OVERLAND MAGAZINE JUDITH WRIGHT POETRY PRIZE for NEW and EMERGING POETS

Overland is proud to announce the results of the Overland magazine Judith Wright Prize for New and Emerging Poets, 2007.

runner-up | JULIE CHEVALIER

Women of Antiquity 2002
in response to three sculptures by Anselm Kiefer at the Art Gallery of NSW.

As women, you will be highly regarded if you
fulfil the role nature has intended for you and
attract the least possible notice, whether in
praise or criticism, from men.
                          Pericles, Thucydides 2.45.2

Myrtis, poet

          And I find fault even with the clear sweet Myrtis (Myrtis of clear voice) because,           woman though she be she has striven against Pindar
                                                    Corinna, a student of Myrtis
A bronze gown binds my torso
its folds
its fissures
where poems brood

Instead of a head
on my shoulders
a book droops –
greased wings
of geese, crossing
continents in leaden
weather, casting dank
shadows.

If Pindar had not plucked
their feathers
my words would have soared.

This lead book, my poems’ coffin
will outlast his
occasional
odes to sport.

Hypatia, philosopher and teacher
c. 370 – 415

Bronze conceals the place where my breasts should be
my waist,
my hips.
Molten knowledge drips to my
cold hem.
My life: glass-
celibate –
iron and ash.
My shoulders scaffold
a melancholy balance:
mathematics, astronomy, philosophy.
That a woman could juggle the Neoplatonic with the teachings
of Aristotle
angered the Christians
of Alexandria,
toppled me.
No one interceded
when Cyril’s mob dragged me from my chariot
demanded
my pedantic
blood.

The Christians called me Pagan
ripped off my scholar’s garments
tore off my limbs
stripped my bones clean with oyster shells
beat out eyes that had studied too much.
After they torched me
they canonised
Archbishop Cyril.

Candida, mystic

The Roman boys teased,
      ‘Madwoman, Crispus,
      serpens nest in your hair.’

I who would gladly have dwelt
in a forest
feigned insanity
hid in its shelter.

      Instead of leaves
      vision and hysteria
      clothed me.

If the mystic were a man, the rabble grovelled
      shaman
      healer

if a woman, they screeched
      burn the bitch.

How could I seek the eternal without calm’s retreat?
      I might as well have
      fucked.

Now, men cloister me in iron and bronze.
      A furore of razor wire
      daunting as snakes
      snarls where my head
      should rest.

© Julie Chevalier

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