Book Release: Women of Greece is out! Here's Part I...

E-book now available. It will also be published for free in three parts on this Substack. Here's Part 1.

Hi everyone. I’m proud to publish Women of Greece: A play for six men and six women.

It is a satiric and bawdy piece, designed to frustrate and grieve (while being hilarious) until it finally breaks into clear sunshine by the end.

The play in its entirety (which you can read now by buying the book at the button above) takes about forty-five minutes to read. It's an odd little thing, and often Chaucerianly bawdy. A Latin professor friend of mine read it with his wife and enjoyed it; not coincidentally, he teaches the likes of Catullus and Ovid so was prepared for the possibility of blood and other bodily fluids.

I hope you enjoy. God bless you.

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Women of Greece

A play for six men and six women.

by Joffre Swait

dedicated to your mother



Contents

Act 1
I. The First Woman
II. Abdication
III. The Shield of Achilles
IV. Odysseus Woven
V. Women of Athens

Act 2
VI. The Prostitute
VII. The Furies
VIII. The Kindly Ones
IX. The Death of Orpheus

Act 3
X. Mother of All Living
XI. A Mother’s Prayers

Dramatis personae
In order of appearance:
The Bard, an outsider.
The Mocker, a fool.
Zeus, chief of the gods.
Achilles, an Achaean warrior.
Hector, a Trojan warrior.
Odysseus, king of Ithaca.
Ajax, an eventual suicide.
Teucer, an archer, brother of Ajax.
Polyphemus, a cyclops.
The ghost of the king of Jericho.
The Chorus of Furies, avengers of blood.
Orpheus, a poet.
The Chorus of Maenads, devotees of Dionysus.
Augustino, a Church father.



And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea.

And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.

And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God.

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.

Revelation of St. John 21:1-5


Act 1.
I. The First Woman

The Bard and The Mocker enter. The Bard is dressed in a white robe, The Mocker wears a garland of flowers and a wine-colored robe. The Bard stands by a lectern downstage right, The Mocker crouches downstage left; each is illuminated by his own light. The Bard remains in place for the duration of the play; The Mocker moves as he will, but always returns to his mark.

A young woman dressed in a plain robe enters and stands downstage.

The Bard speaks authoritatively:
The gods keep hidden from men the means of life.
Their artful secrets they hoard beyond our reach,
And sell, like sophists, the goods they have to teach.

The Mocker speaks, well, mockingly:
This is the story of how man got a wife.

The Bard speaks:
Prometheus was crafty, and dared deceive
And mock the wrathful Zeus by stealing fire,
Man watched and learned to burn and conspire.
We should have known that Zeus would vengeance weave.

Prometheus, sullen and cunning beyond compare,
Catches fire, hidden in fennel's hollow core.
Zeus creates a curse: the heart of a whore,
Aphrodite’s lips, Athena’s hair.

Zeus enters with a crack of thunder. 

Zeus speaks bombastically to someone offstage:
Son of Iapetus, surpassing all in cunning, 
Are you glad to have outwitted me? 
A plague to you yourself and to men it shall be. 
I’ll give to men, for fire, an evil thing.

The Bard speaks:
So said the Father of men and gods, and laughed.
Hephaestos he bade mix water with dirt in haste
And pour in it all malice without waste,
The worst thing the hunchbacked god did ever craft.

Zeus speaks earnestly to spirits in the air:
This is the thing I’ll give to make men glad,
Even as they embrace their own destruction.
Listen, he-gods and she-gods, to my instruction;
Disaster’s recipe by ingredient we’ll add.

Hephaestos, make it strong and full of voice.
Make it as beautiful as a goddess bright,
Doom them to worship this gift I give as a blight.
Desire shall make them serve it, without choice.

Athena, teach it needlework and weaving, 
The several webs that hold man in his place.
Aphrodite, baptize it in your grace,
Your cruel longing, and your cares so deceiving.

Hermes, o poet, give it the mind of a slut,
Or if that word be too strong, the mind of a hussy.
Make her deceptive and mean and shameless and fussy.

The Mocker (disingenuously):
And that is the mud from which First Woman is cut.

Zeus exits to the same crack of thunder.

