Gate

Is there any finer way to spend a September day than sitting on a sandy Greek beach beneath cloudless skies, the temperature hovering around 30C, a sound of gentle waves lapping, cold beer to hand if required and the plays of Euripides as holiday reading? Don't worry, it's a rhetorical question. The answer is no, obviously.

So that's what I've been doing, not just for a day but a whole glorious week on the island of Zakynthos, and it was in Euripides' tragedy 'Medea ' that I found inspiration for this Greek-themed Gate blog, which in anticipation of National Poetry Day will view the gate as a portal, opening to a place of refuge or sanctuary.

a Greek gate

Medea was not Greek (and that's important). She came from Colchis, in what is modern-day Georgia, on the eastern  shores of the Black Sea, and thought at the time to be the land of the rising sun. What drew her into the Hellenic sphere was the fabled adventure of Jason and the Argonauts and their expedition to seize (i.e. steal) the golden fleece from King Aeëtes of Colchis, for she was the king's daughter.

The golden fleece was a symbol of authority and kingship, and Aeëtes kept in hanging in a tree in a sacred grove protected by a dragon. Jason (great-grandson of Hermes) had been promised the throne of Iolcus by Pelias (who had usurped it from Jason's father) in return for the golden fleece. Medea, famed as a sorceress, fell in love with Jason and, on a promise from him of marriage, used her powers to help him thwart the dragon and steal the fleece from her father. She then eloped with Jason to Greece on the Argo and became his wife. 

However, Pelias reneged on the promise to hand the throne of Iolcus to Jason, so Medea once again used her sorcery to trick Pelias's daughters into murdering their father, after which Jason and Medea had to flee Iolcus and sought refuge at the court of King Creon of Corinth, where Medea bore Jason fine sons.

In time however, Jason, wanting to further aggrandize himself and better provide for his sons, sought marriage to Creusa, daughter of King Creon. (Polygamy was not unknown in Ancient Greece. They gave the word to the world, after all.) Medea was expected to just quietly accept the arrangement and put up with being turfed out of the marriage bed for the greater good of her children, but she wasn't having any of it. Cue the play by Euripides. 

Observing the classical rule of unity of time and place favoured by Greek dramatists of the 5th century BC, the tragedy of 'Medea ' plays out in the royal palace at Corinth on the day of Jason's marriage to Creusa. 

Medea laments the infidelity of Jason, the man she has done so much for, the man she has cut all ties with her own family for, the man she has effectively committed murder to support. She cannot abide  being replaced in his affections by Creusa, not just for the loss of face but for having her feelings for Jason spurned in such a fashion. Her grief is passionate.

Jason tries to persuade her that his marriage to Creon's daughter will give all of them greater security but she rejects this reasoning out of hand, for Creon has been good enough to them all for years as it is.

Creon, for his part, suspecting that Medea won't take kindly to Jason marrying his daughter and being fully conversant with Medea's reputation for sorcery, gives her notice to quit Corinth before she can cause any trouble for him or his family. This incenses Medea who realises she is being cast out not just from her husband's bed but from the life she has known in Corinth. She faces an uncertain future in exile with her sons and turns to Aegeus, King of Athens (who just happens to be visiting) to beseech him to offer her - a non-Greek and an imminent exile - sanctuary in Athens, as the city state is famed for its 'open gate' policy, its generosity to strangers and its humanitarian values. Aegeus gives his promise to Medea that she will be granted refuge in Athens regardless of any crimes she may have been guilty of. 

Jason then informs Medea that he will not allow his sons to go into exile and advises her to make some propitiatory act to persuade Creon of her good will so he will allow her to stay, but she knows from her previous conversation with Creon that he is implacable in his insistence she must leave. 

So she plots the ultimate revenge. She pretends to have reconciled herself to Jason's marriage and sends her sons to deliver two presents to the new bride, a dress and a gold coronet. Creusa puts on the dress and crown, both of which are enchanted, and soon dies of their poisonous effects and Creon, in attempting to save her, is tainted with the poison and dies too. Medea then slays her own dear sons with a knife, this act being the cruellest conceivable blow she can inflict on the husband who has betrayed her so heartlessly. She flees Corinth for the promised refuge of Athens, where if she cannot find redemption she can at least find sanctuary.

Powerful stuff, you'll agree (and the title role remains a great part for any modern day actress to play).

statue of Medea with knife

For my latest poem, I've paraphrased some of the exchanges between Medea and Jason in the form of a mobile phone text conversation (hence the crafty punning title). Let me know if you think it works. I was in two minds whether or not to condense it down into text speak but for now it can stay as is. (If reading on a mobile phone, tip sideways into landscape mode for correct alignment of the poem.)

Social Medea

M: I am wronged. You were my whole life,

What misery, what wretchedness you've 

heaped on me by taking a younger wife!

