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April is National Poetry Month!
Apr. 11th, 2008 07:58 pmSomething a little different today--a few excerpts from the story of Phaeton in Ovid's Metamorphoses, translation by Rolfe Humphries. If you don't know it, the story is this: Phaeton, son of the Sun-god, drives his father's chariot too close to the earth, nearly destroying it, and so Jove strikes him down with a thunderbolt.
And Phaeton sees the earth on fire; he cannot
Endure this heat, the blast of some great furnace.
Under his feet he feels the chariot glowing
White-hot; he cannot bear the sparks, the ashes,
The soot, the smoke, the blindness. He is going
Somewhere, that much he knows, but where he is
He does not know. They have their way, the horses.
...
And Earth
Our mother, circled by the ocean,
Amid the waters and the shrinking fountains
Contracting into her darkness, parched by heat,
Raised up her stifled face, and put a hand
To shield her forehead, and her trembling made
Everything shudder. She sank down again,
Lower than ever before, and then she spoke:
"O greatest of the gods, if this is pleasing
And I deserve it, why hold back the lightning?
If I must die by fire, then let me perish
By the fire you send, and lighten the destruction
Because you are its author. I can hardly"--
The smoke was suffocating--"open my lips to speak;
Look at my hair, burned crisp; look at the ashes
In eyes and face! Is this what I am given
For being fruitful, dutiful? for bearing
The wounds of harrow and plowshare, year on year?
Is this my due reward for giving fodder
To flocks and herds, and corn to men, and incense
For the gods' altars? Maybe I deserve it,
But what about the ocean, and your brother?
Neptune's allotted waters ebb and vanish,
Farther and farther from Heaven. Well; never mind him,
Never mind me, but have a little pity
For your own skies. Look! On both sides the poles
Are smoking. If that fire corrupts the heavens
Your palaces will topple. Even Atlas
Strains and can hardly bear his white-hot burden.
If sea and land and sky are lost, we are hurled
Into the ancient chaos..."
...
And Phaeton,
His ruddy hair on fire, falls streaming down
The long trail of the air. A star, sometimes,
Falls from clear heaven, so, or seems to fall.
And far from home, a river-god receives him,
Bathes his poor burning face, and the Western Naiads
Give burial to the broken body, smoking
With the fire of that forked bold, and on the stone
They carve an epitaph:
Here Phaeton lies,
Who drove his father's chariot; if he did not
Hold it, at least he fell in splendid daring.
...
As he was speaking
The gods all stood around, and pleaded, humbly
That he should not spread darkness over the world.
And even Jove asks pardon for that lightning,
Adding a royal threat or so. The Sun-god
Yokes the two teams again, still wild and trembling,
Yanks at the bit, cuts with the lash; he blames them,
Puts all the blame on them, for his son's downfall.
And Phaeton sees the earth on fire; he cannot
Endure this heat, the blast of some great furnace.
Under his feet he feels the chariot glowing
White-hot; he cannot bear the sparks, the ashes,
The soot, the smoke, the blindness. He is going
Somewhere, that much he knows, but where he is
He does not know. They have their way, the horses.
...
And Earth
Our mother, circled by the ocean,
Amid the waters and the shrinking fountains
Contracting into her darkness, parched by heat,
Raised up her stifled face, and put a hand
To shield her forehead, and her trembling made
Everything shudder. She sank down again,
Lower than ever before, and then she spoke:
"O greatest of the gods, if this is pleasing
And I deserve it, why hold back the lightning?
If I must die by fire, then let me perish
By the fire you send, and lighten the destruction
Because you are its author. I can hardly"--
The smoke was suffocating--"open my lips to speak;
Look at my hair, burned crisp; look at the ashes
In eyes and face! Is this what I am given
For being fruitful, dutiful? for bearing
The wounds of harrow and plowshare, year on year?
Is this my due reward for giving fodder
To flocks and herds, and corn to men, and incense
For the gods' altars? Maybe I deserve it,
But what about the ocean, and your brother?
Neptune's allotted waters ebb and vanish,
Farther and farther from Heaven. Well; never mind him,
Never mind me, but have a little pity
For your own skies. Look! On both sides the poles
Are smoking. If that fire corrupts the heavens
Your palaces will topple. Even Atlas
Strains and can hardly bear his white-hot burden.
If sea and land and sky are lost, we are hurled
Into the ancient chaos..."
...
And Phaeton,
His ruddy hair on fire, falls streaming down
The long trail of the air. A star, sometimes,
Falls from clear heaven, so, or seems to fall.
And far from home, a river-god receives him,
Bathes his poor burning face, and the Western Naiads
Give burial to the broken body, smoking
With the fire of that forked bold, and on the stone
They carve an epitaph:
Here Phaeton lies,
Who drove his father's chariot; if he did not
Hold it, at least he fell in splendid daring.
...
As he was speaking
The gods all stood around, and pleaded, humbly
That he should not spread darkness over the world.
And even Jove asks pardon for that lightning,
Adding a royal threat or so. The Sun-god
Yokes the two teams again, still wild and trembling,
Yanks at the bit, cuts with the lash; he blames them,
Puts all the blame on them, for his son's downfall.