By Jove’s resident poet Alexander Woodward shares something he wrote about the attack on Pulse in Orlando. The poem starts below the flag if you want to skip the intro.
Hello. My name is Alexander Woodward. I am By Jove’s resident poet. As a writing exercise, I am currently doing a 30/30, that is writing thirty poems in thirty days. It’s a good exercise, I recommend it. Scribble some doggerel, share it with the group of writers also doing the 30/30, get any feedback, then go to the pub. The poems don’t have to be any good, but I do have to write something each day.
Earlier in the week, I read about the attack at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. Then I read some more, keeping an eye on my favourite commentators to see when they posted about it, maybe then I would understand what had happened (Laurie Penny’s article is well worth a read, if you haven’t already). I turned off the laptop, picked up my notebook and fountain pen, and stared vaguely at the blank page. The only coherent subject in my head was Orlando. I didn’t want to write about Orlando. I didn’t think I had a right to write about Orlando. I am a cisgendered, heterosexual, white Englishman, what right did I have to comment on the senseless killing of gay people, particularly gay people of colour? I didn’t want to trample over people’s grief, obliviously waving my free verse around, knocking over the mournful banners, but I still had to do my poem for the day. So I thought I would scribble a little solidarity, post it to the writers’ group, and be ready to apologise profusely and take it down if I’d misjudged it and upset anyone.
The poets, it turns out, weren’t upset. There were enough positive remarks that I thought I’d post it on my wall, let my LGBT friends know I’m thinking about them, that sort of thing. It caught the attention of some of m’colleagues from By Jove who asked me to put up here so you lot could have a read. The text of the poem is below. If you like it or felt it helpful in some way, do feel free to share it.
PANTHEON
by Alexander Woodward
My dear, poor, sweet Orlando chaps and chappesses,
And those of you who identify with such things more complexly –
Chapons, I suppose,
Though that doesn’t feel right:
“-on” is a marker the tongues I love have taught me
Is suitable for those who are perfectly happy being neither male or female,
But it pluralises as “-a”,
Which then would mean that chaps and chappesses
Feel out of place in this sensitive, inflected grammar,
And everyone needs somewhere they don’t feel out of place.
That seems incredibly important now.
But it’s okay,
This is a problem I can fix.
I can wrap my opening line
Around an ancient tongue with more words for “love”
Than it seems English has room for,
And begin again.
Χαιρετε ω τε φιλοι και ω φιλαι και ω φιλα.
I’m afraid that is the only problem I am qualified to fix.
I do not know what to do or think or say,
Except that I love you for being you,
And my grief,
Distanced by privileged oceans though it is,
Sings a quiet elegy in harmony with yours.
That does not feel enough
Not nearly enough.
Not when there are those
Who say there is only one god,
A gnat-voiced spirit which lives inside their heads,
And lends their monstrousness a moral veneer.
So here is what I promise:
I will sack the libraries,
Scour the ancient texts until my eyes cannot focus,
And summon every god I can find
To stand with all the love-filled deities
To whom you are already so very precious.
I will instruct Ares to sow dragon’s teeth into the ground,
From which will spring an honour guard
I hope you will not need again.
Hera shall bless your hard won marriages;
Let those who want to take them from you
Contest with she who decreed that Herakles must labour!
Wise Athene of the flashing eyes
Once more goes to a hill where laws are made
To carve your inalienable worth into granite.
Hermes, caudecus in hand and in formal psychopompic robes,
Will pay the ferryman on your behalf.
You’ve paid far too high a price already.
Know, too, that on the other side of the Styx
Lies the realm of Hades
Who welcomes all as cherished guests within his house.
Zeus will weep his last tear,
And sweep away the storm clouds
So that the stage is clear and open
For you to watch beauteous Iris dance across the skies.
Her dress is traditionally made of rainbows,
And her hair is painted with the full spectrum.
Beauty will come back for you.
Then I shall call on Dionysus, youngest of the gods,
Who is sometimes known as The Liberator,
And who can appear either as hairy, rugged, and strong,
Or clean shaven, made-up, and with shining joy-gilt locks.
I shall call on him to open up his finest vintage
So that you can rise a glass to lost friends,
And that I can pour a solemn libation
To the mother of the muses.
I will beg her to remind me
That if my voice is to help my friends
I must speak until I am hoarse,
Set the world echoing
Until the tiny, hateful voices cannot be heard by anyone.
I am sorry if I have been lax in my duty.
I had forgotten how much the world still needs to change.
There are more beings on your side
Than it can sometimes seem.
Tell us if we can help
Or if you’d rather be left alone.
We will reply that we love you
For being human.
I hope you’re well.
