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FR39
FR38
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BRENT MACLAINE
Antikleía to Odysseus in the
Underworld
- When he had prophesied,
Teirasias’ shade
- retired lordly to the halls of
Death;
- but I stood fast until my mother
stirred,
- moving to sip the black blood;
then she knew me
- and called out sorrowfully to
me:
Book XI The Odyssey
-
- This is a bitter loving —
- You whom I nourished with my
body’s milk
- now offer me the blood of
sacrifice.
-
- So many years. What news there
was of you
- brought only tears of loss and
grief — ships and lives
- splintered up and scattered by
the heartless sea.
- After a time, I was sent a
premonition
- that we would meet at my
reshaping here.
- This dark blood makes me
swoon.
- My child, dear child — why
do you grasp the air?
- Here in the porch to Erebus, I
am scarcely shape.
- You might as well attempt to
gather up a mist
- and put it in a sack. Stop, I
say, a moment.
- Stop and think of me. Conjure up
my form:
- the draping of my robe, its
embroidery,
- my plaited hair, and the colour
of my brow.
- Remember this: late in the day,
my walking
- down a stony path towards the
sea,
- my long shadow bending over
sunny rocks —
- vestige of shadow in memory
—
- that’s what I am;
that’s what you have to hold.
- This dark blood makes me
swoon.
- How does one die of loss?
- The way a stone dissolves in
sea,
- by granules, by thousands of
departures
- wave by wave and year by year.
- We mothers know departures well
—
- they are our dread —
- a daughter from her home, lovers
after love,
- babe from womb, child from room,
son from Hall,
- and husband from his country and
familiar lands.
-
- How does one die of grief?
- First of all, a slowing of the
breath,
- such that every dawning spreads
- a larger, unfamiliar light; one
grows smaller
- under its immensity. Eventually,
one loses
- interest in the daylight
altogether.
- Then a dry wind surfaces within,
- a shrinkage of the bones —
one stumbles;
- the shoulders sag. One ceases to
water
- the garden plants, and
strangers,
- who find you standing on a
promontory,
- take your arm and kindly lead
you home.
- One sits at table motionless for
hours,
- wondering why the freshly broken
bread
- is difficult to taste. The will
disintegrates,
- and the self behind the eyes
retires —
- outwardly, there is less and
less to see.
- The smallest movement must be
argued,
- until finally, one simply
forgets to breathe.
- This dark blood makes me
swoon.
- Go to your wife, your son —
and to your father
- who languishes in exile from his
home.
- He feeds the swine, prunes the
olive trees,
- and sleeps upon the ground.
-
- Remember, while you are named
Odysseus,
- I thought to call you Polyaretus
and wished for you,
- as I still do, a mother’s
wish — that you might gain,
- not a hero’s fame and
battle–plunder to excess,
- but love among your people and a
common worthiness.
- I must return.
-
-
This
dark blood makes me swoon.
Brent MacLaine teaches
modern literature, including the Literature of Atlantic Canada, at the University of
Prince Edward Island. In addition to academic articles, he is also the author of
three collections of poetry, Wind and Root (2000), These Fields Were Rivers
(2004) and Shades of Green (Acorn Press, 2008). He co-edited Landmarks in 2001 with Hugh
MacDonald. He has also written various academic articles on modern and contemporary
fiction. His next manuscript (working title: Athena Becomes a
Swallow and Other Poems Based on The Odyssey) is due for publication in October of
2009.
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