Eos At The Never-End
Eos At the Never-End
She took
to locking him in a room.
She took
to rolling rugs against the jamb.
She took no one
into her confidence,
not the sons of her womb,
the sons she’d won
by taking him,
then beautiful.
She, who gave birth to herself
each day anew;
she, who gave birth
to each day anew;
could do nothing–
against the decay
of his loved limbs,
the wither of his skin,
nor yet against
the forestalling of
the dust of him.
She took to polishing
everything;
burnishing the door’s brass handle
until it fretted into the flute
of an icon’s
pilgrim-palmed foot,
the metal worn to its marrow
by eons’ pleas.
She hummed, polishing,
as if dusting thin air,
but truly to guard against
the threadbaring
of the rolled rugs, their insufficient
immutability,
for she could not bear to hear
his gristled babble,
his dried tongue,
the chirping
of chapped bones.
Oh how she ached, when there;
oh how she hurt, when apart;
but still she could not enter,
not even in those dark hours
when oblivion corralled
her pale chariot,
and rose was a shade
not imaginable.
Especially
not then.
*******************************
Here’s a sort of poem for dVerse Poets Pub’s poetics prompt, hosted by Abhra Pal, to write a poem arising out of myth. I have resorted to the myth of Eos (the Goddess of the Dawn) and Tithonus, the human lover she captured, who, upon her request to Zeus, was granted the boon of immortality. Eos forgot, however, to request that Tithonus also be granted endless youth; thus he was doomed to live forever, growing older and older. There are numerous versions of the myth–in some Tithonus becomes so old and parched that he turns into a cricket; in others, he simply becomes very very old (and I guess, senile) and Eos locks him away in a room so that she does not have to hear his feeble babbling.
The above is a photo (supposedly in the public domain) of Eos and her son (by Tithonus) named Memnon, slain in the Trojan War. (So, it’s not Tithonus–too young–but a beautiful figure.) This is from an Attic red-figure cup, ca. 490-480 BC, signed by Douris (painter) and Kalliades (potter). It is sometimes called the “Memnon Pietà.” (It’s in the Louvre Museum. No copyright infringement intended.)
PS this has been edited since first posting; one edit was done on the iPhone and left out a word! But I think I’ve fixed that now.
Explore posts in the same categories: poetryTags: Dawn Shuts the Door Poem, Eos at the Never-End, Eos poem, manicddaily, what we don't talk about when we talk about love poem, yet another poem about Eos and Tithonus
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ManicDDaily 
September 30, 2014 at 10:58 pm
oh heck… how sad… made me think of the highlander a bit when he stayed young and his wife grew old and he loved her til the end… tough though when your’re in a way beyond age and there is no end in sight like in that story…
September 30, 2014 at 11:50 pm
A sad story.. Especially when we see today the obsession with youth.. But immortality on such conditions would not be the best.. I like the version of the myth when he turns into a cricket .. Thus his voice can still be heard.
October 1, 2014 at 2:43 am
This is such an interesting chapter of mythology – a great learning for me and I could see that metaphor in it so well.
Leaves me sad, yes – but also glad to know this. Thanks for joining the prompt Karin.
October 1, 2014 at 6:10 am
Sad..thanks for this share.
October 1, 2014 at 7:18 am
I have never heard of this myth, but I do understand the plight of Eos. In the end her life became a living hell. I think, even without the complications of on aging and one staying young, some people’s lives turn out much differently than they expected & become hellish.
October 1, 2014 at 8:02 am
nothing can be sadder than being a prisoner of desire and even immortality seems to be an eternal damnation…so sad…
October 1, 2014 at 8:44 am
nicely played k…full of feeling…what a helpless place of being as well….painful to be there….painful to be away….watching him waste away…reminds me of watching my MIL die over 2 years…
October 1, 2014 at 8:58 am
Groovy piece of work even if it is sad. Loved “the chirping
of chapped bones” and “when oblivion corralled
her pale chariot.”
