Laughing with MEDUSA : Classical Myth and Feminist Thought

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much concerned with surfaces and appearances, the language cross-
cut with fragments of raw information and popular culture. Alice
Fulton would be a prime example: ‘While Apollo hardened j with
love for her, Daphne j stripped the euphemism from the pith.’7
Fulton’s mythic characters are transformed into aviators and Hol-
lywood stars; with a hick Apollo (‘he called any place outside
Parnassus ‘‘Darke County, Ohio’’ ’) and cheerleader Daphne:
‘Give us an A, j Give j us a P! End the yell with a good freeze.’
Other writers, such as Ruth Padel and Jo Shapcott, are also essen-
tially metamorphic in the post-modern mode, deriving an exuberant
energy from their sense of the poet herself as shape-shifter. Shap-
cott’s ‘mad cow’ persona runs cheerfully amok, discovering a happy
coincidence in classical myth and topical scandal; elsewhere she
gives full rein to her poet’s sense of being able to change form at
will, as in the opening poem of My Life Asleep:

Watch as I stretch
my limbs for the transformation, I’m laughing
to feel the surge of other shapes beneath my skin.

(‘Thetis’)

These poets have a sophisticated sense of the classical tradition and
its contemporary possibilities. Padel herself is a classicist, and it is
striking that so many of today’s most interesting and original
women poets—Fleur Adcock, Rachel Hadas, Martha Kapos, Anne
Carson, and A. E. Stallings, for example—have a formal education
in, or a professional academic connection with, classics. Stallings’
Daphne stops her pursuer in his tracks by seizing the initiative in
both poetry and magic, invoking the spell of the ancient languages:
‘Poet, Singer, Necromancer— j I cease to run. I halt you here.’
Through a kind of radical scientific punning she returns the botan-
ical terms to their Greek roots:

7 ‘A Sequence Reimagining Daphne and Apollo,’ in Michael Hofmann
and James Lasdun (eds.), After Ovid (London, 1994); repr. in Sensual Math
(New York and London, 1995). On Fulton see Sarah Annes Brown, The
Metamorphosis of Ovid: From Chaucer to Ted Hughes (London, 1999),
148, and Ovid: Myth and Metamorphosis (London, 2005), 46–7 and 62–3.

d a p h n e , a p o l l o , a n d m o d e r n w o m e n ’ s p o e t r y 387

Find then, when you seize my arm
That xylem thickens in my skin
And there are splinters in my charm.

(‘Daphne’)

The story of Daphne and Apollo, played out in very different
accents, has a special resonance for contemporary women writers.
In thinking about the reasons for its appeal, I have identified and tried
to connect four strands: its variety, elusiveness, physical impact, and
associations with the origins of poetry and the making of poems.

There is no one original of this various and durable myth,8 but a
multiplicity of versions and influences, many deriving ultimately
from Ovid and mediated through later European literature with
its moralized and Christianized traditions, and through the visual
and other arts. Where music tends to bring out the pace and move-
ment of the story and its ethereal quality, the iconographic tradition
emphasizes a particular moment in the process of transformation;
the medium itself—marble, canvas, paint, tapestry—offers a specific
gloss on the physical quality of the metamorphosis and the conjunc-
tion of body and tree.

The meaning of the myth remains elusive, and its interpretations
diverse. In what Charles Martindale terms ‘typical Ovidian ambiva-
lence’ there is a fusion of the ‘witty, the erotic and the grotesque’.9
Ovid’s reader is poised between horror and reassurance; like the
fellow rivers who rush round to Peneus after his daughter’s transform-
ation we are still unsure ‘gratentur consolenturne’ (Metamorphoses
1. 578)—whether to congratulate or console. Later versions of the
story alternate between these possibilities, or leave them unresolved.
Women writers and readers, more interested in the struggle within

8 For a useful account of Ovid’s treatment of the Daphne myth see Peter
E. Knox, ‘In Pursuit of Daphne’, Transactions of the American Philological
Association, 120 (1990), 183–202 and 385–6; see also Kathleen Wall, The
Callisto Myth from Ovid to Atwood: Initiation and Rape in Literature
(Kingston, Ontario, 1988) and Mary E. Barnard, The Myth of Apollo and
Daphne from Ovid to Quevedo: Love, Agon, and the Grotesque (Durham,
NC, 1987).

9 Ovid Renewed: Ovidian Influences on Literature and Art from the
Middle Ages to the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 1988), 4.

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Daphne herself than in the struggle for her, have been particularly
exercised; becoming a tree is different from becoming a cow or a
bear—should we react to it as solace or doom? Daphne’s transform-
ation appears grotesque, freakish, but it may also hold out hopes of
regeneration, as Eavan Boland discovers:

who fled the hot breath of the god pursuing,
who ran from the split hoof and the thick lips
and fell and grieved and healed into myth.

(‘The Women’)

The myth’s curious mixture of violence and tenderness, which
may promote either resistance or healing, is a natural result of the
striking conjunction of tree and woman: wind with breath, leaves
with hair, limbs with branches, bark with flesh. The woman’s body
and voice is enabled to transcend the boundaries of the human, or
even the animal, and to enter into a realm of nature without
being subject to natural processes. This is one way for a woman to
be a poet; Anne Sexton found an uncomfortable but rightful accom-
modation ‘Where I Live in This Honorable House of the Laurel
Tree’: ‘blood moves still in my bark bound veins’. It is also a way for
all women to think about their bodies. Metamorphosis helps us to
think about aspects and phases of experience (sex, childbirth, old
age), in which we conceivably remain ourselves, however odd we
might look or feel. James Elkins’s account of the relationship of
metamorphosis to pain reminds us that Ovidian metamorphosis is
usually painless. Subjects undergoing transformation feel strange
(Daphne feels numb and heavy) but in a way which is experienced
as thought and idea more than physical sensation: ‘although it
is sensual, it does not present itself as a matter of feeling’.10 Elkins
emphasizes the Ovidian sense of estrangement from self that is
‘painless and dazzling’. Women, however, may dwell on and intern-
alize physical processes; Anne Carson, in a prose essay included
in her volume of poems Men in the Off Hours, writes that in
classical myth woman ‘swells, she shrinks, she leaks, she is

