Tag Archives: homer

Cassandra

Cassandra

 

 

In

spiring.

 

Breathing

you

in.

 

Filling myself up

through

spiracles

and

spinning

out

song

from the darkest

chirrup

corners

chirrup

in which

chirrup

I dwell.

 

Each word

is a spark—

an ember blown up fiery against the dark sky

 

—smoke and mirrors—

 

the slow blossom

of color

swirling through thick liquid,

 

captured in the

wobbly lens of amber memory.

 

The Words are larger than myself.

Their fire bursts forth tearing my pores,

charring my bones,

the chemical catalyst of my flesh

metamorphosed utterly

into its former self.

 

The breath of gods is inhaled only as an immolation,

and exhaled

only

as a terrible

silence.

 

The Testament of Birdsong

Evangelia   (Gospels)

The song of the Northern Cardinal:  clear slurred whistles, lowering in pitch.  Several variations.

–  Peterson’s Field Guide to Eastern Birds.

Of those mentioned, the one I am most familiar with:  what-cheer cheer cheer.

I reread the online comment again.

He’s one of the ones I haven’t heard back from.  Maybe it’s against Fr. John’s orders to attend a class reunion.

I was sure the abbreviation was something Catholic, but whether Friar or Father, I’d have to do some research.  Everyone I’d grown up with had been Catholic – except me, the outsider.  But John had been anything but religious.  John had been a baseball nut.  John had loved the Beatles.  John had drawn irreverent comic strips during homeroom.  John had been my best friend.  And a priest now?

Now was thirty years on.  I hadn’t spoken to him since after our freshman year of high school; since that summer I’d first fallen in love, and then moved away.

The poet Callimachus told of how Athena took the young Tiresias’ sight for having seen her bathing naked.  As recompense to his distraught mother, the nymph Chariclo, he was given the gift of understanding birds.

For he shall mark the wand’ring birds that fly

To right, to left, along th’ ætherial sky,

Shall read their motions, as they swiftly spring,

Observe the flight of each unprosp’rous wing,

And utter sacred truths.

(Trans. W. H. Tytler)

Augury, as it was called, could reveal the will of the gods.

After school let out that last summer, we played baseball every day, rain or shine.  If it was raining we lay sprawled across the floor in John’s basement, playing Strat-O-Matic, and listening to his older brother’s Beatles albums; otherwise, we found two more players and spent all day at the diamond behind the middle school.

Pitcher, batter, shortstop, outfielder.

Right field was out.

Hits were run out, then runners became invisible.

Outs were made by tagging the base, runner, or pitcher’s mound.

Three outs to a batter.

Players rotated through positions after each inning.

I was most comfortable in outfield, where success depended on knowing how to position yourself  precisely to where the play would be.  Just me, alone with the birds that would land between pitches to pick through the grass clippings drying in the sun.

Actus   (Acts)

On the first day of November, 1970, the retired French Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre established the Society of St. Pius X.

A former missionary in Africa, he did this at the behest of a group of French seminarians in Rome who claimed persecution for their adherence to pre-Vatican II teachings.

For doctrinal reasons the Vatican denied SSPX canonical status in the Church.

Eighteen years after its founding, Lefebvre was excommunicated for consecrating four bishops against the express orders of then Pope, John Paul II.

Three years before, as I found out, my best friend John had been ordained in Écône, Switzerland by Archbishop Lefebvre himself.

Had the Archbishop ever even seen a baseball game?

Epistola   (Epistles)

The Black-capped Chickadee’s song is a clear whistle, fee-bee-ee or fee-bee, first note higher.

Spring mornings, over and over, just beyond the shear curtains of my open window, what I heard was a child’s exaggerated uh-oh.

Second note lower, longer.

I was the oldest of two boys, as was John.  My father was a large man; I was more like my mother in temperament and build.  I was quiet when unsure of myself, a trait I learned to compensate for by being in the right place at the right time; a place I would wait, patiently, silently.

When I first saw Joan in freshman Geometry, she was confident, outgoing, effervescent, and buxom.  Whereas I was background, Joan embodied everything that was present, everything upon which the spotlight shone.

