Water and Stone

We hold this week my series of "Women in Myth," this time returning to the Classics. "Water in Stone" is my take on Pygmalion, which has been done many times, I know. George Bernard Shaw did a wonderful adaptation in "Pygmalion" both for the stage and the screen, and which would later become the musical "My Fair Lady." I am not retelling it in that fashion, nor am I strictly telling the classical tale. In Greek Myth, the name Galetea is at once a water nymph, and later her name comes up as the statue that Pygmalion carves. Below is my merger of those tales, told mostly from Galetea's point of view, with the only addition by me to the myth being the bridge between the two different Galetea myths. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Edited 4/19/15 small edits to lines and the ending. Some struck stanzas, and some added.

Water and Stone

Many nymphs o’er Gaea’s fair bosom roam,

Spry-full babes of high Olympian youth;

Those beautiful daughters of divine birth

Who do fairer mortals bait for love and mirth.

Of Ocean’s fair kin this story begins;

Of Nereids and Aphrodite’s foam.

One daughter of Nereus birthed this tale,

A fair nymph who was Galatea known,

The playful sea-maiden of shapely limb

Whose baited breath spoke Nereus’ hymn:

The fair, blue-eyed lover of mirth and joy

Who for laughter, did Cyclops' love hail.

Hight Polythemus, Ouranos’ seed,

Forger of great Zeus’ fiery bolts;

Fierce Cyclopean mountain and as strong

Who sang in harmony what lovers do long.

The homely beast stared over the sea;

One-eyed monster whose heart for love would bleed.

What face should urge his Cyclopean heart

But that selfsame sensual sea-maiden

Against which all bold defenses were disarmed.

He was, as even Zeus, by her becharmed

And though ferocity battled love within,

His bold passion for her did ne'er depart.

How could he not but love her soothing voice

Though she should taunt him with her Pan-like games.

When even apples from her hand down rained;

A flirter’s game where love, above all, is feigned,

He could not but chase her unto the sea,

For passion’s pull did lend no other choice.

Yet nymph would never Polythemus woe,

For she was by other moonlit tides pulled.

She pined instead for high king’s son, Acis

Who did revel that love should grant him this.

Thus Galatea did such Cyclops spurn

When she turned at last to the love she'd know.

But Polythemus own' love bore true.

And he turned with his unbridled rage

'Pon such form as the Nereid’s love did take.

Acis beneath jealous fury did break,

To the bristling pulse of hot passion’s blood:

And the jealous hand that sought only rue.

But Nereus to Galatea saw

And turned her mortal love to river-god,

That the nymph with her lover might remain.

No more did the princely Acis lay slain

And could now wholly with each other be,

As springs will flow and merge with winter's thaw.

Yet slighted lover could no peace enjoy,

Knowing as he did where his love did lay

Far 'way where there was naught that he could do.

So Cyclops did pray his father to pursue;

To punish whom, his baited heart, had torn;

The new-made god and his lover, most coy.

High Poseidon did grant his son this boon

And turned his seaweed eye ‘pon the fairer nymph

To trap free-flowing sea nymph in stone.

From Acis’ love was she cast alone,

Locked in ridged marble, Galatea,

Where could not feel the tidal pulls of the moon.

For how many years was she trapped from sight,

Locked, immobile, in that formless stone

An atrophied body, still free of mind;

Sea-maiden to isolation resigned.

How marks the time with neither light nor sound

Hidden away in a permanant night.

What thought she then, the coming of the Greeks,

Chisels warming to the hard hammer’s blow

Striking now great blocks from old mountain’s side.

Was it freedom that those blows would confide?

They pulled her formless form from mountain steep

She was still yet stone from those stony peaks

Taken to mighty Cyprus, those marble blocks,

Before such hands as eager chisels bore

To carve, for priests, the likeness of their God

In the hope that their fair blessings might laud.

