My name is Calypso And I have lived alone
Calypso by Suzanne Vega, still telling tales of the hero Odysseus (800 BCE) in the 21st century.
I live on an island And I waken to the dawn
A long time ago I watched him struggle with the sea
I knew that he was drowning And I brought him into me
Now today Come morning light
He sails away
After one last night
I let him go
The ancient poems that we know were written down, which dates them from @2100 BCE onward. Few people actually read them aside from the kings, priests, or scribes, since very few could read. The earliest poems we know were meant to be said aloud, told as stories. Surely, you can picture the poet–man or woman–standing in the firelight, weaving words of magic in front of an audience as it dozes from the wine and the heat of a Mesopotamian summer night. Perhaps the poet’s eyes gaze at something above the listeners’ heads, maybe at the sparks of firelight that dance above the dark and form shapes of heroes and heroines, of lovers and fighters, whose tales sink into the dreams of the drowsy.
Most of the poems written long ago lost the battle of centuries. Much of what we have are cobbled-together bits and pieces from tablets crumbled away or papyrus half-shredded. None of it was originally written in English. Whatever we have is filtered: patched back together, translated, missing bits filled in, with interpretative decisions about lines, rhyme schemes, word choice. We have to accept it as is.
Continue reading “P is for Poem”