                                                                                J: Calm down woman. I'm doing what's 

                                                                                best for us all. If you hadn't raged against

                                                                                the King and Princess you could have 

                                                                                stayed on quietly in Corinth's splendid

                                                                                halls but you've really queered your pitch.

M: Filthy coward. Ungrateful bastard. After

all I've done for you. This is my reward, to

be thrown over for that bitch, banished from 

your bed and worse, to be cast into exile 

through no fault of my own.

                                                                                J: You're just too dangerous when you're in 

                                                                                this mood. Your reputation is your curse. 

                                                                                That's why none of us is safe if you stay.

                                                                                But I won't see you penniless. I'll give you

                                                                                gold to go away and the sooner the better.

M: If you think you can shack up with that

whore and make her mother of our kids in

my place you'd better think again. Fuck

you Jason. I thought you were a better man

than this but you're just like all the rest.

                                                                                J: I'm not scared of you Medea. You'd best rein

                                                                                it in. Don't spurn my offer. Take this proffered 

                                                                                purse and may good luck accompany you.

M: All right! Since I cannot win, I give in.

I will play the social game. As a token of

my acceptance of the situation, I'll send the

boys with presents for your new bride.

                                                                                J: That's my girl. I'm pleased your tide of anger

                                                                                has turned. Make a fresh start. You're still a good 

                                                                                catch. It's the best way, believe me. I'm sure you'll 

                                                                                find a way to prosper by your arts.

M: Oh, but I believe in nothing anymore 

except cruel fate for which I am no match.

Still, I shall embrace my destiny with both 

hands and a blackened heart.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

Olive

It's a fruit from a tree, one of the oldest of domesticated crops, a staple of Mediterranean cuisine, a source of oil, a beautiful wood, a girl's name and a colour - except that nothing is ever that simple. Olive comes in many varieties and many shades, depending on ripeness. There are dozens of cultivars, often unique to the areas in which they are grown - in a  wide arc from Morocco up through Portugal and Spain, France, Italy, Greece, and Turkey then down into Lebanon and Israel. Even those clever people at Pantone list over a dozen colour variations, all with an olive prefix or suffix: green, pale, dark, drab, tawny, black, military, dusty, ecru, burnt, golden, capulet and so on.

There are myths associated with the olive in several cultures. Possibly the most famous is the ancient Greek tale of the sacred moria (μορίαι). Legend has it that when King Cecrops founded the city of Attica, he wanted to appoint a deity to be its patron and protector. Athena and Poseidon both wished the honour to be theirs, so a contest was agreed upon. Whichever of the two Olympians could promise to bestow the more useful gift upon the people of Attica, that one would be appointed and revered as the patron of the city. 

Poseidon struck a rock with his trident and a spring of salt water burst forth. Next, Athena thrust her spear into the ground of the Acropolis, then knelt down and planted an olive branch in the hole. This quickly grew into Greece's first moria, or olive tree. The king and people of Attica debated and concluded that salt water was not of much use, whereas the olive would have multiple uses. Thus Athena's precious gift won the contest. She was appointed as goddess and protector of the new city and the grateful citizens renamed it Athens in her honour.

olive harvesting (after Van Gogh)

What is more, because it was a divine gift, the olive tree became regarded as property of the state (whether it grew on public or private land). Olive groves were visited monthly by inspectors and yearly by a commissioner to ensure their well-being and to uproot an olive tree was a punishable offence.

The olive tree has been central to Greek life and culture for millennia. Apart from olives and olive oil being a staple of the Mediterranean diet, the oil was also used to fuel lamps, as a balm and cosmetic. Olive wood was used in the construction of houses, boats and artefacts. Even the leaves were employed in wreaths to crown the heads of victorious athletes, generals and kings. 

I'm biased in thinking that Greek olives are the finest in the world. By volume, it is only the fifth biggest producer (behind Spain, Italy, Morocco and Turkey) but it appears to have a more diverse range of cultivars than the other countries, maybe because it was the original cradle of olive cultivation - the oldest mention is from Mycenaean times in proto-Greek Linear B script. Most people have become familiar with Kalamata olives, but that's only one of fifteen different varieties grown in the olive groves of Greece. I won't list them, though they all have wonderful names. It may be worth just mentioning Athenolia - as that could be the very strain that Athena is supposed to have presented to the citizens of Attica. And I do have a favourite. It's the Tsounati olive from dusty Crete.

