Essays / Poetry / Other

Even though the common reader may not be familiar with Ovid’s Metamorphoses, over centuries of circulation, this epic poem has woven itself into the very fabric of our present-day culture. In my thesis, I will analyze three of its most popular myths, searching for new feminist meanings in these ancient, male-dominated texts. In my introduction, “The Metamorphosis of the Metamorphoses: A Brief History,” I examine the epic’s history of translation and explore the ethos of retelling and reinterpreting stories about rape and female subordination. In my first chapter, “From Beheld to Beheaded: Medusa and the Male Gaze,” I show how Medusa’s gaze symbolizes the belief that to truly see and appreciate the woman would result in a man’s loss of identity. In Chapter II, “Modern Arachne and Ancient Webs of Female Misogyny,” I explain how Arachne’s myth exposes the patriarchy’s reliance on rivalry between women to maintain male dominance. Lastly, in “Pygmalion’s Womb Envy: The Male Suppression and Appropriation of the Female Procreative Life Force,” I prove that Pygmalion sculpts his perfect woman not only to use her as an object of sexual gratification but also as one of reproduction. Drawing inspiration from feminist theorists such as Laura Mulvey, Simone de Beauvoir, Susan Bordo, and Karen Horney—and depending exclusively on Stephanie McCarter’s translations—I analyze how the patriarchy uses stories to inculcate and perpetuate its ideology.

Before you discovered me,

I forgot myself

and only when you forgot me

did I remember:

Before I was yours

I was mine.

Before there was you 

there was me—

A sparkling, incandescent me

who always had another question to ask

another kindness to share

another song to sing

another shrewd remark to spare.

But then you came

and lit every room with a fire so bright

I thought I had lived my whole life in darkness.

And I blew everything that I was,

every laugh and smile and breath and thought,

like dandelion seeds to the wind,

to you, 

ever changing and capricious.

I gave it all to you.

There was a joy in the unburdening, the undressing, the departure.

I shed layers of my soul like a heavy winter coat, a hat, a pair of gloves:

Here, I said, shrugging off my faux-fur independence from my shoulders.

Here, I said, shaking the snow off the pom-pom atop my knit-wool conviction. 

Here, I said, tugging away my scarlet, silk self-love one finger at a time.

And you took

and took and took,

happy to lighten the load,

happy to bear the burden.

Oh, what a saint you were

to carry the weight

of the ghost I made myself for you.

How ever did you hold all that empty air?

I don’t blame you for what I became;

You didn’t take anything I didn’t already give. 

You were never so much a thief as a pirate:

exploiting my vulnerability, 

taking what I gave you to make a profit.

An artist and his muse—

I let you paint your dreams upon my flesh

and admonish me when you looked upon your design

And saw your nightmares looking back.

I gave you my body and you gave it to the world

And the world gave it back, mangled and distorted,

entirely changed from its original.

And you loved me, like every artist loves

and hates his art.

Though your love was always more cruel than your hate:

Hate doesn’t lie or last, but love

will take a hundred names and wear a hundred masks

and break the same heart a hundred times over.

And like every artist, your wild ideas lifted you

and drifted you elsewhere,

to another person to call your canvas,

another person willing to blow away every part of herself 

like a wish on a dandelion puff

in her pursuit of you.

I stood naked before your vacant easel,

empty air that I was.

You forgot me,

and I remembered:

before there was you,

there was me.

And before there was me, 

there was stardust.

I donned my winter gear:

Faux-fur independence snug around my shoulders,

Knit-wool conviction warm against the tips of my ears,

Scarlet, silk self-love soft against my palms. 

I will always be more than your art,

more than your muse,

more than what you gave the world

and what the world gave back.

You did not break me

or leave me unfinished or un-whole.

There are no pieces missing,

merely rearranged. 

You were always going to be an artist,

and I was always going to be mine and then yours 

and then mine again.

I was always going to forget myself and 

be found by you and forgotten by you

and remember myself.

And in the end, 

and in the beginning,

and in the always,

I was going to be made of stars.

How to express consent without words?
Eccho, without words.
Between desire within and desire without, how can one distinguish?
Eccho, ‘tis anguish.
Tis anguish, a virgin mirror-bound,
and to anguish is the mirror-virgin bound.

For when Man speaks, naught but his own words dost he hear.
Even no means yes (neuer, euer) upon his expectant ear.
The Nymph runs, and yet Man concocts to bound.
He prays for his preys and thinks praise is due;
He the fulfiller, the pursuer in the wood,
the first to have ful-filled her, thus forever distinguished.

The first to within the hour wet her flower with dew, 
to tempt, to take, and leave her residue.
To refuse is to jest and to love to deserve,
such is his justification to use and to serve.
Thus is the way of men in the wood:
Guided by wood to have as they would.

Virgin and virgin-lover bound:
One who wishes to be alone in the wood
and one who desires to sire within–
He who twice hears back his own words
twice-over and over will relieve his anguish,
flattering her a-while until spring is due.

Laughter or tears, she’ll have him in her ear:
Eccho, your beauty imposes upon me such anguish
After such pain inflicted, ‘tis not relief I deserve?
With a longing so strong, what else might a man do?
Of options there are few such when Man asks “if you would?”
than to give the cursed response: Eccho, if you would.

The Nymph and her voice, (and with it her choice,) bound
to that of another, her resolve his to undo.
His words or her words,
naught one way to distinguish.
Whatever did she do to deserve such anguish?
She fears she may never escape from the wood.

Having left his mark within, his pride thickens upon adieu.
Blinded by his words repeated, he cannot see her own has withered thin.
He cannot see her: Eccho, with her din.