10 Pictures of the Body: Pain and Metamorphosis (Stanford, Calif.,
1999), 26.

d a p h n e , a p o l l o , a n d m o d e r n w o m e n ’ s p o e t r y 389

penetrated, she suffers metamorphoses’.11 Carson distinguishes
women’s ‘pliant, porous, mutable’ boundaries from men’s bounded,
and therefore purer, self-definition. If, however, as Charles Segal has
suggested, all cyclical changes and physical processes are to be
understood as symbolically female,12 the story of the evergreen
offers ways for both women and men to confront their own mut-
ability. I would argue that women do in fact, for complex cultural
and biological reasons, retain a particular sense of the way experi-
ence affects and is reflected in their bodies. Metamorphosis should
therefore be best understood as an authentic and continuing experi-
ence: shape matters. Here I would follow Marina Warner13 and
Caroline Walker Bynum (rather than, say, Judith Butler, who views
the self as primarily performative). Bynum emphasizes the integral
connection between shape and story: ‘For my self is my story,
known only in my shape . . . I am my skin and scars . . . The power
of myth demands that ‘‘this really happened’’: the horror and pain
come because the wolf was (is?) Lycaon, the tree was (is?)
Daphne.’14 The simultaneous and overlapping roles and phases of
women’s lives, the metamorphosis of the nubile girl into the ‘spread-
ing’ matron, inform Jenny Joseph’s account of the Daphne myth, in
which middle-aged housewives laden with shopping are already the
stolid, ignorable, but not ignoble, future selves that the shapely
younger girls will one day become:

Nobody asks what they have done all day
For who asks trees or stones what they have done?
They root, they gather moss, they spread, they are.

(‘Women at Streatham Hill’)

Joseph’s carefree girls in their ‘grass-green haze’ have as yet no
inkling that ‘Like Daphne j Your sap will rise to nourish other
things’. The poet’s tone is wry, gently admonitory, assuaging some

11 ‘Dirt and Desire: Essay on the Phenomenology of Female Pollution in
Antiquity’, Men in the Off Hours (New York, 2000), 130–52, 133.

12 ‘Ovid’s Metamorphic Bodies: Art, Gender, and Violence in the Meta-
morphoses’, Arion, 5 (1998), 9–41.

13 In Fantastic Metamorphoses, Other Worlds: Ways of Telling the Self
(Oxford, 2002).

14 Metamorphosis and Identity (New York, 2001), 177.

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of the dourness of Plath’s Virgin, bound in her tree ‘Till irony’s
boughs break’. The myth continues to carry a special charge for
women because of the physical price exacted for their fulfilment
through childbirth, and because of their intractable and painful
relationship to their ageing bodies; as the African-American poet
May Miller wrote when she was already in her eighties:

The race is run.
untouched Daphne stands a laurel tree
. . . Given to the strict wind
the seed meets earth
to grow the stronger trees,
so unlike gods and men
weakened in their own increase.
Yet none walking the autumn wood
can escape the image of Daphne
green among bronzed leaves
and the wind-blown seed.

(‘Laurel Tree’, 1–2, 15–23)

The story of Daphne is also the story of Apollo; it is about courtship
and evasion, attraction and fear. One kind of sexual-political read-
ing, resisting the allegorization of rape, would emphasize that it is a
story of male violence in which the rhetoric of desire and pursuit,
and the purely literary reading of the topos of raptus, mask the
actual power relations of men and women.15 Feminists are also
uneasy with the argument that women’s suffering in art and myth
may be taken to stand for all aspects of vulnerability and helpless-
ness within a universalized human condition. As an emblem of
military victory as well as distinction in poetry, the laurel is associ-
ated with explicitly male achievements. It brings together, as Leon-
ard Barkan has shown, public triumph and sexual tragedy:

15 See Froma Zeitlin, ‘Configurations of Rape in Greek Myth’, in Syl-
vana Tomaselli and Roy Porter (eds.), Rape (Oxford, 1986), 122–51, and
Amy Richlin, ‘Reading Ovid’s Rapes’, Pornography and Representation in
Greece and Rome (New York and Oxford, 1992), 158–79. One of the first
commentators to read the Daphne myth in terms of a modern response to
rape was Leo C. Curran, ‘Rape and Rape Victims in the Metamorphoses’, in
John Peradotto and J. P. Sullivan (eds.), Women in the Ancient World: The
Arethusa Papers, (Albany, NY, 1984), 263–86.

d a p h n e , a p o l l o , a n d m o d e r n w o m e n ’ s p o e t r y 391

‘A quintessential prop of public Rome is infused through the link of
metamorphosis with a private story of unrealized love.’16 Ovid’s
version of the myth is an exploration of origins—of a prize for
poetic virtuosity that also signals a man’s failure as a lover and a
woman’s violent escape from rape. No reader can forget the night-
marish feeling of Apollo’s breath on the back of Daphne’s neck; yet
this is the breath which, as wind, draws out the tree’s response. If we
follow Joseph Farrell and tease out the pun on the Latin ‘liber’
(bark/book), Daphne has been transformed into text.17

