WE ALL SHOULD get excited for the last slam poem of the week. This one is about an ancient story in Greek mythology, but as a slam poem, it has a new and more powerful take on the issue.

The ancient myth goes as follows: Poseidon, the god of the sea, sneaks up on Medusa, a young woman famous for her legendary beauty, while she is praying in Athena's temple. Poseidon then proceeds to take advantage of Medusa. Athena, the goddess of wisdom, jealous of Medusa's beauty and angry because her temple was defiled, punishes Medusa by turning her into a monster with snakes for hair, and a gaze that turns men into stone.

Patricia Smith's poem, “Medusa,” looks at the incident in a different light. Smith empowers woman in her poem. Medusa takes a much more active role in her sexual encounter with Poseidon. She enjoys her sexuality and her power over men. Smith decriminalizes sexual desires and argues that women should not be ashamed of their effect on men.

Read on to experience Smith's interesting and liberating version of this ancient story.

“MEDUSA”
by Patricia Smith

Poseidon was easier than most.
He calls himself a god,
but he fell beneath my fingers
with more shaking than any mortal.
He wept when my robe fell from my shoulders.

I made him bend his back for me,
listened to his screams break like waves.
We defiled that temple the way it should be defiled,
screaming and bucking our way from corner to corner.
The bitch goddess probably got a real kick out of that.
I'm sure I'll be hearing from her.

She'll give me nightmares for a week or so;
that I can handle.
Or she'll turn the water in my well into blood;
I'll scream when I see it,
and that will be that.
Maybe my first child
will be born with the head of a fish.
I'm not even sure it was worth it,
Poseidon pounding away at me, a madman,
losing his immortal mind
because of the way my copper skin swells in moonlight.

Now my arms smoke and itch.
Hard scales cover my wrists like armour.
C'mon Athena, he was only another lay,
and not a particularly good one at that,
even though he can spit steam from his fingers.
Won't touch him again. Promise.
And we didn't mean to drop to our knees
in your temple,
but our bodies were so hot and misaligned.
It's not every day a gal gets to sample a god,
you know that. Why are you being so rough on me?

I feel my eyes twisting,
the lids crusting over and boiling,
the pupils glowing red with heat.
Athena, woman to woman,
could you have resisted him?
Would you have been able to wait
for the proper place, the right moment,
to jump those immortal bones?

Now my feet are tangled with hair,
my ears are gone. My back is curving
and my lips have grown numb.
My garden boy just shattered at my feet.

Dammit, Athena,
take away my father's gold.
Send me away to live with lepers.
Give me a pimple or two.
But my face. To have men never again
be able to gaze at my face,
growing stupid in anticipation
of that first touch,
how can any woman live like that?
How will I be able
to watch their warm bodies turn to rock
when their only sin was desiring me?

All they want is to see me sweat.
They only want to touch my face
and run their fingers through my . . .

my hair

is it moving?

Watch Patricia Smith reciting her poem here.

“Medusa” is reprinted with the author's permission.