Justice Is An Egg

After the Roman deities swallowed the Greeks who came before,
only to find themselves swallowed by the Crucified God in turn…

After Olympus finally fell into disrepair and myth…

Athena—now shacked up with the last remaining Vestal
snuck one night into the clubfoot god’s cobwebbed smithy.
Found and filched the tool she sought.

Standing over her father’s bed, she matched her breathing to his rattling chest.
Thought: “his hand looks small without lightning in his fist.”
Then: “can’t make an omelet without—”

And brought the hammer—cracking


When I lived in Nashville–on Parthenon Way, no less, meaning the first thing I saw on my drive to work each morning was the recreated temple–the 42ft Athena statue therein had not yet been painted *quite* so gold.

On me and my mythologies: 

I have been writing and rewriting my own versions of Greek mythology for as long as I can remember. Ever since my mother told me bedtime stories cribbed [and heavily sanitized!] from her dog-eared copy of Bulfinch’s.

Continue reading “Justice Is An Egg”

Eurydice Descending a Staircase

Striking how in myth, it’s always accidents
sending women to hell,
keeping them there:

Persephone waiting to go home with her momma til
whoops no, forgot to read the fine print
’bout don’t eat no Underworld food and suddenly
her juice-stained mouth means no escape from Hades for you
young lady,

Eurydice partying at her wedding, steps on a snake —
ne’rmind the groom with his honey-on-fire voice that lulls every beast,
even gonna put Hades’ three-headed guard dog down for a nap
but can’t stop one punkass garden viper.
Too busy showing off for his future father-in-law maybe
(god of music and prophecy give it up for Apollo!)
to think of snakes.

Don’t get me started on that other colossal fuckup as he’s leading her out,
turn around too soon and whoops there goes the wife
back down unto death.

When does an accident beggar the accidental.
Am I really ‘spose to believe that Little Miss My-Other-Name-Is-Snake-Goddess
couldn’t notice one small fanged tendril coiling up her ankle
as she and her nymphs pounded through their vegetable dance?

The true Eleusinian mystery:
what do Eurydice and Persephone whisper to each other
sitting in hell’s stony corners

eating pomegranates.



[Featured image: Nude descending a staircase, Marcel Duchamp.]

This marble column, gleaming

[CN: mental illness, self-injury]

Say, is my speech or wild and erring now,
Or doth its arrow cleave the mark indeed?
They called me once, The prophetess of lies,
The wandering hag, the pest of every door—
Attest ye now, She knows in very sooth
The house’s curse, the storied infamy.
— Aeschylus, Agamemnon

“Between killing and dying, there’s a third way: Live.”
— Christa Wolf , Kassandra

cassandra_by maxklinger
Bust of Cassandra. Max Klinger, c. 1895, Hamburger Kunsthalle (via)

Long before I designed my own undergraduate major around the literature of Greek mythology or wrote my senior thesis on modern adaptations of ancient Greek plays, I was obsessed with the characters. Even before the obligatory grade school units on mythology, complete with afternoon trips to the library where we all colored in our own mimeographed faces of the Olympic gods, I knew all their names and backstories.

I had grown up with them, you see. To me, Greek heroes and gods were the stuff of bedtime stories.

My mother, who had herself majored in classics and kept a copy of Winnie Ille Pu (the Latin translation of A.A. Milne’s classic) on her bedside table, pulled myths from her memories every time I pleaded “tell me a story, mom, please make me a story, make it a good one.” These tales felt like place-markers for invention, filled with lacunae where our own stories could take root. In time I came to know for myself the source materials she drew from — and realized how even the ancients manipulated myth-telling for their own creative purposes.

I haven’t read Aeschylus or Euripedes in decades now. Nor Homer, Plato, or Sophocles. My memories are become gentler, names and details mere flotsam in the wine-dark sea of my mind.

I like it this way. All the easier to tell you stories of my own.

• α • ω •

Remembering details…

In ancient Greek theater, the chorus member played not a man but an everyman. He played every Everyman. He hid his own face behind a stylized mask that bore the same expression as every other chorus member, so that collectively they formed a herd. A populace. Defined by this mask, this shell of anonymity, the chorus provided a foil against which the brilliance and hubris of the tragic hero shone.

