Every Day History

by Carol Ann Duffy

Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.

So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard– Ye Gods– a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.

Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.

Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.

In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.

But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life– Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife– to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever.

So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.

Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this– I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.

It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke– Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again…

He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me.

What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.

The Waddenduvel [Dutch folklore]

The Wadden Sea is the name of the southeastern intertidal zone of the North Sea. According to an old Dutch folktale, these waters were haunted by a creature known as the Waddenduvel. I’m making the assumption here that this name is a dated spelling of “Waddenduivel” which would translate to “devil of the Wadden”.

How the creature looked is unknown, but Altink chose to portray it as a merman with a trident. The Waddenduvel would wait for people to dwell on the shore or the shallow waters, and then approach them. The victim would never see or hear it, for the monster was incredibly stealthy. When it was close enough, it would grab the victim’s neck with an ice-cold hand and then pull them under. It would feel like the creature became heavier and heavier, dragging its victim with it.

The victim would then be half-buried in the mud or sand, and when high tide arrived, they would drown. It is possible to escape this fate, but breaking free from the monster’s grasp is incredibly difficult because the Waddenduvel is very strong. Most people taken by the Waddenduvel were never seen again.

Happy #MayDay and #InternationalWorkersDay! This poster by Dutch artist Jan Toorop was for the Hague’s 1898 National Woman’s Labour Exhibition, which had the goal to improve women’s wages and working conditions.