Born Slippy: Orpheus and Eurydice

This is the story of a couple so poorly

We gaze upon Thrace, where the tale takes place;

There never was a story of more fuss

Than this of Eurydice and her Orpheus.

Orpheus, a big gun, was a pro on the lyre,

The case with the girl is a tad drier –

As usual, Eurydice was a pretty face,

Renowned for that throughout all of Thrace.

That’s not a modern metric of success:

Nowadays we discuss such things rather less,

But to the great bards of ancient Greece,

Beauty’s a narrative’s golden fleece.

The couple married without delay,

For a lover from love can not stray,

But the marriage God Hymen did foresee

Distress: post-honeymoon, no guarantee.

Eurydice one day, was a-sport with some nymphs,

Playing at Minotaurs and labyrinths,

But little did they augur the gravest peril,

Just round the corner - so real, so feral.

A wicked snake, a python, full Monty,

Slithers through grass, teeth so pointy,

It sinks its fangs into her ankles,

No more walking like an Egyptian – sorry, Bangles.

Eurydice swoons, and swiftly dies,

Orpheus from a hill-top her form espies,

He lumbers down with a devastated yelp,

Crying, beseeching the gods for help.

A dark cloud thickens overhead,

Orpheus’s heart is dull like lead,

He cries brittle tears as he strums at his lyre,

Inflamed with perplexed, sad desire.

A god of some sensibility overhears,

Apollo, Olympus’s young Werther, is moved to tears;

Orpheus’s sadness everywhere spreads,

Nothing rises: not the sun, nor Grecian flat-breads.

Armed with the gods’ generous protection,

Orpheus embarks on an expedition,

To Hades, the underworld, to retrieve his lady –

Braver far than modern guys, who’d snivel like a baby.

He travels far, but no fun, no gap year kicks,

He arrives at last at the River Styx;

Troubled waters, cliffs so barren,

He enlists the help of helmsman Charon.

With his obol in tow they silently glide,

But the journey is no splashdown slip ‘n slide,

Like Southampton Dock, he disembarks in 45’,

Charon turns grimly, and off he drives.

Orpheus is left alone in the dark,

From a nearby corner he hears a bloodthirsty bark;

It is the beast, feared on Earth and Olympus –

The 3-headed dog, ghastly Cerberus.

Quick-witted and pacy Orpheus

Is happy-go-luckily ambidextrous –

While petting the heads, 6 eyes of fire,

He strums puppy-dog lullabies on his lyre.

Just a few minutes of multi-tasking,

Soon has the dog slobbering, basking.

Cerberus the terrier, who is actually quite fluffy,

Leads Orpheus through Hell, which is really rather stuffy.

Orpheus regrets forgetting his telegan,

‘This gas boiler needs coolant, and a fan’ -

He takes a mental note – mention this to Hades,

Who could learn a lesson or two from the new Mercedes.

Orpheus traipses into the Underworld,

Cerberus up ahead is round a throne, curled,

Dazed and shattered, he feels born slippy,

Falls to his knees, and lets out a plea.

Hades, on a rather nice DFS armchair

Gawps; the living down here are very rare.

Persephone speaks up instead of the former,

‘What are you doing here, and would you like some korma?’

Orpheus tries to speak, but the words get stuck,

He turns to his lyre and once again, he does pluck;

He sings of his love, of the glory in the flower,

And of how cruel fate made his happiness sour;

The notes that he plays have a heart-rending strain,

Even Hades is bent double, hampered with pain;

Persephone cries, tears of pomegranate red,

And Cerberus shrieks: it is time to be fed.

Orpheus’s song ends with a gut-wrenching outro,

Adele should duet it, a sure hit with an alto;

Hades returns with some dog-based nutrition,

And decides to help Orpheus, on one condition:

The lad must return to the land of the living,

Without turning around, reversing or swiveling.

Easy like the Commodores’ Sunday Morning, he thinks;

His fresh confidence and glee are a tragic jinx.

