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Anna Livia Plurabelle
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The Legend of Philomela
(Based on Ovid; found in the notebooks of a James Joyce character impersonating her author because... logic!)
Tereus was a wee little king.
A wee little queen was he.
(No, I’m thinking of Tiresias.
I mix them up, you see.)
Tereus was a wee little man
and he wanted a wee little wife.
He sent for young Miss Procne
to share his royal life.
She came by boat, epi oinopa
ponton and all that.
She brought her coats and dresses,
her best grey Tilley hat.
She brought her little sister
to be the maid of honour.
The girl’s nickname was Melly
(Philomela is longer).
The wedding was a grand affair;
there was a lot to eat.
Philomela liked the pudding
and savoured every treat.
She also eyed a duke or two
but I should skip that part—
Melly’s supposed to be quite pure.
I learned this off by heart.
(During these paltry human acts
the sea rolled on, serene.
Its mists were dark, its waves were tinged
with hues of pale snot-green.
That’s clever — I might someday
make use of that once more.
But meanwhile, the dawn came up
without a metaphor.)
Tereus was getting bored.
He deeply rued his choice;
(I’ll be anachronistic here —
I can be, I’m James Joyce — )
in fact, he liked his girls to be
‘twixt nine and fourteen, tops.
So he preferred Philomela
to Procne (that old mop).
He said to Melly, “Sister dear,
please take a walk with moi.
The forest is so beautiful,
there’s many things to voir.”
Said Melly, “Brother dear, that’s fine,
meet me at half-past three.
But please don’t talk in rhyme like that.
It irritizes me.”
He said, “By gob! That’s not a word.
Such neolects annoy.
What the bleep is wrong with you?
Have you read James Joyce?”
Said Melly, “Never, in my life.
I just can’t stand that writer
I’m all with Martin Amis,
I think Nabokov’s much better.”
So off they went into the woods.
The trees were very tall.
At ten to four, they bumped into
a run-down shack, quite small.
Tereus said, “Hmm. Kind of cute.
It needs to be cleaned up.
Melly, since you’re female,
could you sweep? I’ll dust.”
But Philomela turned in rage.
She yelled, “How do you dare!
Do you have no respect for me?
‘You’re female — sweep’? Unfair!
It violates my human rights,
it really does, I’m sure.”
At that, he threw her on the ground
and violated her.
When he was done, he said to her,
“Now don’t you tell your sis.
She’d be extremely jealous
if she got word of this.”
So Melly cried, “I’ll call the cops!”
He pondered. “Hmm. I doubt
I’ll make my point by argument.”
So, snip! Her tongue was cut.
He left her weeping, bleeding, mute,
but little did he know
the walkie-talkie in her belt
could radio Morse Code.
She SOS’d her sister
who sent a rescue crew.
Then Procne set to cooking
a special kind of stew.
She dangled her own infant son
over the boiling pot
(apparently born overnight—
I know, such shock and awe)
while humming, Num, num, babies,
then SPLASH! she dropped him in.
She turned, once he was boiled,
the blender to a spin.
At six Tereus came in
and asked, “Is supper done?”
“Yes,” said Procne. So he ate.
“Oh, yeah — it’s our own son.”
And Tereus chased her, in a rage,
seizing the dripping pot;
and he chased Melly, who was there
to see revenge (served hot).
He chased them far and wide and long,
he chased them here and there,
he felt they both deserved to die.
He thought that would be fair.
But Fortune pitied all of them,
and so, with bitter laughter,
she turned them into birds. They lived
symbolically ever after.
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