Arachne

(Inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses)

 

 

Lydia is where I come from.

Since childhood, weaving is my life.

My parents are just common folk.

Spin, shed, day and night; reel and free of strife.

 

Clothes, fabrics I weave become famous art.

The word is out; nymphs, villagers come to see

my finished pieces as well as

how I plied my art, humming like a bee.

 

They said it must be Pallas who coached me.

My pride refuses to admit such a lie.

All along, I have taught myself.

Bring her on, I’ll compete even if I’m to die.

 

Pallas disguised herself as a crone and spoke:

“You can have all the fame you wished,

but be wise, admit goddess is your teacher,

ask for forgiveness before all is banished.”

​

That irks me, I stop my work and yell back:

“Tell that to your daughter, you senile idiot.

For myself, I listen to my own voice.

Thanks, but no thanks, you nut!”

 

“And nothing changes my opinion, or my stance,

do not think you’ve already made your case.

Why does goddess shun a match with me?

Why not challenge me, cut to the chase?”

 

“This is it, here she has come,”* goddess answers.

She casts off her disguise of old age.

A stunt before your eyes, Pallas reveals herself.

Everyone bows to goddess of wisdom, courage….

 

A sudden flush, then I calm down.

The rest are all in shock, spotlight is on me.

How foolish to confront goddess, most think!

Regardless, this is my fate, let it be.

​

All quiet now, skilled fingers swiftly flying.

Hitch up their robes, the contest starts in no time.

Roll up sleeves; weft, warp, deftly at the shuttle.

Defy gods, seeking victory, is it a crime?

 

And against goddess of spinning, weaving?

Too late to second guess, the clash is on.

Pallas intends to teach us a lesson.

A master class unfolds, no battle to be won.

 

Athena shows off her genius.

Areopagus came first, the site

she won the contest to name the city Athens, 

named after Athena who seized the fight.

 

Struck any place even rugged rock,

Poseidon with his trident stood firm and tall,

a spring of water gushed out,

it’s his gift to claim the city; a pledge, a call.

​

Athena answered with her spear tip,

wherever it touched, full-grown olive trees

sprouted from ground laden with ripe fruit.

All gods marveled, Athena prevailed to end all pleas.

 

Athena glorifies the majesty of 12 deities.

Noble, dignified, all seated on their thrones.

A divine stand to augment their supremacy.

Regal Jove in the center with august backbone.

 

And she renders 4 defiant mortals in 4 corners.

Olympian gods control the universe; condemn,

and turn man into mountains, crane, stork, temple steps;

gods, goddesses punish anyone who crosses them.

​

While Athena’s work reveals the orderly grip

and harmonious reign of 12 deities,

I tear apart all these lies and hypocrisies,

I pose seductions, rapes; shatter their dignities.

​

I name every woman who was raped by gods.

In vague recollection, there were 21 cases.

I expose these ugly truths; universe in shambles. 

I depict all the abuses and disgraces:

 

Jove led the pack with 9 rapes; Neptune for 6;

Apollo, 4; 1 each for Bacchus and Saturn;

I reveal all these terrors and brutalities.

The insults, attacks are just part of a pattern.

 

My finished tapestry is a flawless art,

everyone agrees, no one disputes the fact.

Art or fact, no matter, I‘ve snubbed the goddess.

I’ve crossed the line with my counteract.

 

My art was ripped, my face was struck by her shuttle.

Insult gods, defy authority, how dare you!

My fate is doomed, my life comes to an end.

Folks were tormented, nothing new as I always knew.

​

There is no place for me to turn to.

I find a noose, fix it around my throat.

Whilst hanging myself to death, Pallas speaks:

“I will not let you die, I will keep you afloat,

​

turn you into a spider; endlessly spin, weave,

eternally punish you and your offspring.

No one will ever hear your sigh or scream,

forever forbid you doing any wicked thing!”*

​

No mouth to speak. I was silent since then.

Weaving the same thing over and over,

again and again, no more art, no one comes,

all shun me, no one likes me, not even a satyr.

 

All day long I dream and reverie.

All the past glory and grandeur;

impeccable design, genuine oeuvre…

such a short distance, heaven to nadir.

​

Never will I admit doing anything wrong.

Infringe authority; broil, groan, everywhere,

protest, rebel; I witness countless revolutions.

Not me, never me, succumb to snare, despair.

 

Years, decades, centuries, millennia…

it doesn’t matter; all the blame, defame…

so unfair, I’ll wait. Finally, E. B. White found me.

He calls me Charlotte, I love the name.

 

E. B. knows I can weave. He teaches me how to write.

Terrific, Radiant. I was an artist, now a writer.

For Wilbur, “quite a pig,”** my dear friend I weave.

I tell him to live on, be a fighter,

​

ignore all the glamour, believe in himself.

“we each live a short while, then die.”** We’re born

for a good reason; remember Charlotte’s web.

Carry on Wilbur! In spite of the bloody torn.

​

As for me, I am grateful I can live on.

A drifter, a beggar, a martyr or augur…

thank you for listening to my story.

Call me Arachne, Charlotte or spider.

 

             

*Inspired by the poem “Metamorphoses,” by Ovid.

**Inspired by the book Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White.