Penelope Poem by Linda Hepner

A compass is an old device
To make a circle round your love,
The lady Circe in a trice
Has just to raise her arm above

And wave her wand, and you are hers,
Her island now your distant home.
The compass folded in her purse,
Your weaving wife upon her loom

Makes pictures of his voyaging
And suffers storms and lulls and deeps,
For he forgot his compass ring
And she unravels as she sleeps.

She takes it out and spreads its feet
And puts the short end to her bourse
And makes a circle on her sheet...
The compass long arm bears no force

For easily it slips around
And traces circles on her skin
And hastily joins end to end...
The pleasure screw is flexed to win,

And lubricated with her oil
Is smooth as waters in a well,
But if it rusts or falls to soil,
The legs will split and fall to hell.

But knight, what ails thee on thy isle?
Enchanted, you have lost the tool
The Meta poet knew with guile
Could bring you home not as a fool

Searching for moonlight gold and tale
Of ancient heroes, gods and men;
When you return your brow is pale,
What heart is left beyond the Then?

Beyond lies madness, hearts' delay,
Messiah waiting, webs of lies,
'Where have you been? ' 'A busy day
So where's the compass? '

Circe cries:

'Come back to me, I am your guide!
I wish to sing in harmony!
You have no need of tools, with me
Twin minds lie singing and agree.'

He takes his long bow in his hand,
He leaves the bed the quilt the room,
The palace and his native land,
His woman and her weaving loom.

She holds the compass, shuts its legs...
The short end and the long and all
Her tears and heartache drain the dregs,
The Wise Man says, 'He is in thrall,

La Belle Dame Sans Merci there dwells
Upon the island, she is free,
Now must you share his heart which sells
Joined gifts to her? There is no plea

So wait, or weave, or wandering
Forget the compass, let it rust,
For he forever loitering
Has stolen all your faith and trust.'

The loom is still, the quilt is gone,
Teeming with life's broad tapestry,
The household god weeps for his son,
His priestess writes silent poetry

2.9.05
Edited for PH