October 1, 2014 at 10:06 am
Ageing is no walk in the park, but I hadn’t seen it as quite so tragic before…
October 1, 2014 at 10:51 am
This is exquisite work, K. The third stanza is breathtaking.
October 1, 2014 at 11:20 am
Thanks, Kelly. I realize I had a typo from an iPhone edit, but glad it didn’t interfere too much with the poem and thank you for your kind comment. k.
On Wed, Oct 1, 2014 at 11:51 AM, ManicDDaily wrote:
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October 1, 2014 at 11:02 am
This is a new voice for you, it seems, & a very expressive one. It is always good to weave morality into myth, legend, fairy tales–because we go away from it reminded of our own foibles, weaknesses & scotomas; nice take on the prompt; very well done.
October 1, 2014 at 11:34 am
Thanks very much, Glenn. You are right–I do not choose this kind of subject much and probably should branch out more, as it takes one farther from one’s self (a sometimes boring topic.)
Thanks again. k.
On Wed, Oct 1, 2014 at 12:02 PM, ManicDDaily wrote:
>
October 1, 2014 at 12:43 pm
This is elegiac and excellent, k, and of course, right in my own favored wheelhouse, so I adore it even more. The sharp specificity of the phrasing and descriptions(pilgrim-palmed foot, gristled babble), so indescribably other, really add an exceptional feeling of centering to that myth–I know this is one you have mentioned several times, obviously a very meaningful one to you. Here you bring the sadness and real horror of it to life, and that little thing all we mortals know in our hearts–you cannot trust the gods.
October 1, 2014 at 1:16 pm
I really like the repetition in the first lines of each stanza – fits in very well with that sense of daily renewal… and then it peters out, like his youth and beauty…
October 1, 2014 at 1:48 pm
A cold but true looks at the mortality of GODs and humans and without love whether mortal or eternal the room grows cooler and people grow distant..until death sets in.. even in life…
Have a nice day.. and smiles 2..:);)!
October 1, 2014 at 4:01 pm
This is a beaut I absolutely loved it!
October 1, 2014 at 4:02 pm
Reblogged this on Musings and Smatterings and commented:
Quite often I come across a poem such as this I wish I wish I wish id have written myself! Beautiful!
October 1, 2014 at 10:03 pm
Thank you so much. K.
October 1, 2014 at 4:16 pm
Wish this were one of mine.
Right on the mark.
October 1, 2014 at 4:51 pm
“an icon’s pilgrim-palmed foot” is brilliant. This is a riveting tale, so well told…………
October 1, 2014 at 9:59 pm
Thanks. k.
October 3, 2014 at 5:52 am
There’s a strain in myth and folklore where a great boon is gobsmacked by a fallibility: a woman fails to put the lid properly back upon the well (and so the town is drowned that night), Pandora peeks into the box, etc. Eos is not alone in this (or our need to blame women for trying to do a man’s job). Your poem reminds us to be careful what we pray for, and no matter what to read the instructions. As if! Delightful and devious details throughtout (that rug mashed against the door, as if to keep time out or the odors of decay in, the handle of the door which becomes a votive object of eternity, as if we could ever truly command such a door. Great write.
October 3, 2014 at 6:09 am
You’ve taken an ancient tragedy and infused it with a new and original dimension. Great imagination here!
Steve K.
October 3, 2014 at 8:48 pm
Thanks so very much, Steve. Much appreciated. I will stop by your site; I’ve been doing a lot of job work! k.
October 4, 2014 at 7:52 am
Wonderful! A refreshing change as I’ve have not seen anyone else use this myth. Well done.
October 5, 2014 at 1:46 pm
Like the first poster I also thought ot the Highlander movie, maybe based on this myth. This is one of those tales I read when little but didn’t “register” like the ones about Perseus and Hercules. Beautiful poem but very sad. Lovely feelings, especially from her to him.
Greetings from London.
October 10, 2014 at 9:25 pm
beautifully done. I’ve been a fan of greek myth since a child, and any retelling is welcome to me. ~