“I stood tall in gold light
showering through green,
twisty roots, gnarled and
creeping stealthily above ground,
the soil rich with rain. My
nostrils flared, imbibing 
the liquor of soft pollen, 
drunken butterflies flickering.
I played faster and faster
picking plaintive tunes like
spurls of opalescent foam.

The boys danced flutes to lips,
the veil of sweat on ripe muscles,
skin cherished by Helios,
the tamp of sandals on the dance ground,
the bears shuffling just beyond
in the tents of the trees, the branches 
drooping low. Others playing along,
the wind roughing up the boughs.

The luster of it all —
moonstones and periwinkles,
a panther fleet as shadows.
We purred and hummed until
pain fell away like the last of the wine,
its dregs trampled on expectant earth.
I played and played: We sported 
with the stars, with the winds,
with the foam from the sea
spluttering in the southern breeze.

We lifted our throats and howled
like masterless dogs, we stretched 
our limbs to the gods above
and those below. We stood outside the walls.
We knew ecstasy, we drank deep
in those woods, me and the sons of the city 
and the beasts of the woods —
In that fruitfulness flow the poems
the songs the harmony
the draught of bee and grape.

That portion that was ours meted
and ladled out, that the sun 
and the leaves dappled like
the spots on the young leopard,
like the stripes of the fawn,
like the splay of ivy on pavement stones.

***

It’s hard to talk about that other place:
The dank walls, concrete and broken glass,
festoons of bone and wreathes of dust and ash.
Intermittently there are places
where the light filters down
to the well’s opaque bottom, 
which only set the longing of the heart 
keening. Time isn’t dissolved but is suspended
like wasps caught forever in amber.

There’s shuffling and taps, a faint tittering
but there is no music and that is
the hardest to bear of all.
Miasmic smells interrupt,
The rot of ships long sunk in shadows, 
the chilled echoes of babies’ last cries
and the snuffling of I know not what.

And then your eyes grow accustomed
— But you’re not sure as it is 
the merest shadow, a cobwebbed stirring,
but there is certainty
and I plumbed further taking measures, 
lowering a rope ladder
down further and further where

Eurydice cried in the spatter of 
falling silk in the rustle of papyrus 
in the drift of old pollen, as spiders 
scuttled soft as dust, of ragged veils 
and rent swathing, broken mirrors,
and feathers of sun-kissed honey birds, 
of sea wrecked treasures and the 
crumble of lavender, sage, thyme and rue.

The memories awaken as
I stand in the dark, the scents guide 
as I plumb the past and let
its voices speak — I think
of Theseus and Ariadne,
of Achilles and Patroklos,
and other rent lovers,
Herakles, my shipmate once, 
and Hylas who vanished in a pool
pulled down by lustrous forms

The sense of sound reawakens, 
and I remember my allure:
My guitar my harp my lyre
And I know she still dances 
somewhere in that dark waste
and the music sounds up again.

***

If you wish to find me look for me 
in old mirrors washed ashore, listen for 
my music between the waves in
half-heard broadcasts as you fall asleep.”

[Michael Routery has been fascinated by Orpheus, at least, since seeing Jean Cocteau’s Orpheus movies a long time ago. Michael is a polytheist and druid who lives in Portland, Oregon with his husband, an unherd of cats, and a multitude of books. A poet, a writer, a teacher, his work can be found in various anthologies and publications including Best of Eternal Haunted Summer, Brigid’s Light, Green Spirit, many Bibliotheca Alexandrina titles, and his book of devotional poems From the Prow of Myth.]