Friday, 12 June 2009


The waiting game (Clytaemnestra)

Take one who weaves with measured industry a web
that cannot hold her grief. She finds relief
in hating, tracing her loss in warp and weft,
stretching her rage as cord on cord unreels.
How fast he dropped his father’s cloak for armour.
If only she’d unstitched his sails, slashed stays,
lopped masts, strap-strained his greed
to hear his name sung.
A girl’s death plumped limp sails!
Instead she spins fast strands, soft-gleaming
in the light like strings of rain, last robe
to stain in hues that are his royal due,
and maps in silver lines a hungry grid,
empty just now, a subtle gift, a trap.


swiss said...

my question around this would be - what are you telling me? but seeing as the internet is not ideal for that...!

as usual i love the physicality of it. i like the unmaking nature of the start of it, particularly 'cord on cord unreels'

i visualise clytemnestra as in john collier's picture and i can see that anger in this

Marjojo said...

Hey swiss, thanks for your comments! Not sure about your question - is it regarding the validity of re-telling an old well-known story? No, don't think it is, maybe you think I'm not bringing anything new to it? If you like write me an e-mail to

swiss said...

am currently colliding with the end of work and getting ready for hols so maybe a bit of time. and of course the more goes by the less i have my first impressions!

but will be in touch!