Goddesses
A poem written because Hippocrene gushed.
I first learned about Medusa in grad school. It was [inaudible mumbling] years ago, so please forgive me if I get some mythology facts wrong.
Medusa, a mortal, served as a priestess in the palace of the goddess Athena. Medusa was, by all accounts, beautiful. Poseidon thought so, too, which is why he raped her. Athena, who was, famously, a virgin, couldn’t punish uncle P, so she took her wrath out on Medusa, turning her into an ugly gorgon with snakes for hair and the ability to turn men to stone with a single glance. She defiled the palace, after all. (Sound familiar? What was she wearing?)
Ashamed, Medusa banished herself to an island at the ends of the earth with her two gorgon “sisters,” where she could live out her days in peace.
Perseus, however, had other plans. He wanted to prove his loyalty to Athena, so he devised a little plan to capture the head of Medusa and bring it back to Athena. Using a winged helmet and sandals and the gift of a very polished, reflective shield lent to him by Athena, he set off to behead her. Success! As he did, the children of Poseidon came out of her neck hole. One of them was Pegasus, who flew out and struck Mount Helicon with his hoof, causing the fountain of Hippocrene to gush. Henceforth (sorry), anyone who drank from that spring was given poetic inspiration. (In other words, Medusa birthed poetry.)
On his way back to Athena, Perseus stopped at the sea to clean himself of all the blood, setting Medusa’s head on a bed of seaweed. The seaweed was instantly petrified and turned into coral. (Thank you, Medusa. I love orange.)
I was enamored when I heard the story, and I immediately wrote what would be my first feminist poem. It was published in Gargoyle as a spoken word cassette in 1989. Since then, Medusa has been something of a heroine to me—to make so much beauty out of such tragedy.
Last night, after an unpleasant day, I came across a gorgeous Black Milk sweater with Medusa’s head on it, and all the memories came flooding back. I had a little conversation with someone named Em, who handles Black Milk’s socials, and told her about my fascination with Medusa. This poem is for Em. (Use the link in the caption to purchase. Black Milk never disappoints (unlike raw milk).
Goddesses They asked for it, all those raped goddesses. They deserved to be crushed by oversexed bulls and swans and gold. They asked for it with all their sun worship and their lovely ankles, all those raped goddesses and their bastard children. If only we all had Medusa’s charms: serpentine locks we could summon to hiss and evil eyes in our purses, so we goddesses won’t be mistaken when we say we really don’t want it. And when Apollo’s entire body gets a permanent erection, he’ll know we meant it. Leslie F. Miller
Love the poem! As I was reading your retelling, it seemed like not so much of a punishment for her to be able to turn men into stone, after what she went through. Actually very handy, as your poem demonstrates.