Stylite

I.

In a time when goddesses were stronger

And held more sway upon the swords of men,

Great wars would have been waged in jealousy

So that a hero could claim her as prize,

But this modern age gives all more idols

Than idle hands in long past years had wrought.

II.

Close enough for scent, honeysuckle grew.

Without a grunt she lifted up a stone

Atop the ancient pillar, in ruins

All surrounded, and laid it in mortar.

In repetitions plain as old field songs,

Bit by bit she built up her balustrade,

Perfectly placed for her elbows to rest.

As she sat to wonder at the nightfall,

Two bluebirds flew to her, berries as gifts

(They were their feathers, her eyes, all deep rivers).

On her tower for a time there was peace,

Her provenance the work of the divine.

A rabbit, once murdered in pointless wrath

(Its tiny body broken on a fence),

Climbed resurrected, and offered itself,

A garden's thief returning what was owed.

Quail laid their eggs, smaller than fingertips,

In corners the wind did not dare to tread.

Which god had sired her, that she was thus,

A beauty sharper than a white diamond,

Her words more precious even than red gold?

No language could conceive her radiance!

But, lo! her refuge ceased to be secret

And suppliants gathered, seeking holy

Favors, their twisted tongues with their small schemes,

Suitors preying for cracks in masonry.

Crowns of kingdoms great and small were offered.

Mystic women promised to cure all ills.

Why should she return to the rocky earth,

That these pitiful fools should lick her boots

Instead of this new worship, eyes in praise,

Each plea pathetic in desperation?

Letters on their lined paper floated high,

Drunks drank beer and played acoustic guitars.

One night there were none around, and she mused:

"They killed Socrates for his proud courage,

Would they have followed him so far away?

Perhaps, perhaps, but they sought him for thought,

Never for the base pursuit of body.

Gods, what did one below say this morning,

With their fist beating upon stones battered,

Broken silence like an infantile hope

That mists away with dandelion florets?

-Oh, if only I cared for memory,

For what is it but claims upon a shore,

Fighting for earth that the sea will swallow?

They struggle to save me as if I drown

And am not ensconced within these safe heights!

But, even if deep in the freezing surf,

Why should I be bothered by fishermen?

Land from beneath water longs to return,

All islands are perversions of the world!"

All attempts at solitude seemed in vain:

From far below, the same advice was begged.

What should be done if drought consumed flowers?

"Pray if you wish, but wait and rain will come."

How could the pain of her absence be cured?

"Shall I bear a burden that you may stand?"

III.

In time she came to hold conversation

With the stars, weaving blankets with their stares.

"Hello bright moments, gently lying clocks,

You who have been dead longer than the gods.

I am a sorceress. You are summoned."

A silvered globe hung loosely in the clouds.

Three women came in a single instant,

The mother, laughing maid, and hunchbacked crone.

The youngest said, "You have asked a question."

The Wise one cackled, "All words are requests."

The saddest whispered, "We shall give answers."

High on her pillar, no fear ever rose.

"How can I make these suitors disappear?

Oh, I do not deny some slight appeal,

But they are Legion, demons of the deep

Who would have me in chains, golden tethers

As if such gestures lessen shackle's bite!"

From young to old, they interrupted her:

"Oh, do fishing boats capsize from full nets?"

"My dear, some have killed for such attention."

"Would you prefer a bench beside a loom?"

She shook her head and stomped her feet twice.

"I shake the dust of my land at your door,

I, a woman who will keep promises.

If you waste my time in childish riddles

I will call up fury of young suns."

From old to young, the three laughed and replied:

"Once I was confused with the dread Helen."

"I have children enough to know your tone."

"Perhaps I should stand nearby, to compare?"

A silence like a cannonade stood still.

A flicker of contemplation passed by

(Tears falling, never before having wept).

"Why do they all insist that they love me?

How is it learned to ignore their prayers?"

The crone let fall her shoulders, sighing grey.

"You know full well that they are traitors all,

That with soft skin they will tear you apart

If there is no way for them to find knives."

The mother crossed her arms and cradled air.

"Every sacred thing imagined has fled."

The maiden let her voice crawl out kindly.

"You are last of the truly immortal.

We would never have come for another.

It is not familial cowardice,

Only that these humans changed horribly,

Wishing to worship by eating gods alive.

Ah, the ramblings of youth, you know all this."

She slumped against the railing she had made.

"No, you are wrong, that cannot be the way!

To leave, take back my place as far-off star,

There is too much to do, I cannot flee,

The weight of shirked duty ringing, crushing..."

She blinked and two had disappeared, the crone

Remaining (though now standing by her side).

"Now that we are alone," the hag observed,

"We can discuss unpalatable things.

It must have occurred to you to kill them.

Since you did not do this reflexively,

I am sure you had a boring reason.

I will not try to convince you from it.

"If you do not wish to die, then grow old.

These men and women are deceived with ease,

Wrinkles and white hair will expose their lies,

And after they leave you can wear the face

You choose. You will need to build this taller."

More believe in the stars than in the gods,

But both were perishing in the sunrise.

The Old One said goodbye as the dead do.

She paced in the space she allowed herself.

"I wonder about that letter, the last.

Something about two thousand years ago,

A poet from a powerful empire

Who was suspicious that I existed."

IV.

The water in waves does not find shorelines,

It spins in storms, it barely moves an inch,

And there are many ways to be a saint.