Unable to summon the confidence to speak my love, I declared it in a carefully typed note – unsigned, and slipped into her locker.  The response was ecstatic and terrifying.  Suddenly, everyone knew at once she had a secret admirer.  She wondered aloud who he was; the candidates, all upperclassmen, were tall and articulate.

I sent more notes.  Her ideals grew in stature.  And then I wrote it.  I’m not sure what I expected, but I wrote:  If you ask me to my face, I will tell you who I am.

The augur, typically a priest in Roman times, would “take the auspices,” from which we derive the words:  auspicious, favorable, and inauspicious, unfavorable.

The first century Roman historian Livy explained that augury does not predict what one should do, rather it looks for signs confirming that what one has already decided to do will be looked upon favorably by the gods.

Augury, in Roman times, was autochthonous.

Looking for signs of approval has a long history.

The House Sparrow is a non-native species introduced from the Old World.  Its voice is typically a chirrup, tschip, or philip.

An outsider.  Everywhere.

In 1983 Lefebvre sought the opinion of his priests on the consecrations he was about to perform.

Those who disagreed with him were removed from their posts.

We moved the summer after my freshman year.  I never adjusted to the new high school.  I did well academically, but friends were few and far between.

For Senior Prom I returned to my old school at the invitation of Joan when my then girlfriend  found a last minute invitation to Daytona Beach more appealing than a night of dress-up with me.  I already had the tux and Joan sewed her own dress.  John hadn’t been there.

The next morning, before the bell for first-hour English, she simply started at the front of the room and marched down each aisle:  Is it you?  Is it you?  When she finally reached me, I managed to speak loud enough to be heard over the beating of my own heart.  On hearing me answer yes, John, who sat at my left, stared before shaking his head and turning away.

When I saw Joan between classes later that day, she said she just liked me as a friend.

Being neither tall, nor articulate, I just nodded.

Another version of the myth has the adult Tiresias coming upon two snakes mating.  He strikes them with his staff.  Hera punishes him by turning him into a woman.  Years later when Lady Tiresias again comes upon two snakes she wisely leaves them be.  Hera restores his masculinity.

Later, when asked to settle an argument between her and her husband, Zeus, over who enjoys sex more, a man or a woman, Tiresias, who has experience as both, says women do.  This not being the answer Hera wants, she promptly strikes Tiresias blind.

Zeus compensates him with foresight and seven lifetimes, and, one would hope, counsels him to avoid Hera in the future wherever possible.

After supporting the Society’s missions in Missouri, Colorado, Ohio and California, Fr. John assumed the post of Prior at a mission Church in Oregon in 2005.

After school let out for the summer an ad hoc group of friends formed.  Girls and boys, we road our bikes until dark then either went home or, on most nights, settled at someones house.  We’d all head to the basement; put on LPs; listen to Donna Summer, Barry Manilow, Saturday Night Fever; then dance.

When she finally asked, I confessed I had never danced before.  The challenge just seemed to excite her and pretty soon I was stumbling around, our fingers entwined, a hand on her hip.  And when she leaned into my chest for a slow dance, the sweetness of her hair mixed with sweat made me forget to move my feet.

When it got late we’d hop on our bikes and head home.  I rode with her the extra mile to make sure she arrived safely.

I didn’t expect anything.  She let me, and I liked her company.

We were just friends.

The alarm call of the Blue Jay is a harsh slurring jeeah or jay.  The call grows more rapid with the bird’s agitation and proximity of the threat.

The staff of Tiresias and its transformative powers later came into the possession of Hermes, and in some versions, along with the two entwined snakes, became the staff of the Caduceus, the universal symbol of healing and medical practice.

Some days after we finished playing Strat-O-Matic we’d turn off all the basement lights and play hide-and-seek with our two younger brothers.

It was John who suggested we collude to rearrange the boxes packed beneath the stairs so that there was a hollow in which we could hide from our brothers.  As we’d wait in silence I’d closed my eyes and take in the smells as his mother did laundry above us.

