The Tragic Myth of Niobe, by Louis Brown

(a)The tragic tale of Niobe is one of
the most memorable Greek myths, for Niobe’s story features a striking example
of the consequences of hubris, a Greek term defined as arrogance or excessive
pride. This myth was popular in ancient literature, poetry and art. Therefore,
it is not a surprise that the legend of Niobe appears in one of our oldest and
best sources for Greek myths, the Iliad of Homer.
Her father
was Tantalus, king of a town above Mount Sipylus in Anatolia, but we do not
know exactly who her mother was. Niobe had two brothers, Broteas and Pelops,
who would later be a legendary hero and would give his name to Peloponnese.
When Niobe grew up, she got married to Amphion, king of Thebes. This was a
turning point in her life and a series of tragic events followed, to give her a
distinct place in one of the most tragic dramas in Greek mythology. Niobe and
Amphion gave birth to fourteen children, seven sons and seven daughters.
The fatal mistake and the horrible
crime at a ceremony held in honor of Leto, the mother of the divine twins,
Apollo and Artemis, who was also living in Thebes, Niobe, in a fit of
arrogance, bragged about her fourteen children. In fact, Niobe said that she
was superior to Leto, as she had fourteen children and not only two. When the
twins knew this insult, they got enraged and at once, came down to Earth to
kill the children of Niobe. Apollo, the god of light and music, killed all
seven of Niobe’s sons with his powerful arrows in front of their mother’s eyes.
Although Niobe was pleading Apollo to feel mercy for her last surviving son,
Apollo’s lethal arrow had already left his bow to find its mark with deadly
accuracy, thus wiping out all the male descendants of Niobe.
Artemis, the virgin goddess of
nature and hunting, killed Niobe’s seven daughters with her lethal arrows and
their dead bodies were lying unburied for nine days. Turning into a rock, devastated by the slaughter of his children, Amphion committed suicide. Some
versions say that he too was killed by Apollo when he tried to avenge his
children’s deaths. And so it was that Niobe’s entire family had been wiped out
by the gods in a matter of moments, and in deep anguish, she ran to Mount
Sipylus.
There she pleaded [with the] Gods to
[put] … an end to … her pain. Zeus felt sorry for her and transformed her into a
rock, to make her feelings [express themselves from the] … stone. However, even
as a rock, Niobe continued to cry. Her endless tears poured forth as a stream
from the rock and it [her statue] seems to stand as a moving reminder of a
mother’s eternal mourning. To this day, Niobe is mourning for her children and
people believe that her faint image can still be seen carved on a limestone
rock cliff on Mount Sipylus, with the water that seeps out of the porous rocks
bearing a strong allusion to her ceaseless tears.
The meaning of the Myth the tragic
tale of Niobe centered on the consequences of hybris, a strange concept in the
Greek antiquity, which said that, if you act with arrogance towards the Gods,
then you will be punished. Actually Niobe’s story is a classic example of the
wrath of gods against human weaknesses and has been beautifully narrated in
Homer’s Iliad. The tale of Niobe also finds mention in Metamorphoses, a
narrative poem, written by the renowned Roman poet Ovid, who, however, has
inverted the traditionally accepted order and portrayed the desires and
conquests of the gods with aversion, while elevating human passions to a higher
Source:
(b)O Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn! Version of
Bruce Springsteen
“O Mary Don’t You Weep”
Well if I
could, I surely would,
Stand on the rock where Moses stood, Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Well Mary wore three links of chain,
On every link was Jesus name,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Well one of these nights about 12 o’clock,
This old world is gonna rock,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Well Moses stood on the Red Sea shore,
Smote the water with a two by four,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Well old Mister Satan he got mad,
Missed that soul that he thought he had,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Brothers and sisters, don’t you cry,
There’ll be good times by and by,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

God gave Noah the rainbow sign,
No more water, but fire next time,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep,
Oh Mary don’t you weep no more,
Oh Mary don’t you weep no more.

Pharoh’s army got drownded,
Oh Mary don’t you weep.

The phrase vale
of tears
(Latin vallis lacrimarum) is a Christian phrase referring to the
tribulations of life that Christian doctrine says are left behind only when one
leaves the world and enters Heaven. The term “valley of tears
is also used sometimes. (Wikepedia).
  
Wolfgang
Amadeus Mozart. His Lacrimosa (weeping) is part of his Requiem Mass 1792. Was
completed by Sysmayr.
Cry
Me a River
Now
you say you’re lonely
You cry the whole night through
Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river
I
cried a river over you.
Now
you say you’re sorry
For being so untrue
Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river
I
cried a river over you
You
drove me, nearly drove me out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I remember all that you said
Told me love was too plebeian
Told
me you were through with me
And now you say you love me
Well, just to prove you do
Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river
I
cried a river over you
You drove me, nearly drove me out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I…
© 16 Oct 2017  
About
the Author
 
I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City,
Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker
for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally
impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s.
I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few
interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I
graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

No Good Will Come of It by Phillip Hoyle

Today’s topic—‘no good will come of it’—seemed an apt description of my search for a story even though I started looking for an approach two weeks ago. At first consideration the theme sounded to me like Cassandra’s warning to the good citizens of Troy in the Iliad, “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” Homer could easily have added, “No good will come of it,” without any change to his character or plot. I didn’t pursue this image, for to view my life as a tragedy didn’t easily fit my personality. I felt stymied by the topic that seemed to go nowhere.

