Ariadne

Titian - Ariadne and Dionysus (Bacchus)

by Brett Rutherford

I’ve walked this edge
of solitude full circle now
a hundred times —
how long before I realized
I was alone, on an island,
a state for which no word exists
but “uninhabited.”

With no one above or below me,
this thing upon my head,
a corona fringed with many jewels
means nothing. If I call,
“Bring nourishment!”
I am my own servant and cook.
Of what am I princess?
Beach, beach, and cliff,
and rocky beach again
and nothing on the horizon.

Sometimes peninsulas appear,
suggesting a path to land,
but sunrise never fails to find
me here, astride the same rock,
the tide withdrawing
or coming in, the beach
a mere arc of a closed circle,
draped with the shorn clothes
of ocean, the false hair
of a reddened jellyfish,
the ribbon green of seaweed. 

Am I not still a missing person?
Does no one search for me?
I launch some fragile bottles —
gourds sealed with wax
or tiny jetsam offerings
I seal with sea-grass and commit
to the receding waves.

Inside them, my tree-bark letters
beg for a hasty rescue.
Others address the gods,
beseeching Poseidon
to dash and drown 

that traitor Theseus —
the man who brought me
to this nowhere,
who lured me with promises
and sea-foam oaths,
who then abandoned me
for his sailors, for the first
prevailing wind to Greece. 

My bottles dash
against the coral reef —
they break too soon,
or fall to the hands
of illiterate fishermen.

From the crown King Minos,
my father, gifted me,
I pick away some diadem gems
and add them to the sea-gift.
Even these bribes
cannot attract a rescuer.
One diamond returned
on the back of a dolphin! 

Here where this jagged mount
of Naxos scrapes sky,
harping a stone calliope
with fingers of wind, I wait,
far off the route of ships.
Someone below the horizon shall hear
the somber moan of this unpeopled place.
Some ship must turn toward me —
before my hag-years are upon me.
I am still young, and worthy of love. 

Is there a spell upon me? Are thousands here
invisible to me, going about
their daily lives, invisible to me?
Am I invisible to them as well?
Why do I find things to eat, and wells
not one of which is dry, at every turn?
Why are there grapes, and olives
if no one tends them? “You'll be fine,”
the lying Theseus assured me. “Naxos
will welcome and honor you.”
Am I a ghost, the walking dead?
Have I already become
A mythological person?

Only a hero can avenge me.
No, only a god can cancel
the vacancy of Theseus
that pulls inside of me
like an inverted birth.
In my dreams I begin to see another,
the purple sails of his galley,
his laughing eyes, the wreath
of grape leaves in his golden hair.
What better bride for an unknown god
than a nearly-forgotten princess? 

Even before he knows my name, at sight of me
he proclaims his undying affection.
No worldly treasures attract him:
as proof of love he hurls my Cretan crown
into the starry vault of heaven.
Strange pipes and cymbals sound, Satyrs
and Maenads attend our wedding.
Whole forests are torn asunder,
and no Greek from this time forward
shall have a sound night's sleep. 

Ungrateful heroes! New gods come out of nowhere,
and the age of Dionysus is upon us!

Plague

by Brett Rutherford

Human Intolerance:
if only it were
a creepy-crawly,
under-the-microscope
bacteria, waving
its little flagella,

if only some pill,
some mineral added
to the drinking water,
some aerosol a plane
could dust from on high
could eradicate, but no!

It is not airborne at all.
The proudly unvaccinated
were already infected.

Human Intolerance,
a worm in the brain
if ever there was one,
is freely spread
by memes and sermons,
by Catholic cardinals,
and demagogue candidates.

It breeds in repression,
guilt and self-loathing,
concealed in casual
   classroom
   locker-room
   barroom chatter.

Millions ashamed of their genitals,
their animal urges,
     their polymorphous nature,
millions insulting the universe
     by worshipping some god
who picks the wings off flies!

Close down their TV ministries!
Bolt up their churches!
Put them in special asylums,
where they can await their rapturing
without annoying the rest of us.

Hurry along, believers,
   to the one who made you
   in his smiting image!

1987, revised July 2011, revised July 2026.

Mill Towns

by Brett Rutherford

Old factories:

how painfully forgotten!

Once, the hopeful immigrants flocked to them.

Workers and foremen built cities around them,

if not exactly blessing the ground they stood on,

grateful at least to have escaped the whip

     or starvation back where they came from.

The railroads webbed out to meet them,

branch lines and sidings eager to take

the crates and bundles outside their gates.

Without them

     the towns have forgotten the reason

          of their founding.

What did they make?

cotton and calico prints,

steam engines and locomotives

parts of machines uncountable

and the tools to make other machines

and their parts uncountable,

rope walks, brass foundries,

lace- and jewelry-making,

light bulb assembly lines,

refrigerators and fountain pens,

and glory! a piano factory —

all now only names in peeling paint

checkered on bricks and falling signs. 