After the initial success we supplemented the space with a blanket, flashlight and pillows enabling us to hide indefinitely.

For the SSPX, traditional mass is to be delivered in Latin.

I recall John rolling dice; setting the batter’s card alongside my pitcher; reading across, then down to determine the outcome.

Although I try, I cannot imagine John learning Latin, much less speaking it fluently.

Latae sententiae in canonical law indicates a punishment automatic upon contravention of a law.

Two weeks before the moving van, I rode with her back to her house, as I had done most every night for the past few weeks.  This time, as I turned to leave, she leaned across my handlebars and, with head back, kissed me full on the mouth.

I was at once tall, my tongue articulate.

And as I rode home alone, I was overcome with an intense feeling of love entwined with betrayal.

I wasn’t there when his mother discovered the pillows beneath the stairs.

John said she was so upset she hit him with a broom while throwing a rapid slur of Slavic syllables at him.  He said it was difficult to understand, although one word seemed to come up over and over.

In actuality, the Caduceus is the symbol of commerce, not medicine.  The mix-up being of military origin, specifically, a U.S. Army captain in 1902 who confused the Caduceus with the Rod of Asclepius when designing the insignia for medical personnel.

So go the benefits of a classical education.

The morning the moving van came I had three home runs and eleven runs batted in; and John gave me my first LP, The Beatles, more commonly known as “The White Album”.

That evening Joan and I kissed in the emptied basement and promised to call each other every day.

As an expression of his deep Catholic faith, the modern French composer Olivier Messiaen incorporated birdsong into much of his music.  He traveled extensively with his wife, transcribing the songs of exotic birds in the wild.

Messiaen’s first work, based solely on the transcription of birdsong, was a piece for flute and piano, Le merle noir (The Blackbird), 1952.

Sixteen years later an Englishman, himself on a spiritual trip to India, composed:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free

(P. McCartney)

Side 2.  Track 3.

In January of 2009 Pope Benedict XVI lifted the excommunication of all four bishops and Lefebvre.

We managed to stay in touch throughout high school, and when Joan decided where she would apply for college I applied to the same.

We resumed our relationship in college.

She married me after graduation.

I stood by silently as love faded to transparency.

A year later we divorced as friends.

et cetera

Apocalypsi   (Revelation)

I woke early this morning to an unfamiliar song on the salt breeze.  I repeat the notes and cadence to myself, committing the pattern to memory.  The song is melodious and welcoming.  A favorable sign.

After checking out of my room this afternoon, I’ll follow the birds inland, toward the Cascades, maybe stop in Eugene on my way and search for a bookstore, search for a copy of Peterson’s Western Birds.  Then, I’ll look for the right place, the right place to settle and wait.

I look to the risen sun each day, and cant:  Dum spiro spero

And translate for you, in our common tongue:  While I breathe, I hope

Proteus

I first encountered Proteus on the sands of Coney Beach, South Wales. I don’t know how old I must have been then; about five or six I guess. My mother had just lifted me onto the back of a grey donkey with a white muzzle. It was standing slightly apart from the other donkeys, and when the donkey man came over to us he seemed a little puzzled at first, as if he couldn’t place something. Of course, I didn’t notice this at the time, but my mother recalled it afterwards, and it makes sense given what then followed.

My mother paid the man his money and my donkey set off towards the far end of the beach. Once there he turned in a wide arc and started back, this time skirting the white sea edge. And then Proteus, who had been the donkey all along, dissolved and reformed. One minute I felt the saddle between my legs. The next I was lying on a heap of sand, and the donkey had disappeared.

My mother came running, but the donkey man overtook her. He seemed about to start yelling, but the words wouldn’t come. My mother picked me up and held me tightly to her; she said my name a couple of times and as she held me she just kept looking around the space where I’d fallen. There was a largish pyramid of sand, a bit bigger than I was, which I’d landed on. The donkey man started digging in its sides, with a look of utter confusion. The walls of sand started to slide down and blend with the other sand of the beach, and some of it blew away.

