There are many versions of Medusa’s story. Hesiod’s Theogony, a 1022-line poem describing the origins and genealogies of the ancient Greek gods, presents Medusa and her immortal sisters, Stheno and Euryale, as daughters of the primordial sea-god Phorcys and the sea-monster Ceto. Medusa is a Gorgon, a word associated with the Greek adjective gorgós, of which one definition is “grim, fierce, terrible” in appearance.[1] Quite fittingly, Medusa is a dreadful monster with terrifying eyes and is described as having snake hair and petrifying eyes in Pindar and Apollodorus. In most versions of the story, King Polydectes of Seriphus sends the hero Perseus to behead Medusa. Perseus succeeds, though with divine assistance. Since Medusa is pregnant by Poseidon, Pegasus (a winged horse) and Chrysaor (a figure depicted as a warrior) spring from her body at the time of her decapitation.
There is, however, a second retelling of the same story. Ovid’s Metamorphoses paints Medusa as a tragic figure cursed into her monstrosity. She is born a beautiful maiden with long golden hair especially admired by others. A priestess of Athena, she is raped by Poseidon in Athena’s temple. Outraged by the desecration of her holy space, Athena punishes Medusa—emphatically the victim of the story—by turning her hair into snakes and her eyes into ones that can turn others to stone.
Medusa’s death is well-acknowledged across ancient sources, but the nature of her monstrosity differs in the Ovidian tradition when compared with Hesiod and Apollodorus’s narratives. Ultimately, is Medusa an inherent monster or a tragic victim?
The poem below assumes Ovid’s version.
I have lived a thousand lives after death.
In bronze shields lifted high by men
who wore my severed head against their beating chests
as though an utterly violated woman
could protect them in some blood splattering war
In oil paintings with rough edges
my body distortedly placed on canvas after canvas
all sharp fangs and venomous snakes
while men turned my suffering
into something worthy enough to be hung in a museum
I have lived in the hushed ambiance of shrines
as an omen only ever whispered about
a warning that manifested in the eyes of hurried glances
and prayers muttered under the breath with clasped hands
In the mouths of poets
who strove to write a crowd pleaser
found out that tragedy and grief
often lure out the deepest of entertainment
no matter whose larynx was cut out
to make such a story plausible
I lived in hushed conversations between women
with tear-stained mascara fleeing down cheeks
and the inevitable impossible possibility
of shame to face the world again
In sentences like
“something happened to me”
“what do I do now?”
“don’t make me talk about it”
“I’m so scared”
In courtrooms with monochromatic lighting
where choked up voices dissolve under cold silences
as half-finished reports hang like unanswered prayers
because coercion equates to credibility
I lived in every woman taught
to walk with purpose at night
with keys clutched beneath pale knuckles
jumping at shadows under streetlights
heart trembling with fear
But my favorite existence is this
A woman seated on faded red satin seats
while a neon “open” sign flickers against the rain-soaked windows
of a dingy tattoo parlor on the edge of town
She’s breathing carefully
the most calm she’s ever been
while the ink gun kisses her luminous skin
The artist leaves behind perfect solid lines
a serpent sliding up her left rib
scales scattering the skin where there was once
a weighty grip
So there I am again
no longer a myth
no longer a piece of art
no longer a warning
But a living breathing reality
buried within the skin
within the soul
of survivors
of women who refuse
to be silenced
[1] LSJ (= Liddell and Scott 1996) s.v. γοργός