The hero himself was forged from the divine. Fathered by a god, guarded by nymphs, taunted by the cruel Fates spinning at their wheel. Even his inevitable fall through pride could not diminish such grace. After death, a hero’s body was often flung into the stars, where his face gleams still today in the winking pinpricks of our constellations.

We all know how such tragic myths go. The hero gets the girl, the glory, and finally the agony. The chorus gets not even its own face.

Just a paycheck. It’s steady work, after all, being Chorus Member #4. All you have to do is memorize the same lines as everyone else.

And never let your mask slip.  Continue reading “This marble column, gleaming”

Athena Talks to Her Therapist about Zeus


Athena Talks to Her Therapist about Zeus

To hear my father tell it

I am his idea made
The continuation of a thought he is still having.

He introduces me with an arm tight around my shoulders
and a tone that says
Behold this laurel I have grown.

Perhaps I should be grateful
he never sees me as a woman.
Not the way he sees other women as women.

Which is to say: as girls.

Which is to say: as barely more / rarely more
than cows
or slot machines.

I lay down with my own snatched mortal
an awestruck youth tender and bruisable as an olive.

As I ran my tongue along his sinewed curves

I prayed for the vulgar piercing
to cancel out my virgin goddess destiny

my father’s daughter’s never-to-be-touched destiny

and rode my mount until the heat of our bodies
rose thick and pungent
as charry smoke from any sacrificial offal.

In their own fear
the Muses never include this part of the story.


[Image via]

Cassandra Smokes in Bed

[I decided to stick with the theme of modern mythic retellings for a bit. Further thoughts on Cassandra after the jump.]

cassandra_le dormeur by picasso
Pablo Picasso. “The Sleeper.” Provincial Museum of Fine Arts. Málaga.

Cassandra Smokes in Bed

Beside me, limbs tangled in the purple sheets,
Agamemnon sleeps.
His naked back rises and falls gently in slumber
and in no way resembles the bludgeoned calf
I already see him become.

He thinks thrusting into another king’s daughter
will purge him of the memories: his own child on the altar,
the plunge of the blade in his hand.
When he shuddered between my thighs,
I felt her butchered screams pass into me.

I will make room for her amid my madness.
In these generations of death,
what difference comes of yet one more.

As the stickiness of his seed oozes out of me,
I take a long slow drag on my cigarette
and watch the smoke of a dozen burning cities
roll off its embered tip.


Continue reading “Cassandra Smokes in Bed”

Alice writes a Mythic Poem. Someone Else decides to publish it.

“Psyche Opening the Golden Box” by John William Waterhouse (1903)
“Psyche Opening the Golden Box” by John William Waterhouse (1903)

That someone else being Silver Birch Press, which–in addition to being a publishing house based in LA–also runs a poetry blog. Throughout October and November, SBP’s blog has featured poems inspired by fables, fairy tales, and mythology. (Links to some of my favorites from the series to follow.)

And now they’ve featured Telemachus’s Sister Also Waits by yours truly! (More on me truly to follow as well, below the jump.)

(Some of) My Favorite Poems from the Mythic Poetry Series

Interview with Persephone, by Stephanie Barbé Hammer
(Persephone’s “final advice” for the audience is poignant and perfect. Also: bonus points for a non-kink-related dig at 50 Shades.)

Sir Gawain Takes Out the Trash, by Fred Voss
(Who dares say there is no room left for chivalry and mighty deeds in our much-diminished world? I’m totally on Team Frank.)

Walking with Medusa, by Robin Dawn Hudechek
(I never expected to find myself longing for Medusa to find her own happy ending quite so much before.)

The Minotaur in the Labyrinth, by Melanie Knippen
(Knippen’s piece grew out of empathy and the question: “Is it the monster’s fault he’s a monster?” I want terribly badly for someone to bring her Minotaur home, to give him love and food and a yard to play in.) 

What Was the Wolf But a Woman, or When Eating Sustains More Than (a) Life, by Paula J. Lambert
(I love meditations of Little Red Riding Hood almost as much as I love meditations just on the color red. Lambert happily gives me both.)

And finally, another (far kinder) take on Penelope, by Gail Griffin. (Who also wrote a delightfully subversive glimpse into Goldilocks in Bear.) Continue reading “Alice writes a Mythic Poem. Someone Else decides to publish it.”