The Death of the Goddess by Hogan Patrick Colm;McDermott Rachel Fell;

Author:Hogan, Patrick Colm;McDermott, Rachel Fell; [Hogan, Patrick Colm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: myth
Publisher: 2Leaf Press
Published: 2014-12-13T00:00:00+00:00

VII

A Dialogue on Love and Duty

After hours crossing the long plain,

and climbing up the mountainside’s steep slope,

she reached the shelf of stone where a boy

practiced stillness of the body and the soul. He stood

on his right foot, the left drawn up

above the knee, his arms twined like vines

before his half-closed eyes. The Goddess,

Plentiful, took up the same position;

she stood, immobile, facing Poison-Drinker,

like an image in a mirror; one male,

one female, but otherwise the same:

in height, hair, feature, frame – like twins.

For days, she stood this way, ate only

air, and concentrated on the soul.

When the Friend woke from his trance and saw

this girl displayed before him,

he wondered to himself, "Who does

this person think she is,

to come here uninvited, install herself

inside my home, and mimic me in yoga?

Alright, let’s see how well she copes

with a harder pose." The God of Anger rose

on one toe, raised the other leg,

his knee bent, the toe pointed forward,

then tilted in. His arms reached

toward the sky, and curled around,

as if he wanted to embrace the sun.

It was a frozen moment of the dance.

This too Little Mother mimed,

and stood, motionless, without a sound.

They held the pose so long that snow

settled on their faces, shoulders,

in their hair, but neither flinched.

So the God rocked back onto a heel,

stretched his right leg high into the air,

until it pressed tight against his cheek;

his hands reached up to grab the arch,

and extend the spine, till he stood straight and still

as spears butted in soft earth by soldiers

resting or at mess. His twin assumed

this posture too, and stood, for days, with just

minutest bend and slightest sway –

like a thick, deep-rooted tree –

when battered by hard blasts of wind.

In anger and frustration, he tried a fourth

position, and a fifth – but she matched him

in every balance, every bodily twist.

Each one, they held for hours or days,

or even weeks; they did not eat,

or sleep, or take a moment’s rest,

but continued to play out this silent rivalry

of disciplining mind, perfecting form.

And though she had no practice in the thing at all,

she held a thousand postures without a flaw.

The God of Tears at last concluded the event

and settled on the floor, like a lotus on its pad.

He sat, without speaking, and gazed

at this strange, exquisite, nameless girl.

Flustered by his silence and his stare, the goddess

mumbled nervously, "You need not fear.

I am no enemy." Then she felt

immediate distress at what she’d said.

"Now he thinks that I am a complete buffoon.

What clod believes that the Conqueror of Death,

who could defy the united strength of gods

with all their troops and weaponry,

would quake with terror to see that I

can balance for a week on my big toe!"

Her face and neck flushed red,

like the surface of a river, just at dawn,

when the women and the men come down

to bathe on different sides of a sharp bend.

The Friend, noticing her consternation, replied

with a teasing tone and teasing smile,

"Perhaps you are the greatest enemy of all."

She had no sense that what she’d said

was right, that his heart quivered in fright

each time he met her eyes

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