I began my search again on Tuesday morning and found myself wandering through empty hallways of my memory—no furnishing wanted to seat such a saying, no picture offered potential to my storytelling. Still I walked around in the space peeking into corners and around projections, peering out windows and down stairwells, opening doors and slamming them shut in frustration. Finding a story seemed hopeless.

Come Wednesday I considered what I saw as a great contrast between my parents: Dad, who was more of the “No good will come of it” school; Mom, who was more of the “Every cloud has a silver lining” school. I saw easily how I was more like my mom, but the insight offered no story I hadn’t told before. Besides, my parents’ lives were much more than a single contrast. Both believed in the power of learning and education. I’m sure Mom had her challenges that made some days seem just plain gloomy and Dad held out hope that his kids would live meaningful lives.

Surely both Mom and Dad deemed my education effective when in eighth grade I began reading with a voracious appetite, a result of my discovery of historical novels in the junior high library. My interest in American history was spurred on by the dramatic telling and the presence of Native American characters. As a developing bibliophile I supplemented assigned books with stacks of novels throughout high school, five years of college, and over five years of graduate education. I read with a preference for comedy but in the process took in many tragedies, stories from many cultures told from many perspectives. Finally I discovered novels written by American Indian authors and by gay and lesbian authors. Then I read more and more. A Canadian friend sent me books by Canadians such as Thomas King and Annie Proulx. I felt thankful that my vocation as a minister supported the idea that I continue learning in order to be an effective teacher and leader. My library grew, but of course, some books I did not place on the shelves in my church office.

I easily preferred reading a book over viewing a movie, even a cinema made from a book. So when I heard talk that a movie was being developed from a story by Annie Proulx, I went in search of the tale at the library and found “Brokeback Mountain” in a collection of Wyoming-themed short stories. I read “Brokeback Mountain” with interest and then the rest of the stories in the book. One word seemed to describe them all: bleak. Such a mood had permeated her novels. I wondered how this movie would turn out. When it showed at the Mayan Theatre I attended with my partner. I was so moved that at the end of the movie I had to stay through the credits to weep. Eventually we left the theater. Wanting to see just how closely the movie script and editing followed the story, I purchased the collection and was amazed at how accurately it tracked and how freedoms taken in the movie interpreted the story with amazing clarity.

While discussing the show with a minister friend I discovered my view contrasted greatly with his. At the end of the movie I had felt something deeply positive in the survivor’s life, in both the new-found connection with his daughter and a continuing deep love with his deceased friend. His grief had great value that made him reach out to his family. Even that little, undeveloped glimmer of hope which, in contrast to what else he had experienced, seemed to me the promise of eventual fulfillment for the character. My friend Terry didn’t feel it at all, but rather sank into the bleakness of the author’s characters and the setting’s spare resources. He left the movie feeling no hope. Perhaps he really enjoys tragedies while I really want comedy. But more importantly I believe I saw the movie from the point of view of my own gay experience. While I deeply loved a couple of men through the years of my straight odyssey, I also lived a strange, spare realty—one in which increasingly I desired a gay relationship of open shared affection. I wanted to be nurtured by it, by a man. I held onto the images, the friendships I had, the literature I read, even some pornography, but through a sense of self control patiently nurtured my friendships and loved myself. I really wanted more and eventually went to find it.

My search was consequential, but my life was not bleak. Still, deep within there was a Wyoming kind of windblown, cold, lonely world, aspects of which could be seen even in my childhood. Gay boy loses straight friend after years of playing together; their worlds diverged. His same-sex needs persisted but he didn’t find anyone to share them with. As a young adult he found two gay male friends with whom he could share his own sexual narrative, but he didn’t pursue either as a lover. He had other friends but the gay ones always seemed more interesting. He watched other bisexual men but didn’t want their problems. Eventually he changed his life, took the great losses and the attendant grief. He was hurt but not destroyed.

You see, like Ennis Del Mar at the end of the movie, I stood in the trailer of my transience and examined the souvenirs of my life and loves and felt inspired and loved—even if imperfectly—and eventually hopeful. That’s how I saw Ennis. That’s how I saw myself. So, although observers of my not-strong straight approach to life may have been supposing no good would come of it, and although some pointed to the disruption of my vocation and marriage as proof they were right, they had no access in their depressed judgmental view of the deep joy that disruption led me to experience. I found in those changes silver linings and deep veins of golden treasures. I kept my souvenirs while I continued searching for gay love and meaning. I guess I am so much like my mother! I found my story.

© Denver, 2013



About
the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com