My dear readers, I am just back in Devon this very weekend, which means, among other things, that I am back among my lovely blue-filled boxes of Venus Year books, and that shipping is open again at last! A number of you have reached out to inquire about where to get books while I’ve been in California; I’m very glad to say that I’ll start shipping them out again next week.
In celebration, and to whet your appetites, here is a favorite summer-season poem from The Venus Year, written in the long days of dog-star heat on Crete several years ago. I was reminded of it recently when watching the summer stars on a clear night at home in California. The blue star Vega, eye of the constellation Lyra, was glinting through the little skylight over my bed. There is something about this particular star, tucked in the eye of the Lyre, that immediately settles me. Blue and sharp and clarifying, deeper than time, like the instrument I love.
I’ve recorded an audio version of the poem as well, if you’d like to listen along while you read; it’s just at the end of the text.
A note about lyras: In this poem I refer both to the ancient Greek lyre, for which the constellation Lyra is named, and the traditional folk lyra, a modern day Cretan instrument whose roots are Byzantine. The ancient lyre which we associate with Orpheus roughly resembles a small harp, and was played thus. The modern-day Cretan lyra, which I am listening to in this poem, and also holding in the photograph above, is not the same instrument, but is named lyra, the same word, because the word came to be associated with the leading instrument in any ensemble. The instrument that carries the melody or voice of the song, like the ancient bardic lyre would have done.
Lyra
Under a midsummer sky by the sea where the chapel of Agios Ioannis roots at the base of the cliffs of Liopetro those massifs of fathomless orogeny of purple slate and sideways uplift I saw the constellation Lyra gleam as it rose in the north above the ridge, the star Vega brightest of all among those celestial strings Down below, on Earth beneath the monastery’s shelter beside the cave that was holy before ever the monastery or the chapel came I listened from my bed out on the bluff to a lyra played like water All the men were up late singing their ecstatic songs to the trance of bow and string, to the rhythmic lute They were deep in their own mysteries drumming up the night, the lyra’s tone as dark and potent as mulberry fruit I wondered where the women’s ecstasies had gone I and the dog were the only women there keeping our own mysteries in silence, in dreams in our tent, under the stars, by the sea Lyra above, shining. Lyra below, ringing I felt a thread spin between them in the darkness, where the caves were shaped like cats, like vulvas, like hieroglyphs that I couldn’t read and only the goats could reach Lyra above, shining Lyra below, singing The thread between them is silk from the mulberry tree, from the woman at the beginning of the world who spun it to weave a ladder back to her beloved I don't know where the women’s trances went, their own ecstasies of lyra and lute But I saw the star rising, and heard the men playing and this was something This thread between heaven and earth I touched it The dog beside me stretched and dreamed belly up nine teats to the sky They say a female monk lived alone here long ago I imagine she was very peaceful, and strong as a goat I imagine she knew every star and bathed in the sea Chasteberry still blooms purple near the caves For a time I drifted between sleep and myth between song and star among strings made of night They say the Lyra in the sky belongs to Orpheus Kalliope gave birth to him, by the Thracian king In the darkness the sound of the lyra seemed to arise out of such depths of time Bright Vega shone, her light as sweet as a black summer mulberry, swallowed The lyra song, rich as wine aged from the time of Orpheus tasted like oaks and earth to the ear ‘Love has burnt my heart to ashes; may I make a medicine of this ash, to heal the hearts of others’ * When at last there was silence it was near dawn In the final darkness, the purple cliffs of Liopetro seemed to have been born only yesterday out of Chaos They paid no heed to the horizon They knew a song older than anything but stars And the music rang through every cave filling them like water
(c) Sylvia V. Linsteadt 2023 from The Venus Year * this is a loose translation of a Cretan mantinada, translated for me while listening to music on a winter night in a café in Archanes
Listen to the audio of this poem here —
books, classes, & other news!
As mentioned above, I am open again for Venus Year orders. You can find them here in my shop. I’ll start shipping at the end of this coming week.
This workshop is a celebration, both in our bodies and in our ancestral memories, of the summer fruits and herbs, in the lead up to the great old Marian celebrations on August 15th of the Assumption/ Dormition.
In this offering, we will wander through summer's fecundity and also the potency of the fruit tree, mythically, spiritually, and ecologically. You will discover inner fruits, ancestral fruits, healing fruits— through writing exercises, poetry readings, a meditation, and an essay, all recorded for you to work through at your own pace.
I hope that this basket of resources brings its own kind of blessing over the fruit of your life, and that you come away feeling nourished and refreshed.
Registration will only be open until August 15th, in honor of this ancient feast, but access to the material will be unlimited, available for you to visit and revisit and make your way through at your own pace.
You can read more about this offering, and register, here!
I had already read your beautiful poem Sylvia as I have a copy of "The Venus Year". I went looking for it online after reading and enjoying "Our Lady of the Dark Country", and the only copy I could find was from an Oxfam charity shop in England. I must confess that it never occurred to me to contact you direct to obtain a copy - so apologies for that! In any event, I must say the book is wonderful - both its cover and the words within. Thankfully it was in near perfect condition and is numbered 66/300 and apparently signed by your own fair hand. I am thankful to whoever donated it to Oxfam. Rather selfishly, it will now stay much longer in my possession, as I intend to read it more than once and also dip into it at random from time to time. Strangely, when I did so today, it fell open at pages 210-211 which contain the ending of "Lyra" and the beginning of "Calypso". I re-read and enjoyed them both. There's nothing quite like having a real book in your hands!
The Venus year is one of my favourite books ever. You are one of my favourite poets. I read it nearly every day honestly, and have raved on it everywhere. Please conjure and concoct more poetry.