“Did you see what happened?” asked the donkey man. But neither of them had been looking. The donkey man started asking what had been done with his donkey, but then he stopped himself. It seems the donkey hadn’t been his to begin with: it had just appeared there next to the others, and he’d assumed it had wandered over from another beach. Now it was gone, for sure, but only I had seen it disappear.

From that day on, Proteus visited me again and again. As I grew older his ways became more subtle, his appearance unexpected, his presence only becoming apparent whenever he actually disappeared, and I was left with nothing. There was a shop in Cardiff, where I’d gone with my mother shopping, in which I spotted a fantastic submarine. It was a kind of human torpedo, not the kind people go inside but the kind divers sit on. There were three divers sitting on it. I had been searching for a special toy all day, and every toy shop had come up short, every one had been full of dull and ordinary things. But there, in that last little shop, a dim and unassuming place, I had found this fabulous looking vessel, and had taken it home proudly. It was as long as my forearm, and the divers were detachable. That evening I had played with it, and in the night I had dreamed of waking up and finding it on my bedside table and playing with it again.

It was not there, of course. There was a heap of dust on the table, and motes swirling in the sunlight that entered through the crack in the curtains, but no submarine. My mother cleaned up later, wondering where I’d managed to find so much dust, from which corner I’d scooped it up. I asked her about the submarine. Had it been a dream after all? It hadn’t been a dream, but I must have mislaid the thing somewhere.

In the beginning, I did not know who Proteus was. They used to make children study the classics, but by the time I got to school they’d stopped. I wouldn’t know about him myself, I suppose, if he hadn’t kept sliding and sneaking his way into my life and then pulling the rug out from under me. He was the rug, usually.

Proteus is a sea-god. That is why, I surmise, I first met him at Coney Beach, South Wales. He comes in from the sea, and he spends time on land, but usually returns to the sea again. Homer wrote about him. He is able to foretell the future, and reveal hidden things, but only if you can capture him. Menelaus, who was prevented from returning home from the Trojan war, captured him to find out which of the gods he had offended. Menelaus struggled but in the end he did it; when I, too, realised that I would have to capture Proteus, I learned that it wouldn’t be easy at all.

I soon learned the ways of Proteus. He would take the shape of things. It was only objects at first, at least after that first donkey ride. They were invariably things that mattered to me. I would enjoy them for a time, sometimes only fleetingly, sometimes as much as months at a time, and then Proteus would reveal himself in dissolving the object into dust and sand. Or it would simply be gone, having melted away, a new form having been taken: a new object suddenly found by chance.

There was my chopper bicycle which suddenly turned into winds and grass; there was the treasured book of stills from the animated movie version of The Lord of the Rings which, I suspect, transformed into a Kays catalogue. Once I had an Action Man with a parachute which I sent floating down from my bedroom window. He never reached the ground: he became a cloud of Red Admiral butterflies which fluttered away on the spring breeze. That was one of the obvious transformations. I saw it with my own eyes.

The first time I saw him take on human form was with Uncle Peter. I must have been twelve years old. I never used to talk to Uncle Peter much; he didn’t seem to know what to say to young nephews like me. Had I realised I had been talking with Proteus all along, I would have asked him a few things. Proteus revealed himself one day, it was the middle of summer I remember, when I’d gone over to the next village to visit my cousins. Uncle Peter had waited in the lounge while the boys were getting ready upstairs. He had asked me how the summer holidays were going, and whether I wanted a glass of lemonade. Then he had looked at me, and in his eyes I saw something of the sea, the gleam of light on the sea wave, and then he was gone. There was smoke everywhere. He had left a cigarette smouldering in the ashtray, and there was now a thick column of smoke rising up from it, drifting out through the open window. Uncle Peter had disappeared.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even call to my cousins. I just scarpered from the house, and knew that Proteus had become Uncle Peter, and the same day I heard Uncle Peter had died and that there was going to be a funeral.

Looking ahead into my teenage years, Proteus was everywhere. It seemed that anything could be him in disguise. A girl whose hand I kissed, me not being brave enough to kiss her on the lips, my first girlfriend. She had gone before the second term had ended, and while everyone in my class assumed that she had gone to another school I knew she had not, for I had seen her transform into carnival streamers that went weaving through the air in multicoloured spirals when the carnival parade passed.

