Penelope By the Window

a poem that came from a painting

In the Greek epic The Odyssey, the hero Odysseus carries the day. But it was his wife, Penelope, that caught my eye. There are as many interpretations of Penelope’s actions as there are translations of this story. She is a bit clouded in mystery. I get the feeling that Penelope traveled as far as her husband during the years of his absence, only her journey was not a physical one. It was a journey of spirit and heart that had to have left her feeling as lost as Odysseus, and no less changed.

I read what I could find about her, and in the process I stumbled upon a painting done by Thomas B. Seddon:

Penelope 'Then During the Day She Wove the Large Web, Which at Night She Unravelled

I found myself captivated by this painting, and this poem arose from that captivation. I suppose you could call it an ekphrastic poem, a poem that takes a work of art and enters into it, re-envisioning or drawing symbolism from it.

This is what I felt in that painting.

Penelope By the Window

I sail my ship of threads
into another night,
fraying and aging, listing
from the weight of the years,
I watch the gaping mouth
of the horizon
devouring my waters,
sea hands
sweeping my bow
into another lonely plain.

Will I know home again?

I stay alive for one more sunrise,
another vigil,
my only weapon my hands
weaving threads
of pretense and hope,
waiting for a sign,
spinning this roulette of prayers
blurring the lines,
a whispered cry to the gods
for answer.

Will the morning bring answer this time?

The world demands
the ending of my work,
not knowing what they ask,
their hands grasp,
stopping short
of this shrine, this shroud
masking things they fail to see,
my threads hold the sun
from falling on their pageant
before its time.

Perhaps it is time to let it fall.

All I have is an echo
of a mad hope,
silent and faceless,
I watch for a sunrise
only the underworld can bring,
I watch the skies
unravelling the night, watch
the daytime river
falling from my fingers
on the moonlit windowsill.

-s. rochelle