The fixed, what no longer serves, as they say,

What never really did.

It was always a day trip on bird wings away

From the blood plugged machinery, the route clean

To your heart and your sovereignty, which includes

Me tapping away at ancient ghosts, from Atlantis mist

And the past where I saw what I looked like not at all

Yet the whole world turned on every word, each thought 

I had, every vibration that shivered through.

It was always my world, mine only

Yet I was afraid of skyscrapers and all the other things

That were never really there to begin with. Those wings

Of white that cannot be an optical refraction:

It's still a game, only the ante has been raised.