Atalanta and Milanion
If you should really want to hit the mark,
Striking your target where the bull’s-eye stares,
Do not allow your aim to be disturbed
By the intrusion of distractive thought
Or sight; just concentrate on your intent!.
A princess lived in Greek Arcadia
Whose name was Atalanta. She was famed
As artful huntress who had helped to kill
The monstrous boar of Calydonia
Through application of her matchless skill.
As well as this, she could outrun all men;
For she was half divine by birth, endowed
With storm-wind speed and crushing stamina.
Allied to these proud attributes, she owned
A loveliness of features and of form
Rare even in those long-gone days of charm
And supernatural perfection’s rule.
Hence, many suitors came to press their hopes
Of favour, that they might enjoy her love,
Take her in marriage and, through her, beget
Invincible dynastic families.
Vain hopes!. For she preferred her freedom more
Than bonds of domesticity’s dull chores —
Bearing and rearing children, or those cares
Of household management and polity —
That were the chief concerns of wedded wives,
However nobly born or highly matched.
So she refused, consistently, all pleas,
Though some pursued her no less ardently
And importuned no less incessantly.
Beset by these unwanted aspirants
Who sought — more for their own ambitions’ sakes
Than love — to limit her untrammelled joy
Of hunting and its fleetfoot chase through warm,
Green forest fastnesses, she then devised
A cruel scheme to rid herself, at last,
Of their encumbrance, ruling that each man,
(Whether a prince or baser-born), who wished
To marry her should undertake to race
One mile with her on foot. If he should win,
She would submit herself to be his wife.
The penalty of failure to outrun
This famed athletic huntress — confident
In her unmatchable velocity
To vanquish all competitors — would be
The forfeit of his life in sudden death
As public punishment for too great pride!.
Some, undeterred, attempted to outpace
This jealous guardian of chastity.
They paid the price for their temerity
And her despisal of their humbled hearts.
(As poets know, beauty may hide a cold
And stony core rather than gentle warmth!).
One day there came to her Milanion,
(Surnamed Hipppomenes), to risk his neck
By challenging her to the fateful race.
Though he was not a prince, no fool was he —
Wisdom, luck, courage are not only found
In high-born scions or rich parvenus! —
For he had gained the strong protective aid
Of Aphrodite, (love’s epitome,
Goddess of beauty, grace and elegance),
Supportress of all those whose amorous
Intents are worthy of accomplishment.
She’d deemed his love for Atalanta free
From taint of crude ambition so, to help
His cause, she gave to him a priceless gift;
Three golden apples of exquisite shape
And lustre, (enhanced with precious gems rare
In their beauty and that pure craftsmanship
By which they were inlaid), on which she had
Bestowed a divine charm that rendered them
So irresistibly attractive that
No mortal woman could but covet them
Beyond wise rationality’s constraints.
These baubles were designed to trance the eyes
And heart of anyone who chanced to glimpse
Their supernatural delightfulness.
Milanion accepted them, without
Demur, from Aphrodite’s hands; he knew
That, to achieve the near-impossible,
Pre-planning is a golden principle!.
So, on the duly nominated day,
(Those treasures in his tunic hid from view),
Milanion and Atalanta stood
Beside each other at the starting-post
That marked the outset of their fateful course
Inside the crowded, steep-tiered stadium.
(A host will always gather when the chance
To witness someone else‘s life-blood spilt —
Whether or not the victim’s crime was such
To merit death — presents itself to them.
Sometimes we humans more resemble beasts
Than we care to admit to our own selves!).
The racing-track, two furlongs in its length,
Must be two times in each direction run —
By him who hazarded his life for her
That haughtily stood by him at the start —
Around twin posts marking its turning-points.
The Master of the Race raised up his wand.
Inside his tunic bold Milanion
Slipped his hot hand and grasped an apple there.
Then, as the signal fell to start the race,
He handed Atalanta such a prize
As never was donated at the end
Of any contest, never mind before
The first foot had been put across the line!.
