POETRY V

Sappho

(610–580 BC)

Images

Images

Sappho exists in fragments and recollections. The learned Alexandrians of ancient times adored her. She comes from the island that gives its name to Women in love. Sappho—the dream and ideal; she is all about love, and the most famous purported lesbian of antiquity. We have only a small part of her poetry, some recalled and some from scrolls, and so we may only imagine the breadth of her gift. She is randy and lovely and eternal. Jove is Jupiter, aka the Greek god Zeus, the king of the gods. Venus is the Greek Aphrodite, the goddess of love. But keep in mind, she loved Mars, the god of war.

A Hymn to Venus

O Venus, beauty of the skies,

To whom a thousand temples rise,

Gaily false in gentle smiles,

Full of love-perplexing wiles,

O goddess, from my heart remove

The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard

A song in soft distress preferr’d,

Propitious to my tuneful vow,

O gentle goddess, hear me now.

Descend, thou bright immortal guest,

In all thy radiant charms confest.

Thou once did leave almighty Jove,

And all the golden roofs above:

The car thy wanton sparrows drew;

Hovering in air they lightly flew;

As to my bower they winged their way

I saw their quivering pinions play.

The birds dismissed (while you remain),

Bore back their empty car again:

Then you, with looks divinely mild,

In every heavenly feature smil’d,

And ask’d what new complaints I made,

And why I call’d you to my aid?

What frenzy in my bosom raged,

And by what cure to be assuaged?

What gentle youth I would allure,

Whom in my artful toils secure?

Who does thy tender heart subdue?

Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?

Though now he shuns thy longing arms,

He soon shall court thy slighted charms;

Though now thy offerings he despise,

He soon to thee shall sacrifice;

Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn,

And be thy victim in his turn.

Celestial visitant, once more

Thy needful presence I implore!

In pity come, and ease my grief,

Bring my distempered soul relief,

Favour thy suppliant’s hidden fires,

And give me all my heart desires.

Blame Aphrodite

It’s no use

Mother dear, I

can’t finish my

weaving

 You may

blame Aphrodite

soft as she is

she has almost

killed me with

love for that boy