I couldn’t take it any more. I knew Proteus was everywhere, and always one step ahead, so that nothing and no one could be relied on, nothing could be held onto. I read a book of classics for children, left over from my older brothers, a gift from Sunday School classes. There I read about Menelaus’ battle to capture Proteus, and how he got the sea god to tell him what he wanted by holding him down and not letting go, even though he changed form. That I could do, as long as I knew already which form Proteus had taken. That was the trick, really. For I only really knew what Proteus had become after he had moved on.

I would be ever watchful. Perhaps there would be some sign, some sign I had never noticed. I thought back. No, there was nothing, no way of knowing what Proteus had become. Then I remembered Uncle Peter. I had seen, just before his body dissolved into smoke, the colour of the sea in his eyes. That was it. I knew, then, that I had found the key, and would be ready to act the instant I saw this one sign.

I became vigilant. I studied all my toys and things, looked for some impression, some mark of the sea left upon them, and failed to find anything. It reached the point where Proteus hadn’t appeared—or disappeared, as the case may be—in weeks. I got to thinking that maybe he was prepared for me, that somehow he had got wind of my plan, and was lying low somewhere. But how could he know?

In the end I found him again where I had first encountered him, on the sands of Coney Beach. I had gone there with my father, and he had left me to play on the sand even though, in truth, I was too old for sandcastles and delving in rock pools. But he was smoking and looking over some records he had borrowed from his cousin and so I had time to kill. I went over to the rocks and dipped my hands into the silent world of the rock pools.

I caught a crab. I was a bit afraid of crabs but this was a small one. It tried to nip me but I held it with my fingers at the back of the shell and let it dangle there, opening and closing its pincers uselessly. It reminded me of the crabs I had caught, when I was little, with my brothers by my side. I looked at its eyes and when I saw the glimmer of sea green I knew I had caught Proteus.

Dad wasn’t paying attention, which was good, because he would have seen me leap down onto the sand and press the crab down in a firm hold. It struggled, it flayed about frantically trying to wriggle out of my grasp, or get hold of my fingers, but I held on with all my strength. Then it wasn’t a crab anymore. It was a dog, my dog, Tiny, her old body covered with wiry hair. She had the same sea green eyes as Uncle Peter, and I kept looking at them, because if I hadn’t I would have let her go—Tiny was getting old, and she couldn’t walk about easily, and it was hard for me to use such force against anything that looked just like her because I knew that Tiny felt pain whenever you stroked her.

I kept holding on, and Proteus’s form changed. He became a myriad things that I treasured or would treasure—my book of dinosaurs, my collection of Star Wars figures, even my school books (it was a cunning move, that, because for a second I nearly let go when I saw the words GEOGRAPHY staring up at me from the tattered exercise book), the cobbler’s last my father made to make shoes.

Proteus changed form a last time. For a splitting instant he became a house. My house. It happened so quickly that perhaps nobody saw it, or if they did they assumed, so fantastical was the sight, that they had been daydreaming, or that it was a mirage. I found myself clutching onto a white chippined wall that suddenly shot up out of the sand—I recognized which wall, too: it was the wall at the side of the house where the long grassy bank grew, the side with the landing window. I was holding onto the house and everything inside it: my room, by bed, all the things I had had since I was a baby. Then it was gone, dissolved, reformed into sand, and I was left holding nothing.

I tried to hold onto the sand but it was hopeless. It started to blow away in the sea breeze. How had Menelaus done it? But then he had been a Greek hero, and I was just a Welsh village boy.

My father came up to me at last. He held out his hand, and before I took it I looked into his eyes, as if some instinct had driven me to do so. I saw in them the same sea gleam I had been looking for all along. When I held onto his hand, as tightly as I could, I can’t say whether it was because I wanted to hold onto Proteus, or because I did not want to let my father go.

