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 ;-)

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Creeping On Midnight

Quick, it's creeping on midnight and I've a Saturday blog to write. Topic? Revenant...

Bloody hell! Get out of that one! No - wait, that's actually it, isn't it? Phew, lucky strike. Getting out of hell, bloody or otherwise and returning to whatever - that's the very essence of revenance, surely. (Checks dictionary just to make sure: one returned from the dead or from exile - probably French in origin...that figures!)

So what do we make of that?

Are we thinking reincarnation? Apparently it's making a comeback: "Life's a bitch and then you die get to do it all over again!" The Buddhist wheel and all that jazz.

Or zombies? Cue a plug for Zombieland (2009, directed by Ruben Fleischer), the funniest and my favourite zombie movie, starring Jesse Eisenberg, Woody Harrelson, Emma Stone, Abigail Breslin and Bill Murray (as himself).

Or the exile angle? Two of my favourite books are Homer's 'Odyssey' and Hardy's 'Return Of The Native' - and I've returned to both of them on more than one occasion. Highly recommended.

Or the tale of the time I gate-crashed the prestigious Revenant of the Year awards? The late and the great were gathered together on a night of high anxiety and I, the quick among the dead, was passing through this throng of wraiths, trying to get to the heart of the action but wary of the Groke. Just as I was pressing forward to see who was commanding all the attention on the grey carpet, who was leading the ghostly parade, the first rays of the rising sun fingered the palace of dust, and  methought it was time to move smartly on.

Quick. Today's poem, it's a little something not precisely on theme - return from the dead or from exile - but making a comeback (for want of anything else) from my early pages and descriptive of that death-in-life sensation bordering on near paralysis that can sometimes be induced from a too rigorous pursuit of the recreational...

Low
I'm closed in
with dank flowers
in a rank corner.

The sun,
my only mourner,
has fled to bed
leaving moonlight magic
to raise its silver head.

I'm sunk so low
I might be dead
or damned at best
to lie forever
at infernal rest.

Thanks for reading. Have an invigorating week, S ;-)

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Revenant

This week's title REVENANT, meaning someone who returns - from exile or from the dead. I expect that I've often been a revenant . Born in London, taken to Aberdeen ( aged 5 ) to a new culture, a new language ! Then aged 23 I moved to Oxfordshire, leaving behind an idyllic life in the Cairngorm mountains, where I revelled in the outdoor life and the social life of the school I worked in. Once again an alien culture - and this time I really felt like an exile. Twenty years later, with a new husband I returned to the north of Scotland, the place I'd longed to return to. We settled in well, perhaps my husband feeling slightly exiled this time, coming from Oxford ? It seemed that I was settled and preparing for retirement.....then following heart attacks my husband expressed a wish to come to Cleveleys (we'd stopped there in our motorhome on one of our many trips north to south... I spent my life travelling up and down ! ) and so it was that we moved here. So once again I am a revenant. With age, however I've become more resigned to my position and hope that I spend my days here - - - who knows ?
Last year when I was involved with the " Walking On Wyre" project  at Fleetwood I came home and penned this...

           The Spectre

I met a ghostly vision by the jetty
Don't you know ?
Who asked me when the sailors came ashore
Did I know
What tide they came in on and at what time of day ?
Petrified I whispered ,"Go away, go away "

Walking to the lighthouse near the shore,
You should know,
I met up with this spectre once again
I'll have you know.
He frightened me near to death this time
By asking once again -in rhyme !

"What time does the Falcon berth,
Where does she dock?"
Chortling in eerie mirth,
"You know she hit a rock !
Down she went, way down deep..
Drowned beneath the sea
All my mates they be asleep -
All that is 'cept me.
I walk this jetty and the light
Waiting for my sailor mates,
All the day and all the night
Not aknowing of their fates"

I couldn't give him any answers
I didn't know, I didn't know.
So if you spot a ghostly figure by the jetty,
You ought to know
He'll ask you all these frightful things,
Whilst to your sleeve he stubbornly clings.

So you set off and try to find what happened to his mates-
He needs to know, he needs to know.
Remember all the facts and dates and
Let him know, please let him know !


Kath Curtiss

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