This being Saturday, we'll play a double header: Lisa's Ariadne poem and Deborah's Dido poem, between which some comparisons seem inevitable.
ARIADNE AND THE MINOTAUR
The bull who was and yet was not her brother,
forsaken in the clever walls of Crete--
a creature lost, its nature wholly other.
Not hard to guess the truth that lies beneath
the myth: the fading mention of the child,
the accusations of unnatural birth,
the king who would not have descent defiled;
a child deformed, his life of little worth.
What Ariadne knew: her mother's shame,
the monstrous creature's murderous repute,
its lack of any human given name--
for this she gave her Theseus some jute
that he might go to murder in the maze
and safe, return to hear her sing his praise.
--Lisa Barnett
Dido, It Would Have Ended Anyway
Dido, it would have ended anyway.
Command the sun to linger at its crest
in hot abeyance—order noon to stand
stopped, as if there isn’t any west—
maybe you can get it to obey.
Not love. There’s never been an almanac
that tells when an Aeneas (overdue
in Latium) will leave. No, faithfulness
is for Achates: Love? It barely tops
its hottest summer height before it drops—
as your desire—burnt out—would have, too.
Try something easier, for practice; try
to anchor the daylight and hold the bright ship back
that carries the sun across the windy sky.
--Deborah Warren
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Threaded Mode
