To Snatch Beauty

Well, we go from the shortness of a Haiku to the long free verse of "To Snatch Beauty." This is an interesting piece to me in couple of ways. It is an odd blend of Greek mythology and modern times. I like to call it a modern myth, but it's not a guess. No one believes what i write, so it's really just a modern tale involving old gods. And yet, in some ways, it is a myth. But you really have to read it to understand why. Suffice to say, it has to deal with beauty, and concepts of beauty.

The basic premise to "To Snatch Beauty" came about while I was laying in bed with my girlfriend at the time. We were talking and joking about my Women in Myth series, and I was complaining(only a little) about how a lot of them were retellings of myth. Though they all had a bit of originality to their premises, they were derivatives of the source text. I don't remember how it came up, or whose idea it was originally, but I do remember we were both in stitches over it. I had to write it. And though it took me awhile to do it, I finally did get it done. I can't tell you the premise now, because I feel it would ruin it. Read it and laugh. Read in and cry. Read it and groan. I hope you enjoy it. I know I did. In point of fact, I still do.


To Snatch Beauty

I'm certain you have passed her on the street,
But, then again, I doubt you would have known;
You would not have remarked upon her face
And your disregard would have been your loss.
Oh, you are interested now, you say;
My comments have intrigued your shallowness.

Why should it matter, the moment has passed
And she resides now far outside your view.
I must confess I fault you not for it
When many a greater man has done so,
And many more will see her pass along
Ere she reaches the end of her story.
But what matters that to you, I wonder,
When you know not how her story begins
And you cannot judge that of which I speak?
Alas: I cannot have you ignorant...
Her name, not that you would care, is Marie,
And once upon a time, had you seen her,
You would masturbate to the memory.
In those days, when she ne'er had a worry,
When her shallowness was matched by your own,
She had the world before her on a plate.
She could have gotten away with murder
By but batting an eyelash 'cross the corpse.
She was Epithemus' trophy wife
And would never have acknowledged me then,
For, obviously, I am not pretty
And would have clashed with her ev'ry outfit.
Necessity made us acquaintances.
She only saw things as she wanted them,
And anything that she wanted, she took.
Picture, if you will, any parking lot
With handicap spaces close to the door.
See this girl parking herself in that space
Cutting off someone for whom it was named.
This then, is the nature of her fair face,
Shallow and selfish beyond all measure.
She is no longer like that; face nor mind,
But such is the nature of crossing gods.
Picture for me once more that parking lot
And see the woman Marie just cut off.
Imagine Athena, young no longer,
Agéd by time, and frail without worship;
A powered wheelchair's her chariot now
And her mighty spear has become a cane.
See the frustration of the forgotten,
As Marie zips now into that stall
Leaving Athena to fend for her own.
Now fair Athena remembers her youth
And even more bitter now in old age
When she perceives the fleet-footed Marie
Getting away with blatant disrespect.
Now picture Athena cursing this girl.
And, finally, look upon dear Marie
As her skin dries up and great pimples form,
Her lovely figure becomes misshapen,
And her hair turns brittle and unruly
As she becomes as ugly out as in.
She does not notice this at first, you see,
For she does not feel any different.
But then, as so many vain people do,
She checks her reflection as she passes.
At first she thinks it is someone else,
Some stranger who's just beyond her shoulder,
Until she realizes there's no one there.
Her eyes meet those found in the reflection
And she knows then, it is herself she sees.
She does not know why; she does not believe,
Yet she is no longer comfortable
And her desire to continue shopping
Wanes, even as Selene wanes from the sky.
She turns to see a cop running her plates,
His pen poised over the notepad; waiting.
She attempts to flirt the ticket away,
But the officer is not attracted
And he gives her stern words as he writes it out.
She gets in and cries as never before.
She finds herself in the rear view mirror
And sees that her reflection has not changed;
That somehow the thing that she has feared most
Has claimed her as a bride unto itself.
She's used to being stared at; pointed out,
But it is the coldness of being an outcast,
Pointed to, laughed at; true degradation
That she feels within her soul has come due.
She sees beauty now from the other side,
For what else can she do but remember
And mourn that which she has seemingly lost.
She finds company, at last, with the dregs,
The only people who do not shun her,
And she is surprised by how kind they are.
The vanity wars of the fair of face,
Something that Marie reveled in before
Were hollow 'pared to this reality.
She remembers how much strife she once spread
Among these very same outcast people
With the vitriol of her ignorance.
And yet, she is the outcast among them
For she is ignorant compared to them.
They are unrefined to society
Yet their intelligence and repartee
Leave her feeling a useless idiot.
And though, no matter that the regimes fail,
She chases her lost beauty fervently.
No face masks, no creams, reclaim what was lost;
But she continues doing all those things
Because she feels prettier with shaved legs;
Pretty with only the hair on her head.
It is a selfish vanity, you see.
It is a ritual and reminder
Of the beauty she once believed her due.
I met her in this time of emptiness;
