How do i love thee? Let me count the ways

Today’s Substack is about one of my poems. It’s about Alcestis.She’s not as well-known as Aphrodite or Persephone but around 438 BC, Euripides thought enough of Alcestis to write an entire play about her.

We’re going to look at two versions of my poem about Alcestis An early draft and a later one. Here’s the first draft.

Alcestis

Devoted wife. So devoted that when it was time

for her husband to die, she took his place.

Hercules admired that kind of love,

so challenged Thanatos to a wrestling match,

pinned him and returned Alcestis to the other world.

Her children were happy to see her:

Was it hot where you were How tall was Thanatos?

Kids she could forgive. but what about her best friend:

“You made me look bad, doting on your husband, always

telling him how handsome he is. What are servants for?

And then you died for him. So now guess who drinks

too much wine and says, “When it’s my turn, you should

die for me too.” See what you’ve done, Alcestis!

That whole downcast eyes thing. I think you knew

Hercules would drape you across those muscular arms.

Otherwise why dress for death like you did -- the finest

purple wool, a gold pendant drawing attention to your

I have to admit astonishing breasts.”

The first part of the poem is background with a more or less omniscient author telling the Reader about a very loyal and loving wife. Hercules heard about her sacrifice. Impressed by her devotion, he went to the underworld and brought her back to her husband and family.

In teh second half, , the POV in the poem changes and a friend of Alcestis tells another side of the story -- how Alcestis’ sacrifice affected her. The emotional collateral damage, in a way.

That first draft troubled me. The first part -- to use an automotive metaphor -- just idle. And, really, what are those smarty-pants kids doing in there? The second part, though, picks up speed. Hmmm. Is this one poem with two parts? Two poems? Or - Yikes! - no poem at all?

Louis Brandeis said, ‘There is no writing, just rewriting.” So I did that. And I do it often. I don’t think and then write; writing tells me what I’m thinking. Here is a second version of the poem with a new title.

* * *

Alcestis Comes Back From the Underworld and Gets a Scolding

From Her Best Friend.

Of course I’m glad to see you again. What an adventure --

Brought back from the land of the dead! Well, good for you.

This isn’t the first time you’ve made me look bad. Remember

doting on your handsome husband all the time?

And then you died for him. So now guess who drinks too much

wine and says, “When it’s my turn, you should

do what Alcestis did.” Thanks a lot. I never trusted you, anyway.

That whole downcast eyes thing. I think you knew

Hercules would show up in nothing but a lion’s skin

and drape you across those muscular arms.

Otherwise why dress for your own funeral like you did --

the finest purple wool, shimmering earrings and bracelets,

a gold pendant drawing attention to your I have to admit

astonishing breasts.

In poetry writing workshops, people can’t help but say, “I like this poem about flying horses.” Or “I don’t like this flying-horse poem.” The real question isn’t like or dislike: the real question is this -- does the poem work? Do all the parts come together to make something complete and satisfying? Generous readers can dislike a poem and also see why it is effective. In the so-called real world, some drivers don’t like the new transmission in the 2026 Ford F-150, but the truck still runs.

The second version of my Alcestis poem runs better than version one thanks to a single Narrator. The new title orients my Readers, and the tart tone comes in early and stays acerbic.

A noticeable improvement if I say so myself. Is the poem finished? Almost. I’m going to let this one rest for a bit. But -- and I hope you agree -- so far, so good.

P.S. There are lots of poems about the Greek deities. Here are my favorites: Yeats’ “Leda and the Swan,” Auden’s “Musee des Beaux Arts,” Caroll Ann Duffy’s “Circe,” Margaret Atwood’s “Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing.” (I just re-read the latter and it’s a dandy!) All of these poems are only a Google away. Take a look at your leisure.

P.S.S. This is the second-last Substack for a while. Summer ends soon. And like the industrious cricket, I have work to do.