Orpheus
By Margaret Atwood
You walked in front of me,
pulling me back out
to the green light that had once
grown fangs and killed me.
I was obedient, but
numb, like an arm
gone to sleep; the return
to time was not my choice.
By then I was used to silence.
Though something stretched between us
like a whisper, like a rope:
my former name,
drawn tight.
You had your old leash
with you, love you might call it,
and your flesh voice.
Before your eyes you held steady
the image of what you wanted
me to become: living again.
It was this hope of yours that kept me following.
I was your hallucination, listening
and floral, and you were singing me:
already new skin was forming on me
within the luminous misty shroud
of my other body; already
there was dirt on my hands and I was thirsty.
I could see only the outline
of your head and shoulders,
black against the cave mouth,
and so could not see your face
at all, when you turned
and called to me because you had
already lost me. The last
I saw of you was a dark oval.
Though I knew how this failure
would hurt you, I had to
fold like a gray moth and let go.
You could not believe I was more than your echo.
You walked in front of me,
pulling me back out
to the green light that had once
grown fangs and killed me.
I was obedient, but
numb, like an arm
gone to sleep; the return
to time was not my choice.
By then I was used to silence.
Though something stretched between us
like a whisper, like a rope:
my former name,
drawn tight.
You had your old leash
with you, love you might call it,
and your flesh voice.
Before your eyes you held steady
the image of what you wanted
me to become: living again.
It was this hope of yours that kept me following.
I was your hallucination, listening
and floral, and you were singing me:
already new skin was forming on me
within the luminous misty shroud
of my other body; already
there was dirt on my hands and I was thirsty.
I could see only the outline
of your head and shoulders,
black against the cave mouth,
and so could not see your face
at all, when you turned
and called to me because you had
already lost me. The last
I saw of you was a dark oval.
Though I knew how this failure
would hurt you, I had to
fold like a gray moth and let go.
You could not believe I was more than your echo.
Analysis
This poem, written by Margaret Atwood, is taken through the eyes of Eurydice. The poem is written similar to that of a diary or a letter to Eurydice's love, Orpheus. The title, "Orpheus," acts as a sort of salutation of the letter and continues to refer to "you." The "you" is specifically intended to address Orpheus. In addition, the consistent use of the word "love" indicates that they were intimate and feeling still existed between them, but when she describes her feelings regarding returning back to the land of the living with Orpheus, she describes it as being on a leash.
As Atwood puts her interpretation of the myth into the poem, one may note the unwillingness that Eurydice has to rejoining the "the green light that had once/ grown fangs and killed [her]," or the land of the living. However, because she loves Orpheus, she continues to follow him because it will make him happy again. When Orpheus jumps the gun and turns back to Eurydice, she knows that he had realized his mistake and she "knew how this failure/ would hurt [him]." The final line "You could not believe I was more than your echo" provides the conclusion to the message to Orpheus, thus a constant reminder of the love that Orpheus had lost.
As Atwood puts her interpretation of the myth into the poem, one may note the unwillingness that Eurydice has to rejoining the "the green light that had once/ grown fangs and killed [her]," or the land of the living. However, because she loves Orpheus, she continues to follow him because it will make him happy again. When Orpheus jumps the gun and turns back to Eurydice, she knows that he had realized his mistake and she "knew how this failure/ would hurt [him]." The final line "You could not believe I was more than your echo" provides the conclusion to the message to Orpheus, thus a constant reminder of the love that Orpheus had lost.
About the Author: Margaret Atwood
- Born November 18, 1939 in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
- Radcliffe College, Victoria College, Harvard University
- Novelist, short-story writer, poet, critic
- The Edible Woman (1969), The Handmaid's Tale (1985), The Circle Game (1966)
- Grown popular globally