Penelope's Turn by Susan Matthewson

This poem takes a different look at Penelope, wife of Odysseus, who is famous in The Odyssey as a symbol of marital fidelity, patience, and intelligence. Her husband Odysseus is away from Penelope and their son, Telemachus, for twenty long years during which time she waits faithfully for his return. Odysseus has spent ten years fighting the Trojan War and begins the trip home at the end of the war only to spend another ten years struggling to get home as he is besieged by misfortune and accidents along with interference by various Gods that he has aggravated for one reason or another.

Meantime, Penelope is besieged at home by a host of demanding and aggravating suitors who believing Odysseus is dead compete for Penelope’s hand in marriage to win the throne of Ithaca and deny it to Telemachus, Odysseus’ son and rightful heir. Telemachus is just a boy when Odysseus leaves and Penelope must protect him along with his birthright while also holding off the clamoring suitors who laze around her house, harass the family, eat her food, and drink her wine. She manages to fool the suitors by telling them she cannot decide on who she will marry until she finishes weaving a death shroud for Odysseus’ father. To hold them off, she slyly weaves the shroud during the day and then unravels it partly every night so she can start anew the next day.

While Penelope may well represent patience, marital fidelity, and intelligence, my poem also sees a feistier side to her. I imagine her thoughts as she wove that shroud each day, thoughts that perhaps tended toward a little more vengeance and a little less patience, both for the pesky suitors and that hussy Helen who started the Trojan War.

Penelope’s Turn

This is no world for a woman.

It is a woman who has sent our men to war

And left us to weep without our warriors.

I thank the Gods who gave me a son, not a daughter.

I curse you, Helen,

Wife of Menelaus,

You two-timing seductress,

Who took off with Paris,

Priam’s weaker son.

I dream of digging out your eyes,

You wandering witch,

Trembling now inside the towers of Troy

While my husband and so many others

Besiege the battlements to revenge your betrayal.

Ten years now, this war drags on

While I am left in Ithaca,

Lonely and embattled,

Assailed by hordes of suitors

Seeking to seize my lands,

Take the title that belongs to Odysseus

While I struggle to protect Telemachus, his son,

From their murderous rage and ambition.

They eat my food, drink my wine, waste my wealth,

And I, as a woman, defender of tradition and family,

Must treat them as guests, bear their beastliness.

Instead, I crave the power to take up sword and shield,

Show strength like Achilles,

Slice once across each neck,

Watch each head drop sightless at my feet.

These words are not befitting a woman,

But I am tired of weeping and wailing,

Tired of weaving that infernal shroud,

Tired of waiting and waiting and waiting.

Tonight, while they sleep drunk on my wine

I will take my bloody turn.