Abstract
Phoebe at Cenchreae
When I read in the Bible
that Phoebe was there –
early church leader
it’s like a message:
We’re already here.
With her Artemis,
Titaness, Amazon-hunter’s
forest figure, large hands
and strong shoulders, heels
strapped for running, bow
flexed; her buckled
Greek name. Now she finds
expanding out from that tough
core, an unexpected
gentleness. It’s like
a new, soft wind surrounds her. Even her clothes
feel lighter. Those strange stories
of the Jewish priest –
odd and ragged man
– they shake her. She thinks
of his eyes like Diana’s moons
in a wind-worn face,
or holes of sky in a piece
of village carpentry,
somehow brighter – she looks down –
than her girdle. The wings of her sandals
seem to be altering. Athene’s
statue looks different,
more aged, cracked
at the back. Alarmed,
she holds up the god and it falls to the floor,
painted plaster
breaking in pieces.
What, then?
She brings in some tapers,
bowls of olives, fish
and opens the door.
The noise of the port is startling,
streets filled with lives
and dirt. She sees it: this story’s
for them. Barefoot, with all of the hard-won
sylvan strength and sinewy grace
of her fighting sisters, she smiles
and beckons them in. Breaks bread
for them. The first wayfarers.
© Phoebe Power
bird poem
when you feel a bit lost, squeezed-out –
something shakes the trees
bird with a yellow front
– great tit
the leaves aren’t
still
here I am
© Phoebe Power