The Bard speaks:
Athena bright goddess her clothes and bedecks,
Crowns her head in golden rich-haired Hours,
Weaves her shining tresses in springtime flowers.
Graces and Persuasion she puts on her neck.

Hermes, he who sang Argos to sleep
And slipped his sword across the giant’s throat,
Whose words cross oceans faster than boats,
Contrives within her evils for man to reap.

Such crafty words and sneaky lies to teach!
A nature deceitful he embeds within,
With the urge to unleash a thousand deadly sins.
Lastly, the herald of gods grants her speech.

The Mocker speaks:
Speech! Gods! She’ll surely talk too much.
She looks like Hera, who nags her lord,
And tells him not to tup cows when he’s bored.
Men begin to hate this curse, but want to touch!

The Bard speaks:
And Zeus called her Pandora, it is said,
Because all they that dwell on Olympus steep
Each gave her a gift that makes men weep.
Woman is the end of men, who eat bread.

The young woman silently exits.


II. Abdication
Enter Achilles holding his shield, mounted on a hobby horse war-chariot. He rides to center stage. Behind him process two groups. In the first are Hector (in armor), Paris (an archer), Helen, and two slave women; they take their place, like a chorus, upstage right. In the second are Briseis and various beautiful slave women; they take their place upstage left.

The Mocker speaks:
Strong-greaved proud Achilles circles Troy.
He’s pulled by black-eyed horses through the dust
On a chariot bearing glory and its lust.
Oh, the Tamer of Horses has killed his Special Boy.

The Bard speaks:
The forest pines primeval murmur hemlocks,
The six-fingered hands of titans and witches
Fail to scratch where the poetry itches,
The hand of measured Homer Achilles mocks.

Achilles speaks:
My mother Thetis, goddess silver-shod,
Has spoken true, I walk two roads to death: 
To choose or Bright & Clear, or Home & Breath,
Depending on the path my foot has trod.

And if one thing is proven by these ships
We catalogued and sang painstakingly,
It is that clans and countries sacredly
Conspire to remember foreign lips.

Keep me, O kings, from Sheol and Hades and mist:
Young harpists hire, and poets who strum at lyre,
Invent an alphabet like the Sons of Tyre.
Lest we forget, write our long warfare’s list.

Achilles recedes to upstage center, striking and holding a distractingly unnatural warlike pose. In solemn silence, Hector’s group takes center. Once all are in place, Paris extravagantly throws himself on the ground as if on a chaise-longue. The slave women sit and begin to comb his long hair.

The Bard speaks:
Paris is woman-mad and must be always stroked.
He leaves his friends alone to all the fighting bear,
He sits among his women and lets them brush his hair.
I hear the flowing-locked Achaeans jape and joke.

Menelaos, unspeakable glory was thine
If rightful prey from you were not snatched
By Aphrodite, Queen of Hearts unlatched.
Now Paris sits in chambers and armor shines.

Menelaos! Unspeakable glory was thine
If Athena’s plans for you were not unlatched
By Aphrodite, Queen of Hearts and Snatch.
Now Paris’ serving women bring him wine.

This Prince of Trojans, handsome and noble once thought
To be by all Achaeans, is unsound of heart.
Like a woman, he’s loth to from soft things depart,
And even his wife sees he’ll get got by the rot.

Great Hector of the shining helmet spoke
To Helen these kindly words: 

Hector speaks to Helen. 
                                                      Do not beg 
That I sit, even though you love me. 

Helen attempts to speak, but is interrupted.
                                                                 Renege?
Not I, while Trojans endure sword’s stroke.

They long for me and I am not with them.
But rouse this Paris, let him hurry to the front
And leave off worshiping woman’s cointe.
Already my heart is set on aiding the men.

I go my wife and child and people to seek,
To see again before the final fray.
Perhaps the gods will soon, this very day 
destroy me at the hands of a Greek.

The Bard speaks:
Paris fiddles the string of his golden bow,
And pouts as Hector lectures and blathers on
About the duty of every father’s son
To go and face for glory’s sake the foe.

Medea-like he vengefully chooses to wield
A witch’s weapon, something to bite an ankle,
Something sneaky, precise, that seeks an angle.
Like a woman he only pretends to yield.