Olives are harvested between August and November and are still picked by hand in many areas although machines to vibrate the branches are becoming more widely used on big commercial plantations. As mentioned at the outset, the colour varies depending on the degree of ripeness. All olives start out green and if left will progress through rose to purple to black. Pick early for green and late for black. The fruit can be enjoyed fresh with salads, but can also be stuffed, pickled or added to cooked dishes. (I actually use olives in quite a lot of  recipes.). When pressed, the flesh yields up olive oil, an unsaturated fat used in cooking, cosmetics and medicine. Not surprisingly, Greece is the biggest consumer of both olives and olive oil.

produce of the olive tree

Over the years I've bought many lovely items made out of olive wood, mostly as presents for friends and family. For personal use I have a beautiful olive wood bowl and a set of wooden worry beads. I love the grain and the feel.

To round out the olive blog, here's the latest from the imaginarium. I'm not satisfied that I've got it quite right yet (especially in the transitions) but I put it out there for feedback while I think about it some more. [Edit - poem since revised.]

Girl From The Gift Shop

We were talking about the beauty of olive wood

and she accepted my offer of a beer after hours.

In a bar across the street she enthused over food

about the myth of Athena and the olive tree, had

the waiter bring us a bowl of Athenoli to sample

and bewitched with her tales of ancient powers. 

Hours later in my restless bed, I dreamed of this:

Inspirited, she explained. Midnight, she insisted.

Everything seemed quite different by moonlight,

primal, poised as in a frieze, the trees and I both

rooted. You'll feel overlooked, she said, sized up

but please don't be afraid to embrace a mystery.

I haven't words to relay what I observed, sensed

rather than saw in the sacred grove. Some dance

maybe, transformative, entrancing, pulled me in 

to a ravishing ritual celebration of eternal unity.

I must have asked who she was for in a whisper

she replied You may call me Dryad, Elia, Moria... 

Bright sunlight woke me late and after coffee I

returned to the gift shop, made some purchases

and small talk as she parcelled up my presents.

When I asked her for her name she smiled shyly,

replied not unlike leaves fluttering in the breeze

I have many, but I think you know that already.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

Down but never out - Blue Ted is the Great Survivor

A cursory tedcount of bears around my house reveals that we are the proud owners of 26 teddy bears. In the interests of accuracy I have excluded various Bagpusses, reindeers etc. And what an motley crew they are, ranging from a Commonwealth Games bear to a Jester ted from Nottingham Castle.

Once after a party I found them all on top of the landing bookcase where they lived at the time, carefully posed in various types of sexual congress. Some kind revellers had rearranged them in ways that were unedifying to an unsuspecting voyeur, but probably great fun for the teds. Not happy - it was my party, not theirs.

But the doyenne of teds has to be one Blue Ted. Bought second hand at a Labour Party Christmas Fair 30 years ago for my daughter, he has proved to be the great survivor. Brushing off an early skirmish in a washing machine at the hands of a well- meaning but over-fastidious relation who considered him to be ‘dirty’, and washed him within an inch of his life, thus robbing him forever of the precious, individual smell that made him Blue Ted, he survived to be and remain my daughter’s constant companion. Katharine and I still remember that smell.

  

He survived a disastrous adventure in an Athens hotel once. He was left on top of our suitcases ready for travelling home while we went for a final walk around Athens. On our return, he was gone and a massive search was mounted, involving many people on our return flight and numerous hotel staff, with no success. Time was running out and we had to board the airport coach without him. Katharine was inconsolable when, with all hope gone, as the coach was leaving, the hotel manager ran up, beating on the window and brandishing – Blue Ted. Some local children had been playing football with him!!!! The inhumanity of it, but at least he survived.

 

He was a regular Blackpool supporter too and was well travelled to distant away grounds. This was not to the Emirates and White Hart Lane, as in recent glory days. More likely, it would be to Aldershot or Maidstone, Halifax or Barnet. He is not a glory hunter, he is a proper football fan.

He has survived numerous operations and bears many carefully darned matching blue scars. Blue Ted, I salute you for your resilience, your place in our family history, your joie de vivre, your constancy.

 

Here's Lulu Canard's take on teddy bears:

All I need to know about life I learned from my teddy bear:-

 

Hugs are even better than chocolate

There's no such thing as too many kisses

One good cuddle can change a grumpy day

Love is supposed to wear out your fur a little

It's okay to let your stuffing show now and then

Listening is as important as talking

Someone's got to keep their eyes open all the time

It's never too late to have a happy childhood

Everyone needs someone to hold on to

There's no friend like an old friend.

 

Lulu Canard

 

As you may know, this is my last blog for now. I return to face the music at college next week as a second year student of English Language, Literature and Creative Writing and, by a happy coincidence, Lara has handed in her MA portfolio and is raring to go again as a blogger. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this stint as a Dead Good Poets blogger and I thank you all for reading my efforts. I’ll continue to be involved in DGP and am proud to be a part of something so creative and special in my home town. I thank Ashley and all the bloggers for their kindness, support and good humour and for the opportunity to write for an audience at this early stage of my writing ‘career’.

Sheilagh xxxx

Read More