Came they, these marble blocks, unto market

Where sculptor’s hands were tempted from their walks.

And one such sculptor unto market came,

A youthful man whose skilled hands well crafted;

Who from stone wrought forms most lifelike

And who, of women, held a great dislike.

Bore he art over marriage and maiden,

This man of Cyprus with Pygmalion’s name.

Went he unto where the high marble stood,

A man who sought naught of the blocks but see

Until his eyes found whence the nymph was bound.

Knew he in that moment what he had found;

That from this block would carve his greatest work;

And the future would know him, as it should.

Took he with eager step the marble home

Where trepidation stayed his knowing hand.

In quiet contemplation he caressed

The work worn handles that the muse once blessed.

His mind’s eye clearly saw what matter known,

That hands must carve where heart would never roam.

Then Galatea felt his touch upon...

How grand a change from workman’s courser tools,

To such loving skill of a craftsman’s touch.

How passion for the art welled so much

Within the form of hatred’s tempered man;

First companion since Godly wrath had drawn.

So long was nymph so formlessly there kept;

How great the rapture to once again bear

Arms and legs, even as so roughly hewn;

With wasted marble all around her strewn.

What warmth spread within her mind’s breast,

Such gratitude she would fresh tears have wept.

How spent he the hours labouring o’er her,

So focused was he ‘pon unbidden muse

That food lay neglected, though near at hand.

So driven was he by chisel and sand

That worked fervently ‘neath sun and moon,

The artist’s passion had ne'er been so pure.

Single mindedly Pygmalion worked,

And as her naked form from block exposed;

As he shaped the nymphs fingers, breasts and thighs;

Grew he to no longer women despise.

He found, as steadily fair nymph emerged,

His loathing blurred with the love he once shirked.

And there Galatea still wrapped in stone

Felt sculptor’s loathing of the naked form

Join the growing rubble beneath her feet.

Whenever fingers ‘pon her flesh did meet,

Flowed tingles as only a lover knows;

A glowing heart that no real love had known.

What tender touch Pygmalion there laid,

As he with beach’s sand softened her gaze

And made smooth where naked Nereid stand.

What tempered mind guided perfection’s hand

To lend luster to whom in stone entombed;

A maiden’s form; a godly debt re-paid.

Henceforth fair she stood in alabaster white,

A sea maiden yet trapped in marble’s stone;

The naked form as nymph had bourn in life.

Had she learned true love from sea god’s strife?

The pallid stone could lend no mortal blush

But deep within, the marble was glowing bright.

And the man who hated women no more,

Stepped back when rags had lend her all their blush,

To gaze on such beauty as was ne'er seen.

It went far deeper than the polished sheen,

And Pygmalion’s heart burst forth from stone,

For a love that ne'er existed before.

Yet how sad was his most longing caress;

Warm fingers on Galatea’s cold stone;

To know, somehow, his heart was forthwith bound.

Love from hate, for a statue had found,

Lifeless and unyielding marble made home...

Did the gods curse him? Did the goddess bless?

He bought the fairest gifts that he could find:

The finest of robes in the purest of white,

And clothed his naked alabaster bride.

So far within, the nymph could not confide,

Such joy as wrought these gifts, when clothed her form,

And wished she could comfort his tortured mind.

He brought forth robes of deep emotions hue,

Of the sadness born of her lifeless kiss;

And the unrequited love found in stone.

And how she burned over such passion shown,

And wished with all of her marble-cast soul,

To give, as she could not, and end the rue.

His passion, even with his sadness grew,

With the whispers of lovers and of loss:

The blooms of narcissus, dear Echo’s bane;

Bold hyacinth, made of blood from gods, vain;

Fair windflower, Goddess’ love – death grown:

All love’s fair flowers; all grown of loss too.

Then he lay the statue with him in bed

Staring, pining, into her sightless gaze

What agony such unfulfilled embrace.

Yet she looked on, through lifeless eyes, his face.