Apollo gets poetry; Daphne becomes poetry. What, then, for a
woman poet is the laurel? Although (unlike Syrinx) Daphne is not
transformed into a musical instrument for a male player she is still,
as a tree moved by the wind, unable herself to originate sound or
discourse. Her branches can only be coaxed by the breeze into an
ambiguous wordless expressiveness that neither her pursuer nor we
can be certain of interpreting: ‘factis modo laurea ramis j adnuit
utque caput visa est agitasse cacumen’ (‘the laurel seemed to wave
her head in full consent’, Metamorphoses 1. 566–7). (Richard
Strauss’s wordless strings in his Daphne, or Britten’s unaccompan-
ied oboe in the Six Metamorphoses after Ovid, may be the best ways
for this aspect of the myth to find a voice.) Daphne’s grief is beyond
the capacity of the woman’s body either to contain or to articulate.
Yet this provides a cue for women poets interested in finding images
for the ways language might be renewed by being stalled, or
stripped to its essences. Martha Kapos, for example, imagines her-
self as a Daphne whose body goes into ‘abeyance’ for Apollo but
otherwise blurts out:

I am speaking to you now
only through the vocabulary of leaves:

(‘Tree Poem for Apollo’).

16 The Gods Made Flesh: Metamorphosis and the Pursuit of Paganism
(New Haven and London, 1986), 85; on the association of laurels, poetry
and power see also pp. 209–11 and 225.

17 ‘The Ovidian Corpus: Poetic Body and Poetic Text’, in Philip R.
Hardie, Alessandro Barchiesi, and Stephen Hinds (eds.), Ovidian Trans-
formations: Essays on Ovid’s Metamorphoses and its Reception (Cam-
bridge, 1999), 127–41, 133.

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Amy Clampitt, in her late poem ‘Syrinx’, moves towards an ideally
expressive silence, exploring a range of vocal sound beyond syntax
and even beyond consonantal phonetics:

. . . pure vowel
breaking free of the dry,
the merely fricative
husk of the particular,

(A Silence Opens)

In the poetry of Jorie Graham and Eavan Boland the Daphne
myth infuses contemporary encounters with other phases and ways
of being, inside or outside the self. Graham’s ‘At the Long Island
Jewish Geriatric Home’ (in Erosion, 1983) initially shocks and
surprises us by bringing the myth indoors, from the realm of the
supernatural and the classical to a setting that is precisely, pathetic-
ally, localized. As the poet attempts to prise her grandmother free
from a state of senile, bedridden immobility, she recalls a tree that
once stood in the old woman’s orchard with a branch shaped
‘exactly j like a woman’:

running, one raised thigh
smoothed

by wind, and hair (really
the shoreline

where the limb is almost torn
away) unraveling.

She looks like she could
outrun

anything, although of course
she’s stuck . . .

Now that the sap has dried out and the branch is no longer the
conduit of the processes of life, woman and myth are moribund;
they remain stuck in the past: ‘in this j memory, j and in the myth it
calls j to mind, j and in this late interpretation j stolen . . . ’ The myth
is evoked explicitly, and for Graham, rather discursively, though she
is uncomfortably aware of her misappropriation; ‘stolen from j a
half-remembered tree.’ Although we are supposed to be both read-
ing a text and recovering a body, these operations are not quite
simultaneous; the autobiographical story of the grandmother and

d a p h n e , a p o l l o , a n d m o d e r n w o m e n ’ s p o e t r y 393

her tree comes first, and remains primary; the myth hangs in the air,
secondary and derivative (‘stolen’), though offering perhaps a dry
scrap of consolation. In the more recent ‘Prayer (‘‘From Behind
Trees’’)’ Graham returns to the mythic potential of the dead or
broken tree, this time ‘attempting to enact a realistic description
of metamorphosis’,18 by first emptying the landscape of any human
or divine presence other than the observing ‘I’. ‘The branchful of
dried leaves blown about’, which is the poem’s starting point, may
be seen (or not—there are no question marks) as transforming itself
into a path, a snake, a drama. ‘Peering,’ the poet tries to position
herself in relation to any vestigial immanence in nature: to ‘discern, j
how the new gods walk behind the old gods at the suitable distance.’

In Graham’s ‘Self-Portrait as Apollo and Daphne’ the process of
metamorphosis itself gives the poem its shape and subject. A series
of numbered cinematic ‘freeze-frames’ (Graham studied film at
New York University) suspends the pursuit and holds off the trans-
formation. The numbers are part of the spell; as Mark Jarman puts
it: ‘Graham’s use of numbers to separate single lines both suggests
sequence and allows her to interrupt sequence with non-sequitur.’19
The title of the volume, The End of Beauty, signifies, at one level,
that Graham is suspicious of ends and endings; she locates beauty in
the processes of art, not its finished products. ‘The paradigm for this
step-by-step process is Penelope unweaving as she weaves’,20 and
this is made explicit in one of the other dual self-portraits in The
End of Beauty, which alternately spins out and dismantles the
distance between Penelope and Ulysses: ‘the shapely and mournful
delay she keeps j alive for him’ (‘Self-Portrait as Hurry and Delay’,
frame 17). The poems become a kind of endless re-enactment, both
ceremonial and frightening, of the myths they shadow. ‘Self-Portrait
as Apollo and Daphne’ alternates looking and writing, withholding
and releasing energy, and (since all self-portraits require mirrors
of some sort) reflects the gaps and resistances that separate

