Priapus on the Seashore

by Brett Rutherford

After Archias, The Greek Anthology, x, 7, 8, 10.

Here I am, all penis,
a tiny head one snail
has died upon and helmeted,
no legs to speak of. What made
some sailor carve and leave me
erect forever in full view
of every passing fisherboat?

Pan of this holy cliff,
Pan of the shore, I guard
and bless the frail ships
and sing to sleep the Kraken,
soften the wild winds, avert
the thunderbolts so mast
and sail return unriven
by the wrath of Poseidon.

Whoever leaves
his fishing-basket here
beneath my pointy prow
is assured of finding it
when he returns. All nets
thrown out beneath my gaze
lure in the fish in plenty
so long as a nod and a song
acknowledge my power.

I may not be Olympian
but every god rampant
in quest of love or pleasure
carries my likeness
alert and ready
beneath his jeweled belt.

Stranger, I see your ship
becalmed, or straying off
in false directions. Call back
my name, and a hearty hail,
and I’ll arrange a wind,
that gentle, southwest push
that tilts your sail towards
those blue-black waters
where the unbidden fish
leap into piles on deck.

Sometimes a grateful sailor,
whose storm was stilled
by the invoking of “Priapus!
Lord, protect me!” comes,
to leave a garland, or burn
the fat of some horned animal.

I’ve never had a hecatomb,
but I am honored enough
at sea, and in the town
when every lover, hesitant
at the door of the beloved
takes a deep breath
and invokes my name.

 

An Offering to Priapus

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Archias, The Greek Anthology, vi, 192

Worn out, the old fisherman
drapes on the Priapus
figurine all the tools of his trade:

remnants of his seine
through which the fishes
large and small, swam free;

the baskets in which
he carried his catch to market;
the conversation-hook
on a horse-hair line
that had never failed him;
the well-made trap
that lured the beauties in;
the trusty float, ever
and always upright atop
the water, marking for all
his hidden casts below.

Round rocks the tide reveals
no longer bear his tread,
nor does the kissing tide lull
his slumber on the soft sands
where this one or that one
siren-sighed, “Phyntilus,
     Oh, Phyntilus!”

Now, from a hilltop
he just watches.
The flat and finless

sea is done with him.