And wished, like him, that there was life in limb;

That the veins there within marble, ran red.

And Galatea yearned to let him know

That there was a nymph inside this stone

That burned for him, e'en as he burned for she.

Was there no god who could hear their plea,

Or was this Posiedon's continued curse

To watch a lover as love lost its glow.

How long can e'en the ardent love survive

When what is offered effects no return

And no grace be found from a statue's lips.

What else but melancholy therein slips

For a broken heart that can bear no longer

The unrequited that made him alive?

Pygmalion reached forth one final hand

To touch with more sadness than could be bourne

And caress his lover’s still, marble face.

He could no longer her stone statue chase,

For there was no chase, just a foolish run

At a boulder that was ne'er more than land

Then Pygmalion left, wretched; alone;

Off to Aphrodite’s fairest home:

Unto fair Cyprus from whence she first came.

There, during the festival of her name

Gathered the hopeful lovers to offer

And please; that her blessing might be shown.

Not so joyous Pygmalion's gait

As laid before Aphrodite’s alter

His wish for a wife as e'en his hands made.

Yet she saw after his respects were paid

That no stranger, nor devoted love came;

And flared the altar’s flame, to seal his fate.

None could say how Aphrodite might bless,

But Pygmalion knew that love would come

And ease the sadness enshrouding his heart.

All he knew was that he had done his part,

And that the Goddess accepted his plea

To end his new-born lover's heart's duress

Yet his love for the statue had not fled,

Though he thought he had said his last goodbye,

He could not but gaze at her and love still.

His hand reached forward out of concious will

To trace the line of Galatea’s cheek,

To find flesh follow where his fingers led.

He knew his hope now played a fearful ruse

And turned aside lest reason lost all hold

To the heat that seemed to rise at his touch.

Twas illusion and he knew it as such,

And yet his mind was not so easy turned;

His heart still longed to kiss his marble muse

Meanwhile, how Galatea raged inside!

How rapid now beat Galatea's soul!

Had felt his touch as skin upon her skin!

What hope filled pulse did crash as wave-born din

As fought against immovable stone

And her love that stood on the other side.

How tempted eager heart Pygmalion’s mind:

How oft had he offered such sweet caresses

To find only the chill of pallid stone.

Twas different, and his fingers should have known

For they had chiseled, sanded and polished,

But ne'er had it wrought a warmth of that kind

Pygmalion unto himself now lost,

And brought his hand once more unto her face

To test his open heart and prove his mind.

But it was love that his hand there did find,

As the marble flushed 'neath his careful touch

And caution to the western wind was tossed.

As tentative as any lover could,

Pygmalion drew himself up and kissed

Such lips as he knew better than his own.

These lips were not his well remembered stone;

As they returned to him all her passion,

But not all the love that they ever would.

And life’s blood’s heat through Galatea spread,

The granted gift of maiden’s form returned,

That coursed from lips unto her every limb.

The stone melted to her, and her to him,

Wrapping at long last, and then longer still,

For the myth lives: their love cannot be dead.

Valkyr's Price

And now for something completely different!

This week I'm gonna step away from the shorter stuff, and in someways, step away from love. We are going to journey back into my "Women in Myth" series with Valkyr's Price, one of my favorite and most personally influential pieces. "Valkyr's Price" was written shortly after I had moved to Telluride, during my first winter there, and while I don't necessarily draw much from our physical world when I write, I do remember taking a hike to the frozen Bridal Veil Falls. In the middle of winter, staring at the blue veined ice, I tried to absorb the spirit of the Norse; of the fridged north they hailed from. Winter doesn't play much of a role in "Valkyr's Price" but I like to believe that some of that energy found it's way in, anyway.

