The Judgment of Paris
The goddesses were fighting. Women.
Zeus, the coward, wanted to keep out of it,
so he put me in charge. I may be mortal,
but I sure know women. I have had so many.
Still, these ones were fearsome: Hera,
wife of Zeus, vengeful by all accounts,
Athena, goddess of war, and Aphrodite,
conquering lesser men with her wiles.
Vain, like all women, each claimed
to be most beautiful, demanded
that I judge. Though I am usually smooth,
these goddesses gave me pause: I could choose one,
but the other two – who knows what they might do?
Not only that, but I was having trouble
choosing: Hera with her voluptuous ass. Athena,
with legs up to her neck. Aphrodite,
her tits firm and high. I needed a minute.
Then, the goddesses offered
me bribes. Hera offered Europe
and Asia – but who wants the responsibility?
Athena promised Troy victory in a
war with the Greeks – but there is no war.
Aphrodite offered me the most beautiful woman
in the world as a wife - I don’t want a wife.
But I could not demure. The goddesses
were done with my diddling. They demanded
an answer. So I took the beautiful wife.
What harm could it do?
Zeus, the coward, wanted to keep out of it,
so he put me in charge. I may be mortal,
but I sure know women. I have had so many.
Still, these ones were fearsome: Hera,
wife of Zeus, vengeful by all accounts,
Athena, goddess of war, and Aphrodite,
conquering lesser men with her wiles.
Vain, like all women, each claimed
to be most beautiful, demanded
that I judge. Though I am usually smooth,
these goddesses gave me pause: I could choose one,
but the other two – who knows what they might do?
Not only that, but I was having trouble
choosing: Hera with her voluptuous ass. Athena,
with legs up to her neck. Aphrodite,
her tits firm and high. I needed a minute.
Then, the goddesses offered
me bribes. Hera offered Europe
and Asia – but who wants the responsibility?
Athena promised Troy victory in a
war with the Greeks – but there is no war.
Aphrodite offered me the most beautiful woman
in the world as a wife - I don’t want a wife.
But I could not demure. The goddesses
were done with my diddling. They demanded
an answer. So I took the beautiful wife.
What harm could it do?
The Fall of Icarus
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After Pieter Bruegel
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Together, the fishermen drag their wooden boat
down the beach toward the water. The black paint
is peeling, but the wood holds firm.
They’ll have to build a new one, but not yet.
Although it is morning, the sun
is already warm. They wade in, guiding the boat,
the crisp water cooling their bodies. Thigh deep,
they haul themselves out of the water
and land on the bottom of the boat,
belly down, like beached fish.
They heave their oars into the oar locks
and begin to row out into the azure Aegean.
They row a mile, as they always do,
to where the fish are running --
their backs and arms strong with time.
They stand, balancing on the curved bottom,
stretch across the gunnels, and throw their nets
out over the sea. Then they sit and take
their breakfast, bread and cheese
and water from a goat skin pouch. They pass
the time: one says his pregnant wife complains
of leg pain; the other that his son is still too small to help.
But mostly they are silent and sit
for hours, staring out over the waves,
listening to them lap at the sides of the boat,
waiting for their nets to fill. As the sun hovers
at its zenith, dozens of white feathers float
by, dancing on the waves. The fishermen
remark: so many, so large, so far out.
They shake their heads: it’s odd,
and then resume their day,
the hot sun and the waves lulling them into a stupor.
Hours later, as the sun sinks in the sky,
they pull in their nets: it’s a fine catch.
down the beach toward the water. The black paint
is peeling, but the wood holds firm.
They’ll have to build a new one, but not yet.
Although it is morning, the sun
is already warm. They wade in, guiding the boat,
the crisp water cooling their bodies. Thigh deep,
they haul themselves out of the water
and land on the bottom of the boat,
belly down, like beached fish.
They heave their oars into the oar locks
and begin to row out into the azure Aegean.
They row a mile, as they always do,
to where the fish are running --
their backs and arms strong with time.
They stand, balancing on the curved bottom,
stretch across the gunnels, and throw their nets
out over the sea. Then they sit and take
their breakfast, bread and cheese
and water from a goat skin pouch. They pass
the time: one says his pregnant wife complains
of leg pain; the other that his son is still too small to help.
But mostly they are silent and sit
for hours, staring out over the waves,
listening to them lap at the sides of the boat,
waiting for their nets to fill. As the sun hovers
at its zenith, dozens of white feathers float
by, dancing on the waves. The fishermen
remark: so many, so large, so far out.
They shake their heads: it’s odd,
and then resume their day,
the hot sun and the waves lulling them into a stupor.
Hours later, as the sun sinks in the sky,
they pull in their nets: it’s a fine catch.
|
Elizabeth Hill was a Finalist in the 2022 Rattle Poetry Contest. She was nominated for the 2023 Pushcart Prize by Last Stanza Poetry Journal. Her poetry has been published in 34th Parallel Magazine, Boomerlit, SAND, and Catamaran, among other journals. She is currently an MFA candidate at VCFA. She is a retired Administrative Law Judge who handled suits involving learning-disabled children and the school system. She lives in Harlem, NYC, with her husband and two irascible cats.
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