The nearby houses are humbled now

with torn clapboards,

rot beneath the stage paint of shingles,

the cheap bluster of aluminum siding,

walls bloated, foundations shifted,

split into rat-cell studios for commuters.

Many are boarded-up, foreclosed.

No one remembers when mansard slate

and gable and cupola gleamed new,

when a smokestack with a man’s name on it

was a place arrived at as a good sign

of a continued paycheck.

Things that got made here,

kept getting made.

Now these sad brick temples accuse us:

their plywood-covered windows,

their undecipherable placards,

the weed-trees on their loading docks,

the mystery of abandonment.

Like unburied dead they haunt the roadside,

somber in daylight, shunned and abhorred

when their shadows grow long at dusk.

They will not burn, their wearing away

protracted by fences and guardians.

(Heirs living on compounded interest

preserve them like Chinese puzzle boxes

they cannot open or understand.)

At night, another commerce lights up

the sidewalks along the chain-link fence

as women sell the only thing they have

from the pavement, and men in cars

circle, circle, hands offering dollars,

other hands offering, and taking, small

envelopes of powders and crystals.

Some midnights, the ghost machines awaken,

their ungreased axles screaming,

drive shafts spinning of their own accord.

A dynamo turns, and furnace mouths flicker

in the cool blue flame of St. Elmo’s Fire.

The power looms weave an invisible shroud:

it is long enough to enclose a city.

Tombs without occupants,

they wait for the rites that no one will pronounce.

—Pawtucket, Rhode Island, late 1980s.

From Poems from Providence, 1991.

The Ten-Letter Sign

95 Hope Street, Providence RI

by Brett Rutherford

A man who loved books, and who
assumed that others loved them too,
was inclined, in a town so rich
as Providence, to open a shop,
on Hope Street no less! What street
could be more auspicious?

With pride he marched down
to the sign-maker’s emporium
and ordered his name inscribed
in gilded and calligraphic
letters: J. J. COUTANCHE,

and then, in ten bright red
hand-carven woodblocks,
to be nailed above the window:
B O O K S E L L E R.

It was 1902. Streets teemed
with merchants and salesmen,
workers and well-dressed men
hurrying downtown and back.

Newspapers all folded up
they carried, for lack of better
things to occupy their time.
He would see to that.

He had Dickens by the boxcar,
Shakespeare in every mode
from pocket-plays to massive
collections of all the dramas.

From the French, there was
de Maupassant, so droll and moderne.
From the Russian, the latest
novels, from London, fine
bindings in leather rows,
their marbled edges butterflies.

Although he opened early,
stayed late, only a few
impoverished old ladies came.
Seeing his prices,
    they did not come again.

Gradually he came to see
that much of the day-time traffic
was Irish men and women
headed for mass at Saint Joseph’s
directly across the street.
At noontime, men hurtled by,
on their way to saloons
and boxing matches.
No books in their lunch pails!

After five years of this,
Coutanche developed
the most profound contempt
for the people of Providence.
If only he had gone to Boston.

And then, hearing the bells
that rang when his cash-register
did not, watching smug priests
and the resplendent funerals
one after another, 

it dawn upon him
     to change his profession.
He who had once sewn books
would now sew flesh. He who
had rubbed his hands along
the ribs of a leather binding

would now caress the cheeks
of the freshly-dead. The glue
that repaired and made books
whole when they were damaged,
would now be formaldehyde.

He read up on his new
profession. He would learn
as he went; no need
to take lessons or earn
a certificate. Ready at last

to start his new trade,
he laddered up his storefront,
removing the letters
B O O K S E L L
and had the sign-maker’s
emporium make up and paint
in the same block style
U N D E R T A K

His bargain-basement room
with all its penny discards
and damaged bindings
would now house coffins.

The Irish were not particular.
They needed Granny buried
cheaply and lickedy-split.
The priests, for a commission,
would send the grieving
relatives to his door.

He could not make them read,
but, damn, he would
bind them up handsomely
in shiny black caskets!

 

What the War Did

by Brett Rutherford

He blocked a door
I wished to pass through.

His muscled arm,
sweat-beaded
in August heat,
was not going to budge.

“I see the way you look at me,”
he muttered, unsmiling.
“I’ve heard about you.
I know you want me.” —

“That’s just not so,” I said.
I did not say,
“I’m not like that.”
There was no use pretending.

He flexed his arm; his chest
expanded. “I have
a perfect body. I know
you want to touch it.

“They say, at the gym,
I’m like a Greek statue.
If you saw me naked —
best thing that ever
happened to you.”

Imagining myself
in the aftermath,
black-eyed in an alley,
I said, “No thanks,”
Homeward I went,
circling around and back
to be sure I was not followed.

