Psyche, dear

From amidst all of the ideas I've been working on with my writing, nothing seems to compare to a simple nine line poem that I wrote in response to reading A.E. Stallings "Three Poems to Psyche" from her book of poetry, Olives. With a good dose of curiosity and a bit of a nudge from a school assignment, I did some research into the story of Psyche... and became addicted. For those of you who do not know, Psyche (who personifies the soul) is a character whose story seems to be the origin story to many of our beloved fairy tales. The bastardized form of the story is as follows:

• Psyche is lauded as a beauty that rivals Aphrodite.
• Aphrodite, as usual, becomes jealous and enacts a plan for revenge.
• Aphrodite sends her son, Cupid to ensure that Psyche falls in love with the most repulsive man possible with one of his arrows.
• Cupid instead pricks himself with his own arrow when he is distracted by Psyche's beauty.
• Cupid has Psyche housed in a castle-esque home with unseen servants and only visits her at night; giving her the one rule of being unable to look upon him.
• Psyche, after a visit from her sisters, decides to take a peek while Cupid sleeps.
• Enraptured by his beauty, Psyche forgets herself and accidentally burns him with the lamp oil, thus waking him and starting her whole quest to get him back.
• Psyche is given three tasks by Aphrodite that she must complete to win back Cupid.
• Sort out a mess of grain seed by seed (ants help her).
• Gather the hairs of a man eating goat (the river helps her).
• Travel into the underworld and borrow a pot of make-up from Persephone for Aphrodite (Cupid, in the end, must save her).
•  Zeus, in his bid to stop all of the nonsense as well as get back at Cupid for the trouble he had caused him in the past, settles the dispute by making Psyche a goddess and binding Cupid and her into marriage.

There it all is in a nut shell (some details vary from version to version), and for all of the moments I enjoy from the story, there are some hair pulling ones as well... thus my little addiction. For me there must be qualities that I both adore and loath in order for me to become fixated on a story.

"What are they," you ask? Well, herein is where I will be a bit of a brat. I've been itching for comments on this damn blog, for I crave discussion... argument... whatever you wish to call it. I will happily trade words with anyone willing to humor me and my self-proclaimed witticisms. So, let's do this. Let's discuss Psyche. And always remember that in this zoo, it is always permissible to feed the animals.

All rantings and ramblings aside, here are the Stallings poems I have so come to adore:


The Eldest Sister to Psyche

This palace, those invisible hands
That stroke the music from thin air,
Call it magic:  everywhere
The haunted rooms obey commands,
And yet it sounds like loneliness.
Yes, I’m that ugly sister, true,
You’ll say I only envy you.
The fact—I know your secret guess—
Surrendered blind to his embrace,
You dared not look.  A human voice,
You thought.   You never had a choice.
Perhaps a monster, face to face,
With scales and fangs and leathern wings.
What of the fetus that you carry?
For certain it is human?  Very?
Doubt burns like hot wax; it stings.

Doubt burns.  Like hot wax, it stings.
For certain, it is human, very.
What of the fetus that you carry,
With scales and fangs and leathern wings
Perhaps?  A monster.  Face to face,
You thought you never had a choice,
You dared not.  Look, a human voice
Surrendered blind to his.  Embrace
The fact.  I know your secret.  Guess
You’ll say I only envy you.
Yes I’m that ugly, Sister True,
And yet...  It sounds like loneliness,
The haunted rooms.  Obey commands:
Call it magic.  Everywhere,
That stroke, the music.  From thin air,
This palace, those invisible hands.


The Boatman to Psyche, on the River Styx

          “But I have one last errand for you, my poppet.” 
                              —Apuleius, The Golden Ass


Only a few have come here still alive,
Heroes seeking immortality,
Lovers who refuse to grieve.

They are found out by gravity,
How they unbalance the scow
With one foot still on the quay

And the other stepping into the prow
While evil-smelling bilge comes seeping
Up through the planks, as it is doing now.

The sorry hound is usually sleeping
(Three heads, no brain),
But his job is keeping

The inmates in.  He has no reason
To keep the living out.
All will come here in their own sweet season.

Perhaps you thought
No one would notice you among so many,
But you are not the shadow of a doubt,

You are the thing itself.  Your shiny penny
Will pay your passage, though it should be double.
You are two if you are any—

You quibble?
Aren’t you a double tug upon
The earth, and twice the trouble?

Gravid girl, you’re far gone.
I feel the quickening,
Obscene here where all frenzy is done,

Sickening,
A thing like that, a specter that looms
Out of the queasy future, ticking and ticking

Like a kind of bomb.
An x-ray developing in your chemical bath,
Your dark room.

You wonder how a blind man finds his path
Over the swamp of hate,
The river of wrath?

My eyes are ultrasound.  I echolocate
Like the pipistrelles that drop
Their slick of guano on the sloping slate—

Treacherous footing.   Here’s our stop.
So, you’re on an errand to the Queen,
To borrow her beauty like a pot of make-up.

It’s true that she has stayed just seventeen:
The sun can’t spoil her looks—
Her lips are stained with grenadine.

And here there are only stopped clocks
And no reflections.  A hint:
If she gives you a wooden box

Yea big—scarcely big enough for an infant—
Don’t open it, though you crave
A peek, a free sample.  You say you won’t,

But the living have a flair for narrative.
What if I tell you all the beauty ever worn
By loveliness was borrowed from the grave

And belongs to the unborn?


Persephone to Psyche

Come sit with me here at the bar.
Another Lethe for the bride.
You’re pregnant?  Well, of course you are!
Make that a Virgin Suicide.

Me and my man, we tried a spell,
A pharmacopeia of charms,
And yet…  When I am lonesome, well,
I rock the still-borns in my arms.

This place is dead—a real dive.
We’re past all twists, rewards and perils.
But what the hell.  We all arrive.
Here, have some pomegranate arils.

I heard an old wive’s tale above
When I was a girl with a girl’s treasure.
The story went, Soul married Love
And they conceived, and called her Pleasure.

In Anhedonia we take
Our bitters with hypnotic waters.
The dawn’s always about to break
But never does.  We dream of daughters.


I took the liberty of highlighting the key lines which grab my attention from amidst the whole, and it is many of these lines which prompted my own poem to Psyche. The tone I often hear in regards to this tale can turn a bit snarky in places due to the starts and stops within the meter scheme (I wont bore you with an explication on spondees and what not), and I have reflected that voice in my own piece. Now, I hate to play the tease, but "Psyche, dear" wont be featured in its entirety here because this is another piece that I have hopes of publishing professionally one day. What I will leave you with is the direction, and, if I'm feeling generous by the time I've gotten through typing the synopsis, I may leave you with a few lines. Anyway, my own poem to Psyche is set from the point of view of Demeter as she declines to assist Psyche (there is a point in the story where Psyche comes upon a derelict shrine and tidies it. When she is faced with a thankful deity, the selfless act is then turned into one that can be traded in for a favor--yet, Demeter refuses because she is close with Aphrodite).

The lines I semi-promised:

Oil burned and spurned Desire--
And where has your Love flown?

Comments... questions... random acts of verbiage?