My father lived on for a little time. It seemed that Proteus found some kind of steady home in his wheezy cough and amateur opera. But in the end he went, just like the others did, dissolved, disappeared, become dust or wind or seaspray. I grew up and waited for Proteus to take the form of every single thing and person I had stored up around me, and he has not let me down.

I understand, now I am getting on a bit myself, that all this time I have been wrestling with Proteus. I didn’t always know it, in the beginning, but I have been holding on to him in one form or another all my life, sometimes without even knowing it. I have been Menelaus, and I did not fail that day on Coney Beach sands, for the battle has been going on ever since. What did Menelaus do? He held on to him until he could get the god to reveal his answer. Then he could do service to the gods, and go home. I did not realise what the myth meant by that. I do now.

I too have looked for what gods I have offended, so that I may make a last offering to them. I too am waiting for Proteus’s answer, so that I may go home. Each night I look in the mirror and into my own eyes.

I am looking for the sea gleam there.

When I see it I know my struggles will be over. Then, like Menelaus, I will be able to go home.

Poetry, January 2007-March 2010

As part of an overall site update and migration to a new host, the original published pages of Fickle Muses, January 2007 to June 2010, will become inactive in June 2015. The content linked from this page will accessible from category and archive pages (unless the content is removed at the creator’s request). The new pages should also be easier to find by search.

Volume 4:

3.28.2010—Dani Raschel Jiménez, “Cihuateotl”

3.21.2010—Taylor Graham, “The Devil and Saint Michael of the Rock”

3.14.2010—Kenneth P. Gurney, “Craftswoman” and “Wet Spot Drying”

3.7.2010—Amy Jo Huffman, “The Blood of a Believer”

2.28.2010—William L. Alton, “Persephone and her Pomegranates”

2.14.2010—Paula Kolek, “Mythology” and “There were two natures in her”

2.7.2010—Robert Arthur Reeves, “Bible Verses”

1.24.2010—John Grey, “The Usual Magic”

1.17.2010—Paul Fisher, “The Boat”

1.3.2010—Rosa Mundi, “Reunion with Obàtálá”

Volume 3:

12.27.2009—Buff Whitman-Bradley, “The Unhappy Prince—an opera”

12.13.2009—Ray Hinman, “Apollo Runs a Theater in Harlem,” “Whitman’s Ghost Takes a Tour of the City,” “Artifacts” and “The Shaman Considers His Craft”

12.6.2009—Susan Landon, “To Pharoah Cheops”

11.22.2009—Maura MacDonald, “Pandora,” “Orpheus Turns” and “Descent”

11.15.2009—Connie Vaughn, “Prometheus Unbound,” “The World and the Fall” and “Waking Up”

11.1.2009—Kathryn DeZur, “Stripped” and “Jocasta”

10.25.2009—Robert Brown, “About Hades”

10.11.2009—E. Louise Beach, “Daphne”

10.4.2009—Nicelle Davis, “Duende” and “Lotus”

9.20.2009—Sheila Kaveny, “Sisyphus”

9.13.2009—Shadwynn, “Tumbleweed Theophanies”

8.30.2009—John Manesis, “The Ascent of Icarus”

8.23.2009—Israel Wasserstein, “Conversation with Zeus,” “The Gods Play Poker” and “Stepping into the Woods”

8.9.2009—Robert Arthur Reeves, “Adam Expelled”

8.2.2009—Roberta P. Feins, “Inanna in Vegas”

7.19.2009—Alexandra Isacson, “Salem 1692”

7.12.2009—Nicola Fucigna, “Mark 8.24” and “Deconstructing Helen”

6.28.2009—J.V. Foerster, “Fairy Tales Simply Put”

6.21.2009—Barbara J. Williams, “A Tale of a Tree”

6.7.2009—Susan Koefod, “Turbulence”

5.31.2009—Donna Vorreyer, “Your Mind Wanders During the MRI” and “Reprieve”

5.17.2009—Dorie LaRue, “A Tale From Old Iona”

5.10.2009—Buff Whitman-Bradley, “The legend of unJim” and “In the myths of parrots”

