Atys and the Lion

Sculpture of Atys, Ephesus Archaeological Museum.

 by Brett Rutherford

    Adapted from Dioscorides, The Greek Anthology, vi, 220

Running as only an acolyte can run,
the step and spring that scarcely touches
earth before one foot follows
the other, a single-purpose run
not in Olympic chase, and free

from erotic distractions, gelded
Atys, the self-castrated worshipper
of unrelenting Cybele, flew
up and beyond the treeline, wild
hair tossed every way by winds,
a Boreal restraint as legs leaped
free of the ground. Sardis he sought
in Persian Lydia, a long run,
from Anatolian Pessinus
on the Turkish high plateau.

No matter food, or thirst, or fall,
one frenzy would carry him onward.
But then, in a vale, as the dark
of night came, his hot blood cooled
somewhat, and, spying a shelter spot
beneath an overhanging rock
he climbed there, forsaking the known road.

But lo! There came a Lion, lord
of the forested waste, broad as oak
and huge of maw. Men swallowed
whole were his meat and morsel.
Atys stood still, his eyes to the eyes
of the ravening beast. Then he pulled ’round
the ox-skinned tambour he carried
(one of two gifts for the Sardian temple)
and struck it hard. And again, and again,
he beat with both hands the smitten skin.

Then off as fleet as a frightened deer
the full-maned lion bounded — gone,
and nevermore to trouble the traveler.
And Atys cried out, “Great Mother,
when I reach the banks of the Sangarias,
I shall dedicate to you this dread tambour,
whose roaring saved my life, and this
one other gift, the leather thalame
in which I offer up to you that which
my own blade removed in your honor.”

And on the wild man fled. Others,
like him, followed, thrall
to the all-demanding goddess,
those holy, mutilated madmen
in quest of the dark fire
at the heart of creation.

The Evil Song

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Dioscorides, The Greek Anthology, v, 138

One song I cannot bear, and now
Athenion sings it night and day.
Like some neglected, stupid dog
he brays away
the tune of “The Horse.”

Down with his horse, I say,
and damn all horses in general.
I cannot bear the sound of hooves.
In my dreams, an evil animal
this is. All Troy is aflame,
and in that fire I perish.

Ten years of siege, I cursed
those Greeks, but in one night
we horse-mad Trojans died.

The Mourner

by Brett Rutherford

     From Dioscorides, The Greek Anthology, v, 53

Dying, Adonis,
you did not see
the way the fair
Aristonoe
wept for thee.

If someone wailed
beside my bier,
and tore her breasts
just so, I too
would voyage down

to Hades dark
to be thus mourned.
And at my tomb,
forever sad,
ah, would it were she!

The Funeral of Adonis

by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Dioscorides, The Greek Anthology, v, 193

Most sombre of all

the night festivals

is that of Adonis,

for whom the Cyprian

Aphrodite forever weeps —

Cleo was beside herself,

a nymph possessed

as the gong sounded

and the low flute

trembled, again

and again, as votive

to Venus, she smote

her own breasts until

they shone in moonlight

     milk-white.

Adonis, uninterested

in womankind,

is mourned each year —

     a wooden bier

with his effigy inside it

is cast upon the waters,

laden with tears

from love-sick maidens,

and mothers whose sons

never lived to be

happy bridegrooms.

If such as Cleo

loved me and mourned me so,

I should happily go

on Adonis's little boat

on its way to Acheron,

and the isles blessed

by gong and flute

and fruit-offering,

sent off in the agony

of a grief-beaten breast.