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!