18 Jorie Graham, note on ‘Prayer (‘‘From Behind Trees’’)’, in Never (New
York, 2002), 51.

19 Mark Jarman, ‘The Grammar of Glamour: The Poetry of Jorie
Graham’, New England Review, 14.4 (1992), 252–61.

20 Helen Vendler, ‘Indigo, Cyanine, Beryl’, London Review of Books,
23 January 2003, 13–15, 13.

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introspection and self-knowledge: ‘she would not be the end to-
wards which he was ceaselessly tending’ (frame 9). Graham here
takes the myth of Daphne and Apollo as an ‘allegory of conscious-
ness’.21 The self-portrait ‘recasts personal identity as interpersonal
relations’;22 through it the poet’s psyche is revealed not as an
integrated unit but as a variety of dramatic tensions and repeated
gestures. It pursues the logic of what happens ‘when an intense
openness to sensory experience, allied to a fierce regard for the
liberty of individuals, confronts the fixed gaze of another’s point
of view’.23 The process is gendered in that the male stands for
single-mindedness and closure whereas Daphne, in refusing to
‘give shape to his hurry by being j its destination’ seems to inhabit
‘a realm of feminine experience that lies outside of narrative’.24 Yet
the process of abstraction and displacement from self can also be
taken to stand for any individual instance of self-cleavage; as in the
Ovidian Metamorphoses, Graham’s mythic characters, both male
and female, experience transformation as essentially self-reflexive.
The mythic pursuit is suspended in time and rendered as wordless
sound and refracted colour; the self remains visible but cannot be
rendered into persona or exemplum: ‘part of the view not one of the
actors, she thought, j not one of the instances, not one of the
examples’ (frame 14). In spite of the attenuated poetic means—the
abstract vocabulary and sparseness of metaphor—the poem is mov-
ing and exhilarating. It sets itself the challenge of finding words that
‘catch’ their subject—there is a philosophical and ethical ambiva-
lence in Graham about modes of capture—and of holding a steady
gaze that takes in without distorting its subject. Can the subject be
seen and desired if it is not caught, not delineated?: ‘and the air all
round them neither full nor empty, j but holding them, holding
them, untouched, untransformed’ (frame 15).

21 Bonnie Costello, ‘Jorie Graham: Art and Erosion’, Contemporary
Literature, 33 (1992), 373–95.

22 Thomas J. Otten, ‘Jorie Graham’s—s’, PMLA 118.2 (2003), 239–53.
23 Peter Sacks, ‘What’s Happening?’, New York Times Book Review, 5
May 1996, 18.
24 James Longenbach, ‘Jorie Graham’s Big Hunger’, Modern Poetry
after Modernism (New York and Oxford, 1997), 158–76, 168.

d a p h n e , a p o l l o , a n d m o d e r n w o m e n ’ s p o e t r y 395

Graham returns to the Daphne myth in ‘Daphne’ (from Swarm,
2000). Now, in place of the long, roving, self-reflexive lines of ‘Self-
Portrait’, we find fragments: short, fractured lines with caesura-like
extra spaces between words and extra leading between lines which
focus the attention on isolated actions and moments. The trope of the
swarm of bees, which shapes the whole volume, brings together unit
and multiplicity, identity and collectivity, as Graham attempts to make
the boundaries of the poetic self more fluid and expansive.25 Some of
the poems are bound up within the volume as ‘The Reformation
Journal’ and the figure of Reformation/re-formation hints at the pos-
sibility of a Christian reading in spite of (or in addition to) the perva-
sive allusions to classical myth. In place of the triadic self-portrait,
Graham here conjures up Daphne alone and attempts to dismantle her
into a re-formed self which is attentive and assenting and which both
anticipates and incorporates her sense of an ending: ‘Carry acceptance
in you j the aftersound of something felled.’ The poem grows out of a
sequence of imperatives enjoining the poet herself to a kind of self-
abnegation which is also ultimately a triumph of eloquence: ‘Bend low
to your high office. j Lean back j for the leafing-over.’

The other poet I want to discuss, Eavan Boland, also discovers the
possibilities of contemporary eloquence in classical myth. Having,
through her schoolgirl acquisition of Latin, stumbled across a
power in language to which she herself could aspire and which
was both ‘moving and healing’,26 she returns in particular to Virgil
and Ovid and to the stories of Daphne and of Demeter and Perse-
phone and (more recently) Cupid and Psyche:

See as a god sees
what a myth says: how a woman still
addresses the work of man in the dark of the night:

The power of a form . . .
And see the difference.
This time—and this you did not ordain—
I am changing the story.

(‘Formal Feeling’, The Lost Land, 65–6)

25 Joanna Klink, ‘To Feel an Idea’, Kenyon Review, 24.1 (2002), 188–201.
26 Eavan Boland, ‘In Search of a Language’, Object Lessons: The Life of
the Woman and the Poet in Our Time (Manchester, 1995), 75; see also her
poem ‘The Latin Lesson’.

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Classical myth and metamorphosis have afforded Boland an escape
from the Yeatsian re-mythologizing which left Irish women the
choice of role of old crone or Helen of Troy—Mother Ireland or
Kathleen-ni-Houlihan. Resisting such oppositions, she brings her
own life and work together so as to claim for the contemporary
woman poet a status as emblematic in its own way as that of the
Romantic or Modernist (male) poet. Boland’s work is more directly
rooted than Graham’s in autobiographical experience and in her
sense of the overlapping existences of poet, mother, daughter, and
wife. Her poems typically move between places, historical periods,
times of life, and hours of the day, as in ‘The Women’ where, as she
goes from kitchen to study, from day to evening, she recognizes ‘The
hour of change, of metamorphosis, j of shape-shifting instabilities. j
My time of sixth sense and second sight’. Boland’s first Daphne
poem, ‘Daphne with her Thighs in Bark’, belongs to the volume
Night Feed of 1982 which is full of imagined and actual meta-
morphoses, especially the physical and mental transformations of
women in childbearing and lactation. For Boland a woman’s repro-
ductive life is inescapably metamorphic, though not necessarily
calamitous, for, perhaps surprisingly, ‘Appearances j Still reassure’
(‘It’s a Woman’s World’). In ‘Daphne with her Thighs in Bark’ she
sees herself as suffering from post-metamorphic stress—a poet who
has turned into a housewife, forever fixed in the forest of her
suburban kitchen with its scrubbed pine table and branching racks
of utensils. Like Plath’s, this is a cautionary reading of the myth. Her
advice to the next woman in Daphne’s situation is, punningly, to
‘Save face, sister’. (This rather strained wit is unusual in Boland.) It
is the fixity and the finality rather than the domestic metamorphosis
itself that the poet deplores. The only trees that people are un-
equivocally content to be turned into are those of Baucis and Phile-
mon, where, in place of the violence and flux of so many Ovidian
transformations there is continuity, slow change and the sense of an
ending; Boland has a beautiful poem (‘What Love Intended’) which
commemorates a long marriage through the ‘two whitebeams j
outside the house gone, with j the next-door-neighbour’. Elsewhere
in her work, however, ornamentalized women, trapped in a terrible
suspension of life as sculptures or constellations, plead to be made