Hector’s group returns. Achilles and Briseis’ group solemnly process to center stage. Once in place, Achilles sprawls on the ground; all the women kneel and comb his hair.

Achilles is woman-mad and must be always stroked.
He leaves his friends alone to all the fighting bear,
He sits among his women and lets them braid his hair.
I hear the horse-taming Trojans jape and joke.

His friends call to him but he’ll not raise
A hand to help them in their cause of war.

Enter Ajax (holding a huge spear) and Odysseus, who speak:
Choose, Achilles, which love: friends’ or whore’s.

The Bard speaks:
Odysseus and Ajax weep for his lustful craze.

Achilles fiddles the string of his golden lyre,
And pouts as Odysseus blathers on
About the duty of Thetis’ god-like son
To face for brothers’ sake the Trojans dire.

Exit all except for The Bard, The Mocker, Ajax (stands stage right), and Odysseus (stands stage left).


III. The Shield of Achilles
Enter Teucer, an archer. Teucer, Ajax, and Odysseus occasionally gesture as if in combat.

The Bard speaks:
Arms! Ajax is he of enormous spear,
Dancing on ships, fighting on the rails. 
His brother Teucer launches his arrows as hail
While fearful Trojan torches surge to draw near.

Teucer kills Kleitos, the son of Pisenor,
With the bow that Phoebus Apollo gave.
Polydamas King the body saves,
And then returns to where the fight is sore.

Teucer kills Hector, or would have, if not for Zeus.
The fighting should be over at the hulls,
But Zeus breaks the bowstring as Teucer pulls.

Teucer speaks:
Alas! How heaven thwarts our weapons’ use!

The Bard speaks:
Teucer shakes with anger at god’s plan,
Ajax is by far more sanguinary.
Teucer is an archer, visionary,
And archers think they are more god than man.

Ajax always stands in shield wall.
He brings his awful skill and strength to bear,
But learns that fate and chance will warriors snare.
Regardless of their skill his comrades fall.

Ajax speaks:
Brother, let your bow and arrows be,
Pick up your ox-hide shield and horsehair helm.
They’ll find it’s hard our ships to overwhelm
If we fight the way that gods and men prefer to see.

The Bard speaks:
Teucer the Archer for a god is named,
A lord of storms, a wielder of lightning and thunder.
His brother, renowned, the day he goes under,
Has killed himself because he is ashamed.

In future Teucer, banished unjustly, will say,

Teucer speaks:
Do not despair, the word of Apollo is true.
Tomorrow sail we out upon the blue,
Another city we’ll found in a brighter bay.

Achilles suddenly enters, Paris being seen backstage behind him. Achilles strides center stage, grabs his ankle, hops about, and dies a clattering death.

The Bard speaks:
Achilles’ shield unto itself is a world,
A middle hanging of moon and stars and sun, 
Of harvest and sacrifices never done,
The feasts of peace, and banners of war unfurled.

Hephaestos forged the vines and olive trees,
Arranging the order of things as they always are,
Flower-garlanded heifers and wandering stars,
With marble cities and ships on untamed seas.
    
Hephaestos, thin-lipped armorer, hobbled away.
For Thetis he’d wrought to please Achilles the strong,
Iron-hearted Achilles who’d not live long,
And she of shining breasts cried out in dismay.

She saw no sign upon the metal bright
Of any world where promises were kept,
Or one could weep because another wept.
A serpent instead she saw, an ankle bite.

Odysseus solemnly strips Achilles of his armor, down to his briefs; he slaps away Ajax’s attempt to loot. Ajax, outraged, falls on his sword.

Odysseus it is who Achilles’ armor takes, 
To the final dishonor of Telamonian Ajax. 
The Man of Many Paths sets sails and sacks
Ismaros, but Ajax a self-ruin makes.

Odysseus takes center stage. All others exit hurriedly, vainly attempting to cover Achilles’ briefs.


IV. Odysseus Woven
Enter the cyclops Polyphemus.

The Mocker speaks:
The path the Fox of Ithaca walks from Troy
Is bound to be a trip to the Kikonees.
Their wives are plump and pleasant, plunder to seize,
Worth the death of twelve times six of our boys.

