Andromeda: On Love

Here's Ruben's rendering of the Perseus and Andromeda myth. Beautiful, lush. Perseus, with the head of Medusa as his secret weapon, looks unbreakable. And things go well until the wedding feast. But what does Andromeda make of it all?


Andromeda

In Ovid, love is easy.
The hero spies a maiden
This one chained to a rock
He swoops to conquer
A dragon
Or a God
what difference
She sees the end in advance
And so doesn’t mind
Being chained to a pot full of beans
Or her baby’s new shoes
Certainly better than
Being ravaged by a dragon
And if not,
No worse.
But then the neighbors
Come calling…
The not in my backyarders
Old loves armed with swords
Who never stop to ask
If she wants to be saved.
Her father falls
her mother one more widow
mourning senseless tragedy...
But love is easy
chained to a hero
who turns all comers to stone,
And never once pauses
To drop his smile.

Io and Jove: On the Theft of her Voice

Io had it all…
A fat cat daddy…
And a house on the coast.
Beauty, brains,
This girl was built.
In her salon she excelled...
Small talk or substance,
The news of the day…
Io told it all…
She could talk until
the cows came home.
Who would have dreamed
That the dregs of society
Could dress in the raiment of royals?

A frenzied pursuit,
And the fog closes in.
His voice thunders, “By Jove
I'm a king,
She’s a cow!
I'll teach this
foolish heifer how
To pay proper respect to a royal.”
Jove pursues Io
And when the deed’s done...
Once lovely, refined
Is boorishly bovine.

Her fatuous father?
Displays of outrage!
Demands for justice!
Those gods have gone too far!
Her superior sire simply
hands her some hay.
“You were difficult as a daughter
But I thought you’d wed a god…
And now...as a cow
...perhaps a brahmin born bull..."

Disheartened Io continues to roam
Her sad cow eyes
In search of a home,
Until finally
The gods take pity.

Io has it all…
A fat cat daddy…
And a house on the coast.
Beauty, brains,
this girl is built.
But as far as entertaining
In her tony salon…
These days
She’s afraid to open her mouth.
Who knows what might come out?
A cheerful bon mot
Or a mournful moo,
Better to sit
quietly
in her corner.

Image: Wilhelm Bauer (1600 - 1642): Nuremburg