I was already beginning to dig deeper in to myth, and in particular at the time of this piece, into Norse mythology. I had begun with summaries of the mythology. These annoyed me. I never felt as if they were giving me enough. So I went out and found good translations of the Eddas, searching eagerly for the things I thought were missing from the retellings. Turns out, the Eddas didn't have the information either. But one thing the translations had over the retellings lies in the skaldic verse itself. The structure of the Norse tales, and of kennings intrigued me. There was a richness to them that the prose retellings left out. Artistic licence is one thing, but I wasn't looking for modern art; I wanted ancient myth. I wanted the original meat and bones, or at least as close as I could, before I would develope my own ideas. I found the myths, found the spirit, and now I wanted to play.

Within the Eddas, there are three tales of Helgi and Sigrun; all the same, and all different. I loved the stories, and so when I retold it in "Valkyr's Price" I tried to blend all three together, and at the same time, I wanted to detail a little more about the Valkyrie. "Valkyr's Price" is, in the end for me, a tale about the price of love, and how high a cost love can be for a Valkyrie. I like to believe I kept true to the original tales, to my sources and to the spirit of the Norse; that my modern interest in the cost to Sigrun only adds to the mythological whole. I hope you enjoy this excursion into olden lands, in a style, not strictly skaldic, but close in energy.


Valkyr's Price

From Valhalla begets our tale,
The hall of Odin, Allfather
Whence Sigrún the Valkyr dost hail,
The hall of Odin, Allfather.

Baci n. 07

So, I'm sure anyone who knows me, knows that I'm hopelessly in love with the idea of being hopelessly in love. When I write, especially when I write of love, I work under one of two presumptions. First; am I writing how I feel, personally? or Second; am I writing for someone else? Depending on which of these takes hold, what I write may take a different point of view, and it need not always express my point of view specifically...

Which leads us to this piece. "Baci n. 07" was written for, as I mentioned elsewhere, all the beautiful Christian ladies in my life. It might surprise some of my friends to know that I, in fact, have many. It might surprise both groups in question with just how highly I regard them. That being said, "Baci n. 07" was written because it was a sentiment I thought they would find beautiful. It literally was written for them. I find it beautiful, too, but understanding my perspective is an article for a far different discussion, and most of the beautiful Christian ladies in question have been party (self-inflicted torture on their part, I assure you) to that discussion. I hope Christians in general will like, and even the general populace, but I'd be happy if it is only the aforementioned ladies who enjoy it.

Conversly, I'll be very sad if no one does.

Anyway... I've known for a long time what the premise to this one would be, but I never could figure out how to bring it to life. I'm glad I was finally able to.

Baci n. 07
"Til I loved, I did not live enough."
E. Dickinson

I always thought I was living my life,
That I, by carpe diem, was defined,
That I sucked all the marrow from life's bones.
Believed I was living the envious dream,
Free from all constraint and every care;
Unquestioned hero of a life well lived.

I saw around the world how others lived
As I followed the path of a rover's life,
Loving with a ne'er-do-well's thoughtless care.
I believed I was by freedom defined
And never imagined another dream
Would leave my own empty but for the bones.

See; she changed me, to the core of my bones;
Changed how I saw the life that I had lived;
Replaced it with a more infinite dream.
She lived a very diff'rent kind of life,
Driven by a diff'rent and greater care,
Step for step the same, but by God defined.

I'd never questioned how I was defined
Until I saw my life as skin and bones;
A soulless traveler of selfish care.
I told you that I thought that I had lived
Not realizing it was an empty life
Because I did not believe in God's dream.

This woman awakened me from my dream
And shared with me how her life was defined;
How Jesus Christ had given her, her life.
How I loved her, this stupid sack of bones,
How love made me question how I lived
And how much I had never thought to care.

She changed all of that, and now I do care.
Through love I found my faith; through love a dream,
And see that I have never my life lived.
The road by her love and God's will defined
Has given spirit'al flesh to these bones
And given me a higher call to life.