d a p h n e , a p o l l o , a n d m o d e r n w o m e n ’ s p o e t r y 397

human ‘in cadences of change and mortal pain j and words we can
grow old and die in’ (‘Time and Violence’).

As Boland’s housewife and mother who is also a poet is poised
between two worlds, so the suburb, part town, part country, stands
for and sustains her hybridity. Although ‘a place where the writ of
poetry does not run’, Boland’s Dublin suburb is revealed as a site of
unexpected depth and magic, especially at dusk when outer and
inner landscapes meet and merge: ‘I could imagine that I myself was
a surreal and changing outline, that there was something almost
profound in these reliable shadows, that such lives as mine and my
neighbours’ were mythic, not because of their strangeness but
because of their powerful ordinariness.’27 ‘Suburban Woman:
A Detail, III’ is another Daphne poem of unstable outlines and
fading definition. In the half-light of an autumn evening the con-
temporary denim-clad woman senses a mythic past which appeals
to us to be acknowledged and remembered: ‘Look at me, says a tree.
j I was a woman once like you, j full-skirted, human’.

‘Daphne Heard with Horror the Addresses of the God’ also takes
place at dusk—in early summer this time, rather than autumn, and
with the conservatory (that liminal space between house and gar-
den) an indistinct and mesmerizing mass of greenery:

I thought the garden looked so at ease.
The roses were beginning on one side.
The laurel hedge was nothing but itself,
and all of it so free of any need
for nymphs, goddesses, wounded presences—
the fleet river-daughters who took root
and can be seen in the woods in
unmistakable shapes of weeping.

Behind the unrhymed eight-line stanzas, in what Boland would
call the ‘metrical shadows’, is the suggestion of a ceremonious
ottava rima. The title and the last line of the poem invoke Daphne
directly; the second stanza banishes goddesses, nymphs, and river
daughters to the woods beyond the laurel hedge. The poet wards
off explicit allusion while keeping alive the suggestive power of

27 Eavan Boland, ‘The Woman, the Place, the Poet’, ibid., 168.

398 r o w e n a f o w l e r

metamorphosis; the dark presences of myth and history are con-
jured up through an old tale retold, an Irish girl carried off by sea by
a man of different race and status. Boland remains alert to the
political and material conditions in which myths are made and
used; they do not exist, as she once was made to feel women existed
and Ireland with its non-classical past existed, ‘Outside History’ (In
a Time of Violence, 1994). In stanzas 2 and 3 the wedding and the
bride’s journey out to the ship take place off stage, related by the
unnamed ‘you’ of the poem while the poet contemplates with
satisfaction her well-tended garden. Here, where it might seem
‘The laurel hedge was nothing but itself’, the poet still discerns the
shadow and gesture of ‘wounded presences’.

Contemporary women’s poetry draws on classical myth with
ingenuity and precision. In the work of poets such as Graham and
Boland it is discovering a new voice, in which shape-shifting finds its
formal correlative in linguistic and metrical transformations and in
the creative tension between the poem rooted in the page and poised
in flight.

16

Iphigeneia’s Wedding

E l i z a b e t h Cook

She had known about the blood. Other girls talked about it and she
had seen it—watery smears on the swollen, protruded vulvas of
creatures—a sow, a ewe, a bitch. Each time she had witnessed it
she’d felt herself tighten in a recoil of anticipated pain. So sore it
looked. Then along would come a boar, a ram, a dog—drawn to the
scent of this sore place as if it were a dish of food—and mount the
squealing creature. Pump babies into her.

Blood: sacrifice. They went together. In went the knife, out came
the blood; and the blood-sperged earth would sigh in delight and
blossom and fruit.

Over the space of a year she watched and felt her body ripen, fizz
and stir; like the way green grows at the beginning of spring. The haze
begins as so quiet a whisper you think you may be imagining it, then
the green gathers to a roar until the whole world shouts it. Her breasts
swelled and developed a new, exquisite tenderness. Hairs began to
grow around her cleft, framing a place she had known little of before
but into which she could now place her thoughts. A new centre of
gravity; an eye. As powerful in its way as the invisible eye she felt
pulsing in her brow whose gaze swept truer and wider than the clear
green eyes that others found lovely in her. This eye of her vulva had a
gaze and an orbit of its own, though she had not settled into a way of

400 e l i z a b e t h c o o k

interpreting the information it gave her. Two secret eyes: a heaven eye
and an earth eye. The data they received was different but of equal
importance. She needed them both and treasured a new kind of
balance in herself as she negotiated their different claims.

She had watched bees as they swarmed together to form what
appeared a single creature. The gathering was at first diffuse, then it
darkened into a stripe or a swirl (as would cream, poured into another
liquid) until a distinct form emerged and the struggles on the periphery
seemed accidental. For weeks her body had felt a hive in which
individual cells were changing places (as a dark worker bee will
clamber over his fellows to enter the centre), constantly moving and
regrouping. In her body a new shape forming and she alive in a way
which confused her.

