Say My Name Like It’s Poetry
Sappho, the poet, and her unknown muse
Like me, many women would come to Sappho in the afternoon. Her words were invigorating, they made us alive in a way nothing else would, and listening to her voice as the lyre danced in the background conjured a feeling of completion not even the best wine, or the best lover, could give us.
We had always been yearning for something that a man just couldn’t fulfill. We had wanted a softer touch, a skin caress that was loving and kind, not rough and full of judgment. We women valued the words, perhaps even more than the men, though they loved to philosophize about the world and nature, and carve us out of the universe, while we stayed to the side, relegated to a lesser place.
I will admit not wanting to endure a life in politics. Maybe I didn’t care for a high position, for the fame to my name — especially because no one remembers it now, anyway.
But I would have liked to have my space and my voice, just like she had.
I was always surprised that Sappho became synonymous with grandeur.
When she was reclining against marble, fabric draped over her skin and a feast for the eyes as flowers and fruit were laid around her, it seemed as though the gods had looked upon her and decided she had been the chosen one.