4.26.2009—Sankar Roy, “Epic Lies,” “Extreme Makeover” and “Land of Lotus Eaters”

4.19.2009—Paul McCann, “Tereus in Texas”

4.5.2009—Martha Oliver-Smith, “Shrift” and “Teiresias”

3.29.2009—Charlotte Pence, “Loss and Attainment,” “Date Night” and “At Opry Mills Mall”

3.15.2009—Susan Slaviero, “Bluebeard’s Clockwork Bride” and “Briar Rose, In Cryostasis”

3.8.2009—Larry Turner, “Krishna and the Cowgirls”

2.22.2009—Sean Thomas, “Freidrich Nietzsche and the Birth of Tragedy”

2.15.2009—Kenneth Pobo, “Voice from Niflheim”

2.1.2009—Carolyn Adams, “Sweet Cybele” and “Building the God”

1.25.2009—Kathleen Kenny, “Eve Realises Her Purpose, Then Becomes Catholic”

1.11.2009—Jason Mccall, “Gioll”

1.4.2009—Stephen Bunch, “No Possum, No Aesop, No ‘Gators”

Volume 2:

12.21.2008—Donna Lewis Cowan, “Virgo”

12.14.2008—Anna Alexandra Isacson, “The Delphic Oracle”

11.30.2008—Kenneth P. Gurney, “Waiting to Cross”

11.23.2008—Annette Basalyga, “SLEEPING BEAUTY: in three acts”

11.9.2008—Kean Kaufmann, “Reverse Persephone” and “Clotho”

11.2.2008—Cynthia Belmont, “Valentine” and “Lady Godiva, Twenty Years Later”

10.19.2008—John Grey, “Underworld”

10.12.2008—Nicole Hanna, “A Poet Meets the Lost Queen of Egypt”

9.28.2008—James C. Burbank, “Cartesian Kangaroos”

9.21.2008—Jennifer Jabaily, “Not Even Wolves”

9.14.2008—Angela Maria Williams, “Waking the Beast”

9.7.2008—Alan Price, “The Minotaur Salesman”

8.31.2008—Jacqueline West, “Teenage Atlas, in the Kitchen” and “Life through a Black Net Veil”

8.17.2008—Doug Ramspeck, “Cocytus” and “Rhapsode”

8.10.2008—Romana Iorga, “Rip Van Winkle”

7.27.2008— James B. Nicola, “Ariadne”

7.20.2008—Joanne Lowery, “Rape Crisis Center: A Myth” and “Demeter’s Deal”

7.6.2008—Ki E. Russell, “Bedtime Story,” “Ivan the Sweet” and “Baba Yaga Gets a Student”

6.29.2008—Michele Madigan Somerville, “From Gods’ Mouths to My Ears”

6.15.2008—Jason Mccall, “Father to Father, Sun to Son,” “No Search Engines in Valhalla,” “Ulysses Discovers That His Son Wants to be Batman for Halloween,” “Homecoming” and “Scope”

6.8.2008—Michelle Lerner, “For Percy, a month short of her 20th birthday”

5.25.2008—Howard Camner, “The Man in the Moon for Real,” “Kismet” and “Bonus Eventus (god of happy endings)”

5.18.2008—Margarita Engle, “The Longing of Pegasus” and “Madre-de-Agua”

5.4.2008—Paul Hostovsky, “The Sneeze of Telemachos”

4.27.2008—Anca Vlasopolos, “The Eastland Daphne”

4.13.2008—Pamela L. Laskin, “Bare and Blistered” and “The Naked Emperor”

4.6.2008—Sheila Kaveny, “The Truth from Baba Yaga”

3.16.2008—Kenneth Gurney, “Glow,” “Patter” and “God”

3.9.2008—Susana Roberts, “Lethe-ward” and “Hades at Work”

2.24.2008—Donna Lewis Cowan, “Daphne & Apollo: Meditations”

2.17.2008—Eric Martin, “The Cross”

2.3.2008—Suzanne L. Frost, “Kali Puja”

1.27.2008—Gale Acuff, “Confession”

1.13.2008—Saba Siddique, “To be a goddess” and “Al Hambra”