Then the blood.
But the blood was not the answer. She woke up early in the
morning and took her hand from between her legs (where lately
she had liked to sleep with it) and found it bloody. Yet she had felt
nothing—not pain, nor sense of anything issuing from her. It seemed
to bear no relation to her. Concluding this (though she could not
have said where it did come from if not from her) she closed her legs
tightly and returned to a dreamless sleep.
When she woke next it was full daylight and she lay in a shallow
puddle of blood, the bedding soaked through, her thighs caked and
sticky.
This was nothing like the blood she had seen on female animals—
the blood that showed the males it was time to mate. She had
expected that, feared it a little. But this must be something other.
Maybe a god had fingered her. Had some brute of a god entered her,
having first charmed her into sleep, then pushed his giant way in,
leaving her terribly wounded?
The absence of pain the one concession his divinity had made.

She did not want to tell her mother—a mother who alternated
between lavish displays of affection and terrifying, seemingly arbi-
trary rages. Some inner knowledge—upper eye knowledge—told
her that Queen Clytemnestra’s response to her daughter’s quiet
bleeding would not be helpful. She felt that her mother would try

iphigeneia’s wedding 401

to sweep her up, maybe even dress her up, into some humiliating
travesty of womanhood.

Only Artemis might help.
Though she had never met the goddess —her goddess — in an
embodied way, she had recourse to her daily. Artemis was all that
her mother was not.
Where Clytemnestra loved opulence—her dark beauty set off by
rich, deep-dyed fabrics, splendid gold, big stones inset, Artemis
loved what was spare—her metal silver, her jewels, if any, moon-
stones, her colours—those of trees and bark, olives, greens, soft
browns. Artemis never advertised her presence whereas Clytemnes-
tra needed always to make her mark. In her presence her daughter
had no air and the new earth eye went blind.
So Iphigeneia found her place in quietness, in gentleness, in a
private discipline. The mother required tribute; the daughter found
a path for herself in service, though it was not her mother whom she
served. Each time she lit a votive light to the goddess of moon the
clear flame that burned within her swelled.
Artemis’ aim, the point of her arrow, was an inner aim. It could be
found in contemplation and containment.
It was containment she needed now.
This abundant still-flowing blood breached the limits of her body
in a way she did not like. It was so independent of her will, even of
her sensation. How act without clear edges? She felt that this
spreading was not an honest way in which to relate to the world.

Great goddess Artemis. Goddess of dark, of moon, of the inner
quest, hear me. Help me to close this wound and make me whole
again.

She made offerings: fir cones, feathers, the white transparent bones
of rabbits. She made libations of icy spring water. Could she reach
the source and bathe herself, Artemis would stanch the blood.

If she could get there without leaving behind her a trail like a
wounded animal.

***

Clytemnestra knew she should feel pride when men expressed
their admiration for her eldest daughter. But she was accustomed

402 e l i z a b e t h c o o k

to such compliments being for herself. ‘She is as lovely as her mother
was at her age’ is not a sentence calculated to gladden a handsome
mother.

When Agamemnon had said ‘She should have her choice of all the
princes of Achaia, as Helen did,’ Clytemnestra replied, ‘She is
too young. She is not ready. She prefers climbing trees with boys
to the company of men.’

This was not true. Iphigeneia preferred to climb trees on her own.

***

When her mother asked to see her she felt sure she must have found
out. The bleeding had stopped after a few days but she had watched
her blood feathering its way down the stream as if it were a message
being carrried. When she buried the bloodied rags that no washing
had made clean she felt as if she were burying a small murdered
animal; even possibly a child. So, when the call from her mother
came, Iphigeneia felt something like guilt—a confusing, unclear
emotion which was new to her. When she approached her mother,
holding her head high as was her custom, she felt that she was
imitating her usual stance.

As if the bloody transgression of her limits had introduced
duplicity.

***

Her mother was in queenly mode.
Iphigeneia curtsied. A princess to her queen.
‘Sit here child’, said the queen, patting a thick tussocky cushion

next to her.
‘What do you think about getting married?’
Iphigeneia started. Was this to be a punishment for her secret life?

First Artemis had rejected her, not healing her quickly when she had
asked for it; now her mother wanted to get rid of her.

‘I want to stay here. With you,’ she lied. ‘A wife must leave
her family behind and enter her husband’s. My home is here in
Mycaenae.’

‘A girl in your position cannot always choose her destiny. Your
father has sent for you. You are to travel to Aulis where the whole

iphigeneia’s wedding 403

fleet awaits your marriage. Nothing else will release the winds that
will carry them to Troy. Artemis requires you to marry Achilles.’

‘Artemis?’ She could not disguise her astonishment. That Arte-
mis, the chaste goddess whom she felt she had lost and whom she
longed to get back to, should require her to marry!

Clytemnestra had expected the astonishment to be at the other
name and that was what she heard.

‘Yes, Achilles. Without him we have no chance of victory. And
without his marriage to you, they’ll never reach Troy to find that
victory. I can understand your amazement. He is said to be out of
the ordinary. A wonder. Though in age hardly more than a boy, he is
already a big man.’

There was an invitation to something in her mother’s eyes which
Iphigeneia did not like. Clytemnestra, a little flushed now, con-
tinued.

‘We have no choice in this. The sooner we can reach Aulis, the
sooner this can be accomplished. Think what you will need (you are
yourself a dowry but your father will provide another). Do you
know what it is a wife must do?’

The girl knew exactly what it was her mother was asking, but she
did not want to hear it from her. Feeling trapped, she looked
sideways, to where the open door framed pale sky.

‘You will have to bear him children. Do you know how it must
be?’

‘I have seen animals’, she replied. ‘I know what to expect.’
Clytemnestra thought how gruff her daughter had become. How
awkward. She who so often moved with the grace of a deer.
‘Is your body ready to bear? Has the blood come?’
Shame, like duplicity, is new to Iphigeneia, but now it comes—a
hot, dirty sponge thrown at her by a jeering lout. Now she would
really like to break away. The rectangle of light at the door calls to
her.
‘Oh, that came long ago’, she says, and bolts.

