In Her Own Voice - the Origin of the "Monster" Medusa

I am in love with Medusa. By which I mean I am in love with the Medusa side of myself - my power and fearlessness. Medusa refuses to be an object. She is pure sex and strength and knowledge, and that is absolutely petrifying to those who prefer women to be docile, empty headed dolls.

Here's the basic story of Medusa
"The exquisitely beautiful Medusa, one of the three Gorgons of Greek myth and the only mortal one, was said to have dallied with - or, in other versions, to have been raped by - the sea god Poseidon in the Temple of Athena. As punishment for this transgression, Athena transformed Medusa from woman to monster, changing her luxuriant long hair into a tangle of hissing snakes. A spectator gazing at Medusa would henceforth be turned to stone" (The Medusa Reader, p.3). Medusa was later murdered by Perseus, who fixed her decapitated head to his shield. Most Medusa art, until recently, has depicted her in this way - a trophy of the patriarchy.

Depending on which version of the myth you look at, Medusa was either punished for expressing her sexuality or for being raped. And still today, women are punished for being too sexual. We are sluts or whores, unworthy of respect and viewed solely as a vessel, when we are too visible in our sexuality. Women are also still blamed today for being raped. We are told it's our fault and are punished through humiliation and living in perpetual fear. To top it all off, Medusa was punished by Athena, the "goddess of wisdom". No "sisterhood is powerful" or "you go girl for gett'n some" from her. Oh Athena, I thought you were smarter than that.

There is so much to explore in Medusa, but today I want to share a couple of amazing poems. They are both written from a feminist perspective, giving Medusa a voice on what happened with Poseidon Athena's temple.

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?


Medusa (part 1) by Ann Standord

Had I but known when I saw the dog approaching!
His horses pulled him briskly over the water
As on dry land, wreathed in seaweed, dripping,
His chariot shone gold in the warm summer.
I stood as he walked – the hold man – up from the shore.
He climbed the temple stares. He praised my grace.
I had never seen a god before.
He seized and raped me before Athena’s alter.

It is no great thing to a god. For me it was anger –
No consent on my part, no wooing, all harsh
Rough as a field hand. I didn’t like it.
My hair coiled in fury; my mind held hate alone.
I thought of revenge, began to live on it.
My hair turned to serpents, my eyes saw the world in stone.