I lived a sad life with never a care
Beyond these old bones. Now she's changed my dream
And God's re-defined how my life is lived

Love is Broken Promises

It's funny how so many of my favorite pieces stem from the same bad memory; the worst because it lives with some of the best. I cannot even call it a regret; I still miss the visage and person who wrought such damage, and I sometimes wonder if I can forgive myself for the stupidity; for my choice to ignore what I knew better, for the sake of a love that I, even now, feel in my heart. There is something inescapable about it; healed as it may be, it has still left its mark. I turn around again and wonder if there is even anything to forgive.

I learned much about myself, much about love, and part of me pines for my heart before the breaking. I know I will never be so innocent, and I fear that I'll never have the courage again to open up so far. It's a grand contradiction, I think. I want, but I am afraid. And I cannot help but wonder if the unattainable interests that have risen since then, who, unlike the one who wounded are still friends, have been adored for their unattainability. It isn't really a risk if there is no hope of catching it. The scar cannot rip open again if there is nothing to snag it upon; no claw to tear it.

And yet, how much; how greatly do I wish to risk it again; to feel that way again. Why am I so afraid of it, and why do I want it so much? In the end, I think, it is a testament to hope which landed me in this place to begin with. It is hope fueled by the memory; for the love and passion was real, at least for me. And though I want to feel that way again, I wonder if I have been favouring my heart as one favours a broken leg. Have I become dependent upon a crutch because I think it is too painful to trust my heart with the weight of love? Perhaps I have not met the person who can give me the strength to challenge the fear. Perhaps I have not become aware of her, but I know that I have not challenged it. Has the crutch become an excuse? Have I abandoned opportunity for fear? Have the broken promises of love's fantasy left a kryptonite shard in my heart?


Love is Broken Promises

When first I came upon the mystery
I was amazed at what had given rise
To awaken my then innocent heart.
It was a sugar coated fantasy,
Crafted by stories and other such dreams
That let me, in love's false pathos, believe.

How could I not in such beauty believe?
How could I not chase love’s great mystery,
Filled as I was with such visions and dreams?
And was it lust or love given leave to rise
With my mind safe in banal fantasy
And ignorant to the depths of her heart.

So I gave and gave with all of my 'heart'
Guided by the fables I did then believe
Of the chivalry found in fantasy.
Did sacrifice there unto mystery,
The so-called passion that within did rise
This eager innocent chasing his dreams.

The wry myth of love took away my dreams
And robbed the treasure I kept in my heart
When passion's fabled dragon failed to rise.
Another's cunning led me to believe
In love’s grand and noble mystery;
A thief who well abused my fantasy.

So I learned of love and of fantasy,
Though my disbelief did maintain those dreams:
Her empty promises; my mystery.
Why did I follow with all of my heart
Those empty promises that I believed,
That led but to woe as love failed to rise.

Never more is love given leave to rise
For I know now true love's a fantasy
Born of the lies in which I did believe.
Love only lives within my veiléd dreams
For the scars left on my broken heart
Are too weak to survive false mystery.

Curse the mystery that fights still to rise;
Why does a heart bleeding false fantasy
Whisper of dreams I fear more to believe?

Stranger Echoes

So I was struck again by the thought that, though there are so many people in the world, no matter where we go, we find people who remind us of someone else. I know this is not a new thought but it is a thought that strikes my heart and mind alike. I think the thing I find most fascinating about it is how little it matters to us to meet the person who resembles our distant friend. We sit and marvel and dwell in our memories. We look at this stranger who has pulled so strongly on our thoughts, and we wish the conjoured illusion was real; that the mirage was a true oasis. This nameless stranger sits, content in there own little world, unaware of what they have wrought in ours.

It is an ache; and as we think about this other person, we say; "I should really call so-and-so." And then, of course, 90% of the time we do not. We are too busy. We are too distracted by our moment in time, that we allow it to slide away. But even though the thought has vanished, the ache awoken in our heart by this stranger for our forgotten friend remains. There is no patch for it, no cure. It is something that can only be fulfilled by the person in question.