1.6.2008—Paul Hostovsky, “Young Orpheus,” “Job” and “Pygmalion”

Volume 1:

12.23.2007—Liz Dolan, “A Kitchen Legend”

12.16.2007—Wesley Biddy, “Society of Icarus” and “Vesper”

12.2.2007—Stephen Bunch, “Five Retablos”

11.25.2007—Billie Bernard, “Little Red”

11.11.2007—Alan Morrison, “Ganymede”

11.4.2007—Jeanne Wagner, “Medusa’s Version” and “Penelope’s Song”

10.21.2007—Alex Galper, “Daring Winter Escape”

10.14.2007—John Dutterer, “The Bathtub of Proteus” and “Tantalus Sells Out”

9.30.2007—Kenneth Gurney, “Twenty-Nine July Two Thousand and …” and “Naming Names”

9.23.2007—Sherre Vernon, “Elijah Dreaming” and “Of Penelope and Calypso: ca. 1973”

9.16.2007—Joanna Sit, “On Fire”

9.2.2007—Felicia Mitchell, “Minerva at 48” and “Cerberus Revisited”

8.26.2007—Andre Monserrat, “Flotsam”

8.19.2007—Mary Langer Thompson, “School of Hard Rocks” and “Myth-Take”

8.12.2007—Wayne Crawford, “Echo Teaches Her Daughter to Sing”

7.29.2007—Annette Basalyga, “Two Wives,” “Fairy Tales,” “Blonde Burning” and “In Seclusion”

7.22.2007—Teresa Middleton, “Demeter’s Sunroom” and “Earth Mamas”

7.15.2007—Janice D. Soderling, “Centaurs” and “The Unicorn and the Rider”

7.1.2007—Doug Ramspeck, “TKE” and “Epimenides”

6.24.2007—Kenneth Gurney, “Poem for Cafe Tazza” and “Shedding Centuries”

6.17.2007—Billy Reynolds, “Rhea”

6.3.2007—Chuck Rybak, “Homer-Erotic” and “Atlas on the Stairs”

5.27.2007—Dale Harris, “Penelope”

5.20.2007—Maureen Seaton, “Venus Examines Her Breast” and “Pele”

5.13.2007—Jennifer Koiter, “Thoreau’s Last Hunt,” “Karna Waiting” and “God in the San Juans”

5.6.2007—David Wright, “The Three Graces Unite” and “After Myth”

4.29.2007—Bertha Rogers, “To Orpheus”

4.22.2007—Angela Maria Williams, “Artemis’ Rousing”

4.15.2007—Cassandra Labairon, “Hera Spies on Zeus From the Corner Booth at the Diner” and “Bodhisattva”

4.8.2007—Saba Siddique, “Ballad 2” and “Ballad 3”

4.1.2007—Carrie Cutler, “Cain’s blessing” and “Bluebeard”

3.25.2007—Cathryn McCracken, “[in the scrying bowl],” “hagging,” “Sleeping Beauty” and “Sleeping Beauty 2”

3.18.2007—Andrea Potos, “From His Ribs” and “Cinderella Gets Smart”

3.11.2007—Taylor Graham, “Daphne in the Mining Claims”

3.4.2007—Tony Zurlo, “Still Without Rhyme” and “Household Disharmony”

2.24.2007—kat heatherington, “In the Wild Wood”

2.18.2007—Kevin Klein, “Orpheus at the Florist’s”

2.11.2007—Stephen Bunch, “News from the Ultra Deep Field”

1.28.2007—Margarita Engle, “Taino Petroglyph” and “Baucis and Philemon”

1.21.2007—Carol L. MacKay, “A Gift for a Gift” and “Three Poems of Kathlin Hermandsdottir”

1.14.2007—Robert Arthur Reeves, “The Last Ship from Atlantis”

1.7.2007—Jeannine Hall Gailey, four poems from “Becoming the Villianess” – “Little Cinder,” “The Selkie Wife’s Daughter,” “The Snow Queen” and “Persephone and the Prince Meet over Drinks”