I saw her wallowing in the unknown
Sitting alone, cursed and oblivious.
It was I, alone, who could bear her pain,
For I well know the wage of the ugly.
There are few people as ugly as I,
Few who have faced the wrath of a goddess,
And all of them have earned it in some way.
Beauty may be skin deep, as the line goes,
But one may say profane, and still be true.
Was as foul for company as a face,
A sad thing that changed slowly over time
Of which none but I e'en cared to perceive.
It was such a sad thing to watch happen;
To know she still struggled with vanity,
Hoping to win a battle already lost.
How long she did follow beauty's pretense,
I will never be able to tell you,
But eventually she ceased to care.
People only had eyes to stare at her
When they'd perceive ugliness and rejoice
That they, themselves, had been spared of that fate.
Poor Marie; for not even the ugly
Could stomach seeing her hideousness:
It is no wonder that she ceased to care.
She let herself become lax to beauty;
Stopped trying to cover her wretchedness,
And adopted herself a fresh facade,
For she could not bear the ignominy
Of the memories of her long lost past.
She was not then learnéd as she is now,
For it was alone an empty facade
And the baseness that burdened her soul
Was not shed by turning one brazen key.
Nor was she aware what really had changed
When people began talking to her more;
Looking just a little longer each day.
And she was ever aware of their eyes,
For she had been so admired in the past
That she could not help but notice it now.
So she listened again to vanity;
Returned to her empty, lonely regimes
And lost everything she'd just regained.
I cannot tell you how strong her sorrow,
How heavy the tears fell from her red eyes
With each wracking sob that I would cradle.
Of course, did not know then what I do now,
And I could not have told her had I known
For she would not have believed it was true;
That dark realization was hers alone.
But she was lost and confused by rough fate,
And she knew not what was supposed to do.
She did not understand the potential
That was waiting behind the facade;
Far bigger and better; and still unknown.
And no matter how I might wish to aid,
The full truth was wrong for the moment
And would have but built 'pon the mask she wore.
She became so bitter then, so alone;
Despondent and removed from ev'rything.
She could not bear herself; her ugliness,
Nor would she accept her bold ignorance,
As turned to vanity's publications.
She covered all the mirrors; closed the shades,
And hid behind all those cheap magazines
Trying to remember what beauty was;
Searching for a truth that eluded her.
She'd not e'en see me in her depression;
Me, uglier than she could ever be,
Could not offer her my consolations.
And those beautiful magazine faces,
Faces which once served her perception's needs,
Brought only tears and broken memories,
As they dejected and rejected her.
She had sought solace in their loose pages
And found there instead, only misery.
She closed them, then, and cast them all away
As she discovered they brought her no joy,
For they spoke only to vanity's ghost.
She remembered those who had welcomed her
And she sat there in silence marveling
At the wisdom and knowledge they carried.
She saw Aphrodite's vanity rags
And saw just how little they did contain
And knew she'd fed herself from them alone,
Leaving her as empty as she saw them.
Ignorance became her Pandora's box
As heeded at last the call of knowledge,
For Athena had not withheld her gifts
Though she had lain upon Marie this curse.
As time passes, so too, her ignorance,
As she learns skills never needed before.
She discovers someone she never knew,
Who had always been hiding behind the mask
But who had never had reason to appear.
Thoughts began to cross her mind as ne'er had;
Ideas she never cared for, discovered;
And she needed somebody to talk to.
No longer did she need people staring;
Knowledge and curiosity had won
And forced her at last to open her door.
I wonder if I can describe the sight;
The myriad contradictions perceived...
She had not seen the sun in weeks, I think,
And clearly had not bathed a single day,
But as the light that streamed in from the hall
Found her in the darkness she created,
Know I've never seen one more beautiful.
How excited she was; oblivious,
As the words flooded from out of her mouth
Craving the answers to all her questions
Yet leaving no room in which for me to speak.
Not that I could in any case, mind you:
I was still too stunned by Marie's beauty.
Was this the nature of her curse, I thought.
Did ignorance displace her vain beauty?
Had Athena seen this as just punishment?
She did not e'en notice my speechlessness
As she continued asking me questions;
Some rather inane; others quite profound.
So we sat and talked, and hours past us by,
And all the while I marveled at the change.
Not e'en the clumpy, ragged cloths she wore
Could hide the Goddess who sat beneath them.
I could not decide if I should tell her,
For this ignorance was so much better
Than the vanity with which she'd been crowned.
Was it my place to disclose this truth now?
I did not decide then; would not risk it.
I was too afraid of Athena's ire
To tell Marie the beauty she'd regained;
I left her, beautiful and unaware.
You ask me if I am jealous of her,
And I tell you no; I am in awe of her.
She lay beneath the arm of bitter curse,
But a curse bearing some means and measure;
A thing I envied far more than beauty.
There is no escape for me from this life:
I was cursed to bear the harsh scorn and hate
That the world bears for any called ugly.
If anything, envy her redemption.
Eventually, though, I did tell her.
I pulled the sheet from off of the mirror
And drew the curtains, letting the sun in.
