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.

 

At Homer's Grave on Ios

 

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Antipater, The Greek Anthology, vii, 2

What, no marble tomb? No arching eagle,
no piled up swords and spears, no line
of weeping maidens or expiring youths?
No harbor, no city, no temples high
on clifftop to catch the gold of sunrise?
See, stranger, this craggy rock of Ios,
covers the scant bones of Maconides’ son,
he of the mighty voice, one envied by
the Muses themselves. A dozen islands
claim him, but only here he breathed his last.

His sightless eyes perceived the nod of Zeus;
the doings of kings and men, love’s madness,
and of Olympus, too, where gods contended
and human blood stood in for ichor blue.
His ears heard all, from dove-flight to war-cry
as Ajax held back the Trojan advance
and made men shake and vomit with terror.
His stylus did not hesitate to tell
how the flesh of Hector was stripped away
as Achilles dragged him thrice around Troy,
a freight of gore behind Thessalian steeds.

Visitor, this grave is no counterfeit.
This sorry height, desolate, is honest.
This is a small stone, you charge. I answer:
one slab just high and wide enough to hold
these words, suffices. Men come from nowhere,
and nowhere but here is where his bones rest.

(Peleus, the hardy spouse of Thetis,
warrants no more than just such piled-up stones
on Ikos, an insignificant isle
if ever I saw one. Go there yourself,
and see if the old dead be not astir
when you recite the lines of Homer and
the sky leans cloud-ears to the sea to hear.)

His Attributes

by Brett Rutherford

The lethargy of the crocodile,
the wit
     of a crouching tarantula,
the gait of one
who ambles about on pseuodpods,
the judgment of a slug,
the manners
    of an offended Portuguese
          Man of War,

the courting style
     of a barging ram,
the cleanliness
     of a caged ape

the fragrance
     of the unburied dead,
the honor
     of the twice-impeached,

the tiny hands
     no longer finding
          the shrunken

member. A fondness
     for boxes and all
          the things within them,

an eye that gleams
     blackmail, another
          outlining the shape
of a breast, or up the line
     from ankle to skirt,

a pouty lip, words
     on the tongue-tip, spewn
out, spent bullets
     of scandal and calumny.

Come, rally round.
Buses for followers.
For the rest,
     boxcars.