Odysseus (indignant):
Cyclops, if any ask the cause of your blindness,
Know I am Odysseus, Sacker of Cities!
As stranger I seized treasures without pity,
But you! You have plundered and eaten up your guests.

The Bard speaks:
Then Polyphemus with hands to starry sky:

Polyphemus speaks to the heavens:
O Father, dark-tressed lord of sea's embrace,
Hear me, if son I am, by blood and grace!
With pleading hands, Poseidon's praise I cry.

Odysseus, City-Breaker, Laertes' son
Seeks return, but make him always roam!
May he never see the hills of home,
Let him never see what his Weaver spun.

May his path ever stay beyond sailor’s recall,
And Ithaca's fair shores forever shun
His yearning eyes, his homeward voyage undone.
No homecoming grant in Ithaca's great hall!

Yet, if decreed his homeland he shall see,
His faithful friends, his cherished dwelling space,
Let trials mark his journey's weary pace.
Grant him only woes, and misery.

Polyphemus storms off.

The Mocker speaks:
Odysseus, like a woman, weaves his tangles.
Penelope, like a man, is loyal to the end,
While Circe’s words their own threads wend.
Odysseus, like a woman, looks for angles.

Odysseus exits covertly.


V. Women of Athens
The Bard speaks:
The brides of Athens offer the Fates their hair.
Cut your way through one web first,
The thread you get to next is always cursed.
You simply find yourself in another snare.

When Agamemnon returns with plundered gold,
His wife and her lover receive him with bloody blade.
Now the men of Argos are afraid;
In a web of crimson rich the body is rolled.

The Mocker interrupts and takes center stage. He speaks, well, mockingly:
Athena! Will you for justice not allow
The Furies to do what women always want?
A woman is earth and blood, and Furies’ haunt
Their killers, and their sons’. Oh sacrifice a sow!

The blood of pigs is favored by gods, elementals
Of earth, of grain and wine and frenzied feast.
Let us tear apart the bodies, at least,
Of those preferring men’s to women’s gentles.

No mother bore Athena in her womb,
Therefore of man the champion herself she styles,
Not woman! in heart as in birth her father’s child.
The seed is the man’s, the woman just a brooding room.

Oh look on Athens and their women’s noble example!
They live for their husbands, the heart and pride of their city.
When cherished, they oil their hair. To make themselves pretty,
They bathe in milk, and arrange their tresses ample.

Though whipped, they shed no tears upon the floor,
But kneel, and richer penances demand.
Observe the women of Athena Pallas’ land!
They suffer to support their husbands’ might in war.

When men in a thousand ships for soldiers sail,
These women weave their tapestry borders long,
And with myriad looms they weave in lonely song.
In a thousand quarantines each awaits her male.

Upon their return, roaring lusty and thirsty,
They crudely tear from their wives intimate caresses, 
Obscenely demand in loud and open addresses
What should in chambers be, and make them dirty.

Oh look on Athens and their women’s noble thighs!
Behold the ladies, paragons of grace,
Who strip for their husbands, those brave in battle's face.
They’ve plundered slaves and girls, and deserve their prize.

When topped with wine new nightly revels beckon,
They seek out dalliance and women of strange race.
But at night's end, in pieces, return to the embrace
Of their little Helens, and all will be well, they reckon.

Behold these admirable women, models of restraint!
They’re called to nurture the future of Athens' princes.
Persimmons feed them, and honey, and quinces!
They bear the sons of Athens and never faint.

Without quality or defect, devoid of will or taste,
They have no dreams, but omens only, and fear.
Their visions are haunted by husbands' funeral bier,
Wine-dark oceans, sirens, shipwrecks, and waste.

Oh look on Athens and her women dressed in black!
They fear for their husbands, Athens’ heroes and lovers.
The stained young widows and abandoned expectant mothers,
They make no scene, but in mourning vigils shrink back.

Oh look on Athens and her women’s chastity rare!
When faithful, of utmost use to their lords,
Who want nothing more than to sheathe their swords.
Praise wives consumed for love of husbands, and their care.

The Mocker returns to his place.

Part 2 will be published later this week. Thank you for reading.