The piece that follows was written in an airport, as I was struck by the thought, though this post is inspired by another person and another memory in another place. The essence of it remains, and I ask of you, my friends, the next time this thought strikes you; do not allow it to slip away. Call upon this forgotten friend in the name of a vague, yet familiar stranger.


Life is echoes
Faces like memories
Alike
Yet bold distortions
Visions that tease a tempered mind
Made feverish by hope.
Voices pass on a wind,
Tones and words
Ghosts of friends left behind
That ask us to recall them.
We're presented a sea
Of vague yet familiar faces
That push and prod
Our memories of the past
And make us wonder
What if...
Was that...
Until the echo fades
And we see,
And doubt takes hold.
Then, the echoes fade,
The strangers pass on
Forgotten,
Gone with the face of a
Friend
Whom we have never met.
We do not even say goodbye
As memory's replaced
By the harsh reality;
We are alone.
The moments tick by,
Seconds pass
Our gaze wanders
Til
Eyes meet
And through their eyes
We see
We are
A vague yet familiar stranger

Baci n.03

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a hopeless romantic, and although everyone knows it, I don't think anyone really knows how deep a vein it is. In truth, though, I don't really know how anyone sees me, but if they had to listen to everything that my mind conjures, I am sure they would be sick of me too. This hopeless romanticism finds its greatest escape in the tracings left by my pen, and the digital marks left upon my keyboard here for all to see. I am rather obsessed with love. That being said, let it also stand that it is not only romantic love that catches my interest.

There are so many layers, levels and planes and I try to explore them all. I have stated before that writing is a lonely business, so I suppose that is one reason love has its fascination for me. I spend so much time in my one worlds, and so often as a casual observer in the real one, that I have become rather detached. This is the Ouroboros; my fascination begets itself. Desire finds an expression that breeds its own loneliness.

Yet even though there I am so often cut off, and by my own doing, every once in a while, a person comes along who pulls me out my introspective revelry and into a world of pure joy. Every once in a while, true love enters my life. I'll admit that more often these days, it has been love of an unattainable kind, but I have never let that block the friendship(another kind of love) that grew, even if romance never did. But because I felt the love; because it moved within my soul, my life was changed, and I am forever grateful for it. Below is another Baci sestina, and yes, I know it's corney; but for all that, it is also true.


Baci n. 03
"To love a person is to learn the song that is in their heart.”
Anonimo

I always thought my song a quiet one
That all the melodies and minor keys
Were desire's fair echoes upon my soul.
I found much beauty in those subtle hues,
And so, too, I thought them the sound of love--
For, whate'er else could be so beautiful?

Twas then I found something more beautiful
And honestly believed she was the one
As my whole world moved to the sounds of love.
Were locks I never knew til found the keys
That opened up my eyes to warmer hues
I never thought could hold within my soul.

And your song was so warm; so full of soul,
Was no wonder I found you beautiful,
Bathed as you were in a good life's hues.
Can true love ever belong to just one?
Are there really only so many locks and keys
Or has life given us its all to love?

You carry in your heart a song of love
That changed fore'er the one within my soul;
You enlightened through those vibrant keys.
I know now my song was not beautiful;
Too somber to be loved by any one
Until gained from you such passionate hues.

And though I see now, life, through warmer hues,
Tis only 'cause the mark left by your love
That pulled this noble life from a poor one.
Though you were not as partner to my soul,
The time that we shared was so beautiful;
We've diff'rent locks now, seek different keys.

You're off to strike diff'rent chords now, in new keys
To share with all the world, your love's hues
By making other's music beautiful.
She's gone now, and took a piece of my love,
Though she left me with a piece of her soul
A whole man stands now where once was no one.

Not the only one; not the only keys,
Just my fav'rite soul. She altered my hues,
And music's love; now I'm beautiful.