#the book is wrath goddess sing btw

[catfishofoldin99colours]

oh dear the book is reaching Blorbo levels of a Dangerous Calibre

[black-is-beautiful18]

If you are considering reading Wrath Goddess Sing by Maya Deane…I suggest you don’t. R.M. Virtues on Twitter talks about it and I will link his post, but the book includes racism, transphobia, the butchering of Egyptian lore, making a Black trans character a slave…. As I said, I’ll link RM’s thread about it because he can explain it better than I can.

(This is the book btw)

https://twitter.com/rmvirtues/status/1540007848356110337?s=21&t=avZ1krk-NsqlfdKAjtDzaQ

Here’s another thread:

https://twitter.com/rmvirtues/status/1539625684867227650?s=21&t=avZ1krk-NsqlfdKAjtDzaQ

[wordmakingpoets]

Invocations

Epic poetry is steeped in tradition. It would take like a whole semester to talk about all of these, so I’m going to focus on one element–invocation to the muse.

Homer, Virgil, Milton, and others are known for littering epics with invocations, basically shout-outs to some divinity or other to 1) ask for help with the difficult task of telling an epic 2) make sure they get their facts right 3) engage in the larger tradition of epic (this mostly applies to people who write after Homer). It’s a way to take the burden of the epic off of one man’s shoulders; the epic becomes something greater, a text that the divines already know and reveal to mortals.

The Iliad starts like this: “Sing, goddess, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus…”

Some folks translate “goddess” as “Muse,” likely Calliope, whose domain is epic poetry. Homer talks to her throughout his epics, but it’s this first line I want to focus on.

I’m a massive Ancient Greek nerd. Here’s the verb from this line in Greek: ἄειδε. It comes from the verb for “sing” (you can sort of see the way it turns into the English “audio”). It’s an imperative (aka a command), present tense. In Greek, a present imperative implies a continued action and not a single instance. (My professors example uses “kiss.” Aorist imperative: a peck. Present imperative: make-out session.) When I read ἄειδε, I think of the Phantom of the Opera yelling for Christine to sing at the end of the titular song, especially with the implications that Christine is at his disposal from here on out. I end up hearing it in my head in Ramin Karimloo’s voice whenever I read this line.

If I were to translate this first line and bring over the implications of ἄειδε, it might go like this: “Hey, Calliope–I’m going to need your help for a while. Sing about Achilles and his wrath, and don’t stop until the story is over.”

Homer’s invocation is pretty aggressive, but I didn’t realize it until I compared him to a different invocation, one in this wild mock epic I translated last year. The Battle of Frogs and Mice (which deserves its own post or series of posts later) is a parody of the Iliad and epic in general. It taps into the epic tradition from the very start by using the same meter as Homer–dactylic hexameter–and an invocation. Frogs and Mice starts like this: “Starting from the beginning, I pray from my heart / that the chorus comes down from Helikon on account of the song / I have just set down on the tables at my knees.” This chorus is a chorus of muses, btw. This poet isn’t using the imperative; he’s using a technique called indirect speech. Verbs of feeling, thinking, or saying–or praying–introduce this extra layer of grammar. Instead of putting the clause in quotation marks (aka direct speech), Greek has special ways of signaling this kind of clause. A more accurate translation would be “I pray the chorus to come down from Helikon…” “To come” is an infinitive, conceptual and removed from the speaker, a far cry from the imperative in Homer. (This infinitive construction actually can show up in English, like “I believe him to be a good man.” Sure it sounds a bit archaic, but it’s there.) No more harsh command, no more immediacy, just a prayer for company from the divine. He isn’t even asking the chorus to sing. He just wants them to be present.

Virgil takes the invocation and twists it further. In the first line of the Aeniad, sort of a fan-made sequel to the Iliad, the poet says “cano,” or “I sing.” A first person, singular, present, indicative verb, a third mood different from the previous two. I’m no Latin student, but I do know enough grammar to know how revolutionary this is. Virgil says to hell with the muse. Virgil’s poet sings his song himself. The audacity of this anti-invocation echoes the Aeniad’s foundation in Greek epic tradition (it’s in dactylic hexameter, too) and basically tells the audience, “Y'all remember Homer? I’m gonna do what he did, except totally better.” The role of the poet has shifted to that of conduit for the divine to that of independent maker, creator.

So why think about invocations now, a post-epic world? Invocations remind me a bit of how Lemony Snicket begins his books with a dedication to Beatrice. She’s elevated to something more than human and involved with the story. Dedications aren’t invocations, but I think the traditions are related. There’s something about an artist appealing to an outside source for the storytelling process. And if you choose to use an invocation, you’re tapping into a tradition that has been around for millennia. You’re making a commentary on the function of a poet. You have the potential to twist the tradition into something revolutionary. What if the muse talks back? What happens if the muse never responds? What is a poet independent of the muse? And what kind of poem would Calliope write if she didn’t have to be filtered through a human mouth?