EURYDICE AND ORPHEUS
It was her parents, she said.
She felt sorry for them:
they were so dead.
The double vision,
visor and razor,
white and gilded mask
or severed head
floating where land
and water touch.
He shouted ‘Eurydice! Eurydice!’
down green tunnels in spring.
There have been kings like gold masks,
impassive and bearded.
I always watch them sinking,
out of sight.
Loving brushwork
supports her feet
coinciding with brushwood
and early flowers,
blue miniature irises,
the daintiest daisies,
a little premature,
low yellow tulips
carved in wood
and painted with scarlet beaks.
The shades rose boldly
as he had known they could.
It was like a fantasy of omnipotence.
They rose briefly on tiptoe,
lips parted, ears
cupped to catch the strains.
Embarrassing, that second parting.
From a dramaturgic point of view,
one farewell should be enough.
In early versions he was partnerless.
The torn-off head
sits grey as a computer, bled,
all senses and emotions shed.
Picture now
his happy ending, the firm
grasp around her wrist, his relentless
pace upwards,
forwards, then sunlight
and her surprised cry ‘My darling!
thanks for saving my life!’
and his ‘You're welcome’.
their glossy gold leaf embrace
and gentle return home,
his composing an ode
in his own honour,
‘Orpheus the Saviour’.
her body must have felt strange:
hands, unwebbed but spread
like fans, arms and legs
equipped with joints (how convenient).
She compiled a dream
about larger pores
or cells less close
together, a mesh
through which sunbeams could sift,
halfway between spirit and flesh.
You can still see his mask
among ripples and moving
seams of light
some inches under
the silk thin surface.
Wearing a funny
felt cap, he sat
in the middle with lyre and plectrum
when tapestry beasts came gambolling
and struck heraldic poses:
out of their cupboard
leapt lion and leopard
studded with precious stones
shooting crimson
and green sparks.
One year after
the last loss,
he followed a diagonal
chorus line of trees.
Each one could have been Eurydice,
simple nymph reared
on minerals and moisture
who had turned her back on him; was gone.
His mask might be mounted on a stick,
brandished like a bronze mirror.
Wild women detested him:
he disapproved of wildness,
wanted inspiration
but within limits;
everything must be just so.
Some tore heads
off mushrooms and ate.
The edge of her peplops
curled Ionically,
improbably. Linen
doesn’t move like that
though water almost does,
papyrus scrolls always,
and certain stylized petals,
of lilies perhaps.
Her body must have swayed like a coat hanger.
She was myopic and slightly anorexic.
What’s wrong here, I believe,
morally as well as aesthetically,
is her status as object
and victim, that nearly total
marble passivity, her helplessness,
dust on fingers and face.
At dusk his mouth looked blurred
as if no distinct
distichs could pass.
The moon by his disciples
was called Medusa’s Head.
She specialized in terror.
Add that he found sea anemones disturbing:
they lack decorum and grace,
billow in an obscene manner.
Orpheus never delivered
Eurydice from hell.
This is her own task,
the hardest.
she’ll decide to forgive herself
life and the desire to live.
There will be no stopping her then,
not one regretful
glance across her shoulder.
She’ll rise from her chair: emerge. |