Drafted and gone
to Vietnam, he returned,
shrapnel in skull, with half
his perfect Greek statue
weak and immobilized.

All I can think of today,
passing among
the plaster casts
of discus throwers and warriors
in the sculpture gallery —

figures even now
I do not dare to touch —

is that long-ago offer,
and my refusal.

Not Years Enough

by Brett Rutherford

How many autumns more? I cannot guess.

How slowly thirteen moons go rolling by,

how achingly the thirty dozen days

count off the torn inked sheets of calendar.

Life wrinkles silently, by phases imperceptible

the skull and bones show through the flesh.

More than the other signs of passing

the shelf of unread books accuses me —

not years enough to read them all!

And all those books unwritten, languages

to learn the lilt of, music to shape

beneath the independent fingers —

millions of words and thousands of melodies.

No matter what, the end must come

before the final page is writ, the coda sung.

Composers dreaded to start their Ninth

of symphonies, but trembled all the more

when the Ninth was done, behind them.

How many symphonies would they eke out

before the unrelenting knock of Fate?

If only Sleep, that dark-eyed panda,

were less the brazen thief — if only dreams

could quicken the long drear nights

with more than a passing vision.

I do not need to dream-quest Mt. Yaanek —

a quiet study would do, a reading lamp,

a chair and a sturdy book. My ka,

my lazy double, my astral body

can lounge on a hammock with a Dickens novel,

or browse through the night-locked Athenaeum.

Never too late to learn the names of trees,

of sleeping birds and withered flowers.

Or maybe I’d walk with book in hand

barefoot in graveyard, a midnight reader

of horror tales, epic reciter.

I’d make the dead listen to the Faerie Queene,

count on their fingers the knights and Moors

of the endless Orlando Furioso,

wear them out with the embracing lists,

the straw that stuffs the Song of Myself.

Maybe my eyes would retrace Shakespeare.

But this is Autumn: lamp-dousing time

for my waking self, long nights sliding

to the gravity of solstice, dead leaves

like pages escaping me unreadable.

Not years enough to read them all,

not years enough to count them!

From Poems from Providence, 1991.

Underfoot

by Brett Rutherford

If, on a New York sidewalk, you
walk amiss, the foot first feels it —
some gelid and formless object
that will take hours to remove
from the shoe-sole’s nicks and crannies.
One rapid inhalation tells
if it be horse or dog in scent —
but no! obnoxious, odorous,
it is a Trump I trod upon.

An Afterword for Matthew Paris

by Brett Rutherford​

Dante! -- one sight -- and then
no more of Beatrice, a life
of yearning for an already-
departed Muse. Matthew!
You lucky dog! -- With Jane,
you had a Muse who stayed.

I Dreamt I Was Dante (Revised)

Henry Holiday - Dante and Beatrice (Google Art Project)

by Brett Rutherford 

I dream in mezzanotte silver-gray,
donning the robes of aging Alighieri,
sandalled and aching with brittle legs,
heeding the call of Thanatos —
waking or sleeping? —
I do not know! I feel the dew
upon my ankles, but these feet are numb,
my ankles bony knobs, my toes
the neglected bird-claws of an exile.

The years have browned and scourged
my limbs. An umber moon,
senile amid the drooling clouds,
tilts earthward and winks at me,
changeless and blistering.
the knowing eye of eternity, 

Amid a cypress grove, whose rippled leaves
cat-fur the rigid columns of the sky,
the tree-trunks are deeply furrowed
with weeping moss, and blue drear tears,
unbearable in daylight, collect. How cool
they are, how wise, reflecting in leaf-cups
each one the tiny faces of moon and Venus
(so must we mortals, in mirror'd shields
look on the Gorgon face of Love!) 

Among the trees, close-packed, a maze
made from slab-walls of quarry stone —
square blocks of some god’s
abandoned temple? — an idle Pharaoh’s
never-completed pyramid? —
now an unpeopled catacomb roofed by a vault
of stars! The maze invites my errant feet
to tread its ever-regressive avenues.

You need not tell me what is there.
No carving, no placard
    with a pointing arrow
has been prepared for me,
yet I already know the place
my demon-guided steps will take me. 

At the far heart of this stone-cypress maze,
in a niche cut out of purest marble,
on a pediment of onyx, Beatrice waits.
She is already dead, and I may die
before I ever find her resting place.
There may be stairs beneath it,
     too many to count.

That is the journey, and there is no Virgil,
and although I have read him, his silver lines
fade now to dust motes in my memory.

Beatrice! No matter how long, how fast
I walk, I am no nearer you
than that first sight, when you,
thirteen, scorned to return my gaze.