Orpheus warmly thanks the pair,

And then turns to descend the stair,

So young, no bald patch in the middle of his hair;

His footfalls echo through the hellish lair.

It’s chilly down in hell, not its namesake inferno,

But just as Orpheus reaches his lowest of low,

He feels a tender presence at his side,

He senses Eurydice, his luminous guide.

Equipped with that faith he stands more upright,

He fancies he can see the breaking of light;

If he can just reach the shores of the River Styx,

Then all that went wrong will soon be fixed.

In excitement Orpheus slips and stumbles,

Battered and bruised, down rocks he tumbles,

He calls out to Charon, guide unnervingly silent,

The urge to turn becoming ever more violent.

One foot in the boat, his stomach starts to hurtle,

He sees his reflection, eyes wide, lips purple.

A wave of doubt surges through his core,

How can he trust Hades? What is in store?

Eurydice’s numinous visage shimmers,

Around him the black Styx ripples and glimmers;

He nearly, so nearly, continues ahead,

But at the last second, feels a pang of dread.

Orpheus wheels round, and lets out a cry,

For he knows, in that instant, Eurydice will die.

She raises her hand, a final farewell,

And slips into nothingness, back to black Hell.

He screams, he wails, he claws at the dark,

But all he hears is his hoarse, echoed bark.

His mistake hits him again, a note out of tune,

But Charon just bundles him off the pontoon.

In the boat he confronts swirling nightmares,

Eurydice lost, and with her his cares,

He loathes himself deeply for his life-ending slip;

A salt tear trickles down and sits on his lip.

Now no good can come of this, I hear you presage,

And sadly I am charged with delivering that message.

Daylight dawns, Orpheus collapses on green,

His face is stricken, his eyes glazed with sheen.

He takes one look at happy, panting Earth

And knows that living can bring him no mirth.

Without his love, to live with such shame,

He sees a blazing future of merciless pain.

With quavering hands, warding off complete weakness,

He reaches for the lyre in his hour of bleakness.

He plays four sweet notes, a lofty strain,

The music weeps of infinite pain.

He beseeches the gods to just let him die,

His song so short breaks off, a wordless cry.

Somehow a god hears his plaintive dirges,

And this is where the story diverges.

Some say that Orpheus is ripped to shreds,

By wild, ruthless beasts or corybantic Maenads;

While others say that Zeus bolted him like Usain,

Deadly electricity coursing through every vein.

But one point on which all the scrolls concur

-Now if you’re squeamish, this may cause a stir –

Is that Orpheus’s head stayed alive and singing,

Perhaps we could tenuously call this winning?

His head, it is said, is far from dead,

And floats over the waves, or through the sky is spread,

His voice sings strains that so charm the ear,

That the Muses and Gods travel far to hear.

The Muses, for their part, did have a heart,

They believe legacy lies in a star-chart,

So they transformed his lyre into a constellation,

Eternal by the stars, this tender-loving Thracian.

So Orpheus eventually got his Eurydice,

And I’ve told his tale true, no fake news or hyperbole.

The price he paid may seem rather extortionate,

But when all’s said and done, I suppose, he ate.

In fact, no less, he rather devoured;

For love, he travelled, he wept, he scoured

The barren outcrops of deepest Hell,

And one small mistake tolled his death knell.

It wasn’t his fault, it’s what MJ said:

Human Nature – affection, impulse and dread.

But in terms of salvaging the story’s moral,

I’ve had many a think, and many a quarrel.

But after some digging, I have found us three gems:

1.       Music’s a gift – it can seek out old friends,

2.       Love is painful to find, but worse yet to lose

3.       Rules can be broken, but take care which you choose

And most of all, regardless of gods up above,

The one thing eternal is the power of love.

(Sorry copyright suers, and Frankie Goes to Hollywood;

Just direct your complaints to this bard, Beatrice Wood).

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