Sappho

Sappho

The skies are dark

and raw Aegean winds

betray the sounds of your approach:

chattering sparrows

that draw your car of gold and chalcedony.

I wonder: do you come for me?

Why should you? When many another

would be glad enough of your visit

and think you generous,

passing around portions of love

to mortals grateful for such trinkets,

and willing enough to make some offering

in thanks to you, great Aphrodite.

For me, there is the heaving sea

beneath these cliffs,

deep as all the mysteries

voiced by gentle Orpheus

and as full of promise.

For me, there are these island lines,

limned with the dew of a thousand mornings 

lying amber in dawn’s light

on the lithe and olive softness

of my lovers.

For me, there are these grey stones,

as hard and as dark

as your love truly is,

and as cold.

Why should you come to me,

great Aphrodite? Do you wish finally 

to learn what love really is?

Do you wish me to teach you?

My love is not bestowed by a god.

My love is fire stolen from heaven.

My love would burn the sun’s face,

rake tracks across the moon

with cruel bright talons.

My love is without mercy.

My love takes no prisoners.

My love is the pain and terror

of a beast caught in a trap.

My love is a torch that burns

all who touch it, when they imagine

that all that it does is light their way.

No, great goddess. I do not need you,

with your golden sparrow-drawn car

and your love-charms pleasing to mortals

grateful for trinkets.

No, great goddess. It is you,

you, who needs me. 

© David Bergen