 --November 16, 2018
Revised and expanded June 22, 2026

Where the Ashes Went

by Brett Rutherford

Drunken half-brother blurts out
his memories of the dead.
Having no funds
for plot or stone,
they dug with bare hands
a hole for grandma,
right next to grandpa’s grave.
No one was looking
as the spade went in,
disturbing the thick turf grass,
soft clover, tough dandelions,
How deep? Who knows?
They dug until it seemed enough,
then in went the ashes,
and the little bone fragments
from the paper bag’s bottom.
No marker, no paperwork,
no money spent
on the damn undertaker —
serves them right.
At least they would always know
where grandma rested.

As for our mother,
she always said, laughing,
“Just throw my ashes
mid-bridge, right into
the mighty Youghiogheny.”
Vaguely she knew how the Monongehela,
then the Ohio, then the Mississippi
currents might carry her
(unless she silted down).
“At last I’ll get to see the world,”
she said. That’s what they did:
the ashes, in the humid air,
fell in a straight line
to the dark and rapid waters.
The inedible fish
flapped with their fins
to spread the ashes.

So now when someone asks.
“So, where is your mother buried?”
I am able to say, with some assurance,
“A coral reef somewhere
inside the Bermuda Triangle.”

The Morning Anatomy Check

by Brett Rutherford

Pavel, on waking up,
holds back eye-opening
until he checks
with anxious fingers
whether his nose
is in its proper place —
god forbid
you should lose your nose!

Next, and even more concerned,
he gently unfolds
the tangled blanket
to check down below —
god forbid
you should lose your penis!

All is well. All is well.
He shudders to think
of poor cousin Dimitri
who awoke one morn,

his nose between his legs,
and his manhood dangling
beneath his forehead.
Now just imagine that,
having to go about,
shorts over head,
eyes looking out
from cotton-stretch leg-holes,

the stifled nose below
enduring the smells
the trousers accumulate.
A sneeze down there
is not a pretty picture!

For Pavel, at least,
it is a normal day.
He can open one eye,
the left one always first,
and then the other —
eyes in their sockets,
mind you, and not
on the fingertips
like cousin Masha,
one for the annals of medicine!

The things that can happen
during a sound sleep
are better not thought of.

A Secret Birth

     by Brett Rutherford

     After a Callimachus fragment, Aetia, 48

Three hundred Titan years old Kronos slept
while young Zeus and his enamor’d Hera
coupled without let-up, nights — and days, too!
Nectars narcotic they sent
     to the watchful and jealous father,
by the hands of garlanded Dryads,
and, from the lips of Iris, distracting
rumors of some trifles and petty strifes
whose answered he could delegate, then turn
his pillows over for another nap.

Then from Zeus’s labors
     and Hera’s womb’s machinery,
with clank and clatter,
     there came such a birth,
red-light the sky from pole to pole, a cry
as loud as a factory whistle, a smack
as of the first bright anvil, ever, struck
by the world’s first hammer, forged from ore.

Hera, whom Zeus hung upside down, cut cord
with her own sickle knife and cried the name
of their dear new Olympian:
“Hephaestos, the gods’ armory, be born!”

The Ox of Dryops

     by Brett Rutherford

     After a Fragment from Callimachus, Aetia, 24

Now Heracles, in company
of his young son, was slowed
when a thorn, which pierced
the boy’s tender foot
made him unable to walk.
The way was long, across
the plowed fields of Dryops,
and the solar disk seemed
uncommonly hot upon them.
Hungry and out of sorts,
young Hyllus tore at Heracles’ hair.

Just then came Thiodamus,
spindly on nimble feet,
yet still a mighty man
from the looks of him,
into the might hero’s sight.
Across the deep, dry fallow
the old man goaded on,
a ten-foot snapping pole
in one arm, a lazy brown ox.

Hailing the stranger, Heracles,
the generous donor of so many
deeds and labors, and once
he had praised the land and the fields,
and the beneficent orb
whose heat beat down upon them,
inquired, “I great pray a boon.
This wounded child calls out
for nourishment. If anything
your shoulder-bag can spare,
a mouse-size morsel, bread,
or a mouthful of fruit or nut,
would make our moving on
more swift, and quiet him.
I shall always remember you,
how amid your labors,
you were kind to another.”

The arrogant ox-herd
whipped out the floating pole
from ox-back to the very nose
of Heracles. “You, beggar,
and a fool to boot, know
ye not I am King of these parts?
Only a knave can claim
to hunger here. Pass on,
and may the burning noon
     finish you.” The King spat
and turned his back to them.

So what was a demi-god to do?
He seized the howling ox
and hurled it so far up
it looked no bigger than
a starling in silhouette,
and when it came down, its back
was broken. It bellowed. It died.

As Thiodamus fled
to summon his forces,
or hide beneath his blankets,
father and son devoured
the beast from tongue to tail.

Thus, ever and anon,
the uncharitable must pay.