***

Agamemnon sent Odysseus and Talthibius to escort them. Talthi-
bius rode ahead, bearing a splendid azure flag.

404 e l i z a b e t h c o o k

The journey to Aulis took five days. She knew it was coming to an
end when she smelt salt on the air. She tasted it with a quickening
appetite. When they came to a sheltered stream, she insisted—with
a command that surprised her—that they stop and set up camp.

‘We are nearly there, madam,’ said Talthibius. Your husband and
the entire Greek fleet are waiting for you.’ ‘Then I must be ready to
meet them,’ she replied. ‘I must meet them as a princess, not a dusty
traveller who looks like a suppliant. I need to bathe, dress, prepare.’

Odysseus’ response was suave.
‘Forgive me. I’m just a brute of a soldier, ignorant of the needs of
women. We will rest here during the morning—will that be
enough?—then we will all be your servants.’
Iphigeneia bathed alone. No blood issued now and it seemed to
her strange that it ever had. She felt herself sealed, complete. The
idea that a man would soon enter her seemed an impossibility. Both
inner eyes had stopped receiving and she was left without know-
ledge or instinct while at the same time her senses were alive, ready
to receive whatever came. She could not quite believe that Artemis
wanted this marriage and, when she prayed to the goddess, she felt
no answering clarity. Yet at this moment she was clear; not clear
about anything, ignorant as she was of what was to come, but clear
as a blade of grass is clear, or dew on a leaf. Simple.
After she had bathed, she oiled herself, wondered how it would be
to have hands other than hers or a maidservant’s do this; felt her
body reach out to meet the imagined stranger’s hands. Then she
dressed in the white, gold-edged robe she had chosen. Only then did
she show herself to the others.
She took the reins as they rode into Aulis. The sight of the two
thousand ships tethered restively in the bay was completely unex-
pected. The scale and reality of the expedition shocked her with its
predatory intent. At her entry a hush fell on the troops. She felt the
anxiety of their waiting as if it were a membrane about to burst.

Did this adventure of marriage always require that a daughter
betray her father?

iphigeneia’s wedding 405

Her father embraced her with tears.
‘Don’t think you’ll be losing me, father. I will always be your child.’
At which words Agamemnon wept the more.

Clytemnestra had also availed herself of the halt to make herself
fine. She had not seen her husband for weeks and, though she knew
his bed would have been well supplied, she hoped his edge might
also be keen. She wanted her splendour to shock him so that he
would long to be alone with her.

But he barely glanced at her. It was only their daughter he saw.
She knew that Iphigeneia had always been more beloved to him;
she felt herself to be ugly and ridiculous with her big jewels and
heavy perfumes, her vivid rustling garments. She looked at her
child, straight and simple as a crocus, and felt that her own body
was becoming its tomb, her flesh coarse as boar’s meat, dark,
pungent, an adult taste. Not one that her husband craved.
In a voice of frigid civility she asked,
‘When is our child to meet Achilles?
At which Agamemnon collected himself.
‘Soon. Soon. All is being made ready.’
And again he clasped his daughter to him and would have stayed
like this—stroking the head which was crammed into the hollow
beneath his shoulder—if Odysseus had not insisted,
‘Sir, the troops are eager to see your daughter and the full rites
performed. Only by giving your daughter in this way will the fair
winds we need be provided.’
‘I am anxious’, said Clytemnestra, ‘to meet our new son.’

***

Now she was here and the sea air plucking at her senses, Iphigen-
eia’s seeing had come back to her. She saw how her mother was with
Odysseus: a kind of habit of conquest, a desire to make every man
want her regardless of what she wanted with him. Doubtless her
mother would be like this with Achilles too. The thought made her
flush with a sense of possession that surprised her.

She did not want to be delivered like a gift. She wanted to see him
first, unobserved by others. She wanted to see him before he had
seen her.

406 e l i z a b e t h c o o k

‘Talthybius, will you show me him?’
The herald shot a glance at Odysseus who returned the slightest
of nods.
‘Go on then, but not for long.’

She put on a dun-coloured cloak which completely covered her
bright dress. With her face scarved against the wind she could
have been any one of the women who provided the camp. Talthy-
bius took her to a small corral where Achilles was grooming his
horses, polishing the coat of a tall grey till it gleamed like the pelt of
an immortal. The man also seemed to gleam with a strong radiance.

This is the man that Artemis has chosen.

How could she not have wanted him for herself? What goddess
would not choose such a man, beautiful and powerful as the swift-
est, finest animal can be and as a human seldom is? As lacking in
guile as an animal too. She watched the sure way his large hands
swept over the horse’s flanks. That this man would be hers to touch,
to caress; that she would be his. This was the culmination which her
body had been humming its way towards. A hum which now
wanted to burst into song. Into flame. The glory of it!

But Clytemnestra, uninvited, had followed. For some minutes she
had stood beside her daughter and the herald, admiring the way the
man in the corral handled the horses. Then, not content with
silence, she lifted the barrier and entered. The horse immediately
shied and Achilles turned on the intruder with fury. He did not
recognize his commander’s wife but Iphigeneia felt it would have
made no difference if he had.

‘That was a stupid thing to do. You wouldn’t want to fall under
these hooves.’

For a moment Clytemnestra looked vexed, but she summoned a
coquettish smile.

‘Forgive me for the intrusion. But as your future mother I have to
meet you.’

Alarm now mixed with anger on Achilles’ face.
‘I already have a mother’, he said.
‘And when you marry my daughter you will acquire another.
That is the way.’

iphigeneia’s wedding 407

He did not even glance at Iphigeneia. Instead he glared at Cly-
temnestra.