I cannot tell you how she felt; how looked...
She had seen herself last, so hideous,
That the change she saw there in the mirror
Felt to her as did the mighty Atlas
When Hercules took the weight of the world.
I have never seen someone so excited,
And I'll never forget the tragedy
Of learning ignorance was not her curse.
She felt so dirty from hiding so long
And neglecting herself in her prison,
That with an eager bounce she went to bathe.
I remember waiting, as she had bade me,
And I'll not forget the horrible cry
When she gazed into the mirror again
And saw the base ugliness had returned.
I stayed for hours consoling Marie,
And my mind toiled over what was the cause;
Knowing there was nothing that I could do.
I covered the mirror again for her,
As she begged of me to leave her alone.
I felt so miserable then, so raw;
Feeling the ragged hole hope always leaves
When bitter disappointment is crowned king.
I felt like fate's idiot; like fate's tool;
Bringing woe where I had sought to bring peace.
And what of Marie, you ask; what of her?
She became obsessed with her ugliness.
She ever stood in front of the mirror
Watching the filthiness claim her once more
And watching her hideousness fade 'way.
She was alone, as far as I did know,
For I held myself guilty for the sin,
And could not bear to be in her presence;
E'en knowing I'd naught to do with her curse.
Months must have passed us by in that dark time,
Months of fascination; months of sorrow
Until this time she knocked upon my door.
Did not think I had heart enough for it;
I'd not forgiven myself for what I'd done,
For recalling to her, her vanity.
I saw a sin; she, though, saw salvation.
I had forced her to see herself clearly,
And though she understood not what it was,
She wanted to understand how it worked.
She did not trust her own eyes anymore,
For though she clearly saw the beauty grow,
She could not separate it from the taint;
She did not perceive where one had ended
And where the other had taken its place.
But she would dwell no longer 'neath that veil,
And appealed to scientific method
To liberate the beauty from the beast.
She, through trial and error, would test fate,
And I, as her long tenured confidante,
Would the independent observer play.
And thus, through such methods as did employ,
We discerned how it was her curse did grow.
It was not filth that had claimed her as queen,
Nor the unkempt quality of her hair
That served to summon forth her ugliness.
No; the mechanism was so sublime
That I cannot help but admire Athena;
Age had granted humour in its passing,
For the measure she called upon to curse
Spoke of wisdom, not just retribution.
What is the measure of naked beauty?
Does not the tease inspire more lust in us
Than the bare and blatant form there exposed?
Is not half the fun of being naked
Found in disrobing and being disrobed?
How, then, can we speak of Marie's beauty
When her form and figure are so measured,
Not by the length and shapeliness of limb,
But by the full breadth of her hidden hair?
Curse made her a beast of beauty's extremes;
Poised 'tween vanity's conflicting ideals
Of outward beauty and inward comfort.
What line was drawn between her conceptions
And the face chosen by Aphrodite?
Which conceit should she follow; should she hear;
For what does such sustenance serve to feed?
Selfish vanity -- or society?
There is, of course, a path through the valley
That holds to both, and yet clings to neither.
You have, in fact, passed her upon the streets.
Your first and only shallow glance at her
Told her far more of you than it did she,
For she is the epitome of plain.
You denied yourself her conversation;
Denied everything curse made her become
Because of your own poor, weak vanity.
Homeliness, like beauty, is but skin deep,
And the true measure of her worth, denied,
'Cause you could not conceive the depth of it.
She is the most beautiful girl I know;
And I should know, having been there to watch --
To see her shed hers and vanity's thoughts
And embrace the truest face of beauty.
You lost 'cause you gave Aphrodite ear.
This world needs a new goddess to call on,
For vanity's god is herself a curse;
A better measure for lust than beauty.
What has she given any but the woe
Of comparison and jealous contest?
Had fool Paris spit on Aphrodite
And gave Athena Eris' apple
Would we not have a better world to call home?
If I could call on the power of Zeus,
I would strike from Aphrodite's frail hand
The hallowed title of beauty's goddess
And confer it 'pon Marie in her stead.
But Zeus does not see Uranus' blood
As the evil titan he elsewhere slew.
No ambrosia has found home in my hand.
So the ichor that flows through Zeus' veins
Will remain outside of dear Marie's own.
You ask me why I tell you this story
And why I rage o'er what you'd cast aside?
Why argue against high divinity?
Because our heroes should not be those gods
Whose constant jealousy beleaguers us
And whose high ideals are base illusion.
I would make a goddess of dear Marie
For unlike Jason and the Golden Fleece
Whose glory is in its acquisition,
Marie's earnéd badge of divinity
Is in the beauty of her sacrifice.
She can feel pretty and ugliness claim,
Or feel ugly for outward beauty's call,
And yet... she offers sacrifice to both
When she chooses, instead, to be so plain;
Being a beautiful person instead.
And so this goddess who you would ignore
Knows better than even Aphrodite
The measure of true love and real beauty.
The fairest in nature is most ignored
And thus her place as Goddess assured
When casts aside yet claims all vanity
In the sanctity of being called plain.
Her homeliness is but the outward sign
Of the true wisdom and beauty beneath.
Jason needed the fleece, Marie grew her own
And thus is snatch, the true mark of beauty.