‘What makes you think that I’ll marry your daughter? When
I marry, I will do the choosing. Not even my own mother can tell
me who it should be.’

Now Clytemnestra stopped smiling.
‘We have travelled day and night, at Agamemnon’s bidding, to be
here so that you can be married to our daughter as Artemis com-
mands. How dare you insult us and the gods.’
‘Then Agamemnon should consult me before dragging me into
his plans.’

Iphigeneia tightened her cloak as if it could lessen the smart. Could
she have done so, she would have wrapped herself up into a cocoon
so as to become invisible, and burrowed the cocoon into the earth
where her humiliation and hot anger might be calmed in darkness.
She wanted only to be away from them all.

‘Let me alone. I need to pray. I will be safe.’
This time as she picked her way through the confusion of the
camp she hardly noticed the soldiers, snarling with boredom and
impatience to see war, and they paid no attention to her—a drab
and muffled figure who protected her face from the sand in the wind
as they all must. The wind that had so long kept the fleet from
sailing made progress hard as she approached the shore. The sky
was messy with gulls, their cries, like the soldiers’, smothered by the
gale.
She came to the harbour: row on row of dark ships rising and
falling, clashing and jostling, the empty rigging making a high-
pitched clatter like the drumming of the beaks of the slim, hungry
birds the ships resembled, pecking at the sea.
She wanted to be free of them too, to get beyond the harbour with
its men and women clamouring and making claims. She wanted to
be herself again, not a chattel to be traded. She heard what Achilles
had said and recognized its rightness. She too would choose. If
denial was her only choice, then she would deny.
At the edge of the harbour there were rocks. She clambered over
these and crossed a small beach to where the cliff thrust itself out
into the bay. She climbed the cliff, bloodying her hands, then hauled

408 e l i z a b e t h c o o k

herself over the lip at the edge of the turf. A gorse bush, still hanging
on to its yellow flowers in spite of the wind, gave her some shelter as
she sat, shaking at first from the effort of climbing. She looked back
at Aulis.

From her beacon point she caught little parcels of sound from the
camp. They tugged at her, then let her go. She imagined death might
be like that at first—little gusts from the world of the living which
were then snatched away. Like the thought of a future as Achilles’
wife; for a few brief moments she had been busy with it, then the
wind tugged it away and she knew it had never been going to be.
Sadly, for she would have liked to have experienced a warmer, more
human destiny, she made her way back. Her light was so contained
now, her inner being so quiet, that even if her cloak had fallen, no
one would have noticed her retrace her steps.

***

When she returned to the camp Achilles was there. Did he now,
after all, want her? A spasm of hope pierced her calm. Clytemnestra
was with him. Their expressions showed there was to be no rejoi-
cing. They greeted her in silence and Iphigeneia could see that her
mother had been weeping. The queen embraced her, holding her
tightly, rocking her, kissing her head and crying while Achilles
looked on.

‘Lady’, he said at last, ‘I have come to offer you my service. We
have both been the victims of a trick. You were brought here, not, as
you believed, to be my wife (I knew nothing of this) but to be a
sacrifice. I have been used as bait to fetch you so that Artemis can
have you.’

Iphigeneia went very white but she remained standing and did not
shake. Her mother’s serious grief was new to her, she had had no
idea that her mother was capable of such feelings or that she, her
daughter, could provoke them. It touched her—made her almost
feel the elder, wanting to be the comforter. And Achilles, she felt
from his look that he might now choose her.

She had very little interest in the expedition to Troy and little
doubt that the pursuit of Helen was a pretext. Men went to war
when they chose to; they would always find a reason. To her it
would be no tragedy if the fleet never sailed.

iphigeneia’s wedding 409

But Achilles had said so that Artemis can have her. The words
resonated inside her and seemed to open a highway in her body to a
future she could claim. The goddess had not failed her. The connec-
tion she had thought lost had guided her to this place.

Achilles was telling her how he had learnt of the plot from one of
his soldiers. (That they should know and not he!) Calchas had
divined that the fleet would never sail—that Artemis would keep
them there, wind-bound at Aulis—till Agamemnon had given his
beloved first-born child, not as priestess or bride but as sacrifice.

‘Then let Artemis keep us at Aulis!’
And let him become husband to Iphigeneia and defend her from
anyone who would harm her. Why should Menelaus’ hurt pride
count for more than the life of this princess?
‘I will talk to my men. With the Myrmidons to defend you you’ll
be safe.’
Taking Iphigeneia’s silence for consent, he bowed to her, and left.

Daughter and mother sat for some moments in silence, each
absorbed in imaginings that amounted almost to plans. Each resting
in the spreading silence.

Then Clytemnestra spoke.
‘If he kills you, I will kill him.’
The silence returned and the words spread out into it. There was
nothing extravagant in them. They named only the truth.
The two inner eyes—the heaven eye and the earth eye—were both
wide open. From their different perspectives they saw the same
scene and between them held it firm. They saw the blood flow
from Iphigeneia’s death and Agamemnon’s shocked, astonished
face, his child unable to protect him.
Now, as never before, Iphigeneia found something to admire in
her mother; another kind of being than herself, but brilliantly so.
She was glad she had reached this point where she could appreciate
the woman who had made her. Now she looked steadily at her, able
to bear the intensity of the returning gaze.
But she knew that her mother would never understand the path
that was forming inside her, the royal road along which Artemis had
already begun to guide her. Easier to let her mother think she would
accept Achilles’ offer. The saffron wedding garment which they had

410 e l i z a b e t h c o o k

carried with them from Mycaenae, branches of hyssop and juniper
between its folds to scent it, had been laid out in readiness earlier
that day.

It was time to prepare for the altar. Like any other daughter, she
would ask her mother to help her.

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