Astonishment quite took her breath away
And turned her mind from she had to do.
She stood, transfixed by awe, her eyes alight
With such an ecstasy as lit her face
More brightly than the morning sun that peered
Above the wooded hills of Arcady.
Meanwhile, Milanion did not delay
To put such distance as he might between
The lovely huntress and her destined prey.
So only when he’d turned the distant post
Marking the quarter-mile could she — recalled
To sense by rising clamour from the crowd —
Withdraw her gaze from that delightful toy
And focus on what now she must achieve
To win the race, retain her liberty
And so preserve her prized virginity!.
But when she launched herself, with swift full strides,
Into the contest, then what gracefulness
And devastating power she revealed!.
Faster than arrow down that track she flew,
Her feet mere blurs of motion seeming scarce
To touch the sand they scattered in her flight.
Although Milanion could run as well
As any mortal might, just as he reached the post
That marked the half-mile point, Atalanta —
The bauble tightly clutched in her right hand —
Already had eliminated all
The loss of distance and was at his heels!.
He sensed, hearing the roaring crowd’s acclaim,
She was about to overtake him!. From
His tunic he took out another bright
Gold apple which he tossed, despairingly,
Over his shoulder. Atalanta tried
To catch it but, athletic though she was,
(The one-in-hand hampered her reflex lunge),
It slipped her grasp — deceivng both her eye
And hand — to bounce away behind her feet.
Believing she could catch him once again,
She stopped and turned and chased after the gaud
That rolled along the margin of the track
Away from her. The errant fruit soon caught,
She gazed on it stock-still in wonderment
That two such treasures in a single day
Should come her way.
Milanion, meanwhile,
Ran on as fast as shortening breath — and limbs
Feeling more heavy with each step he took —
Allowed. He knew that, once she had retrieved
The apple and got over her surprise,
She’d hunt him down again as easily
As she had done before. His only hope
Was to pursue his course as best he might,
Expending all his energy to gain
The winning-post before she got there first.
His muscles pained, his tendons strained, his heart
Beats sounded in his ears, as sweat poured down
His face and in his bulging eyes. He scarce
Could see the track and vertigo — brought on
By his fatigue — was leading him away
From straightest route to victory’s release.
For him, (whether or not he did achieve
His aim), it literally was a case
Of life or death. He must succeed or die!.
At length — roused by the crowd’s bewildered cries —
Swift Atalanta broke her reverie.
She saw her crafty challenger was half
Way down the final straight whilst she still had
Two complete lengths to run. She also saw,
With her keen huntress-eyes, that he was spent,
Losing speed and staggering like someone
Drunk on too much wine.
Placing the apples
In a dress-fold, (by one hand held secure),
Now galvanised into fresh urgency,
The passion of her huntress-heart and will
To win supremacy, she was impelled
To frenzied action. Like some shooting-star
Skimming across the sky, spectacular
In her élan, she ran along the track
So rapidly the eyes of those who watched
Could scarce keep pace with her. Somehow she turned
The post, still at top speed, and sprinted down
The straight; a cheetah in pursuit of prey!.
The crowd was dumb-struck at the awesome sight
As Atalanta — demi-goddess she,
Implacably relentless in her rage
At her opponent’s trickery – devoured
The distance as a starving predator
Ingorges fresh-killed meat!.
Milanion
Pressed on, although his strength was draining through
His feet into the sandy track that seemed
A clinging quagmire. Suddenly he heard,
Above the wheezing of his airless lungs
And pounding heartbeats roaring in his ears,
A mighty bellow from the crowd and knew
That Atalanta once again was close
Behind his heels ready to overtake
Before he reached the finish-post that now
Was just four paces — more or less, he guessed —
From him!.
Despite the physical distress,
His mind’s lucidity did not desert
Him; Aphrodite whispered in his ear
Encouragement, reminding him that one
Gold apple still remained. If he would earn
Reprieve from that grim forfeit he had pledged
And still desired this huntress as his bride,
Then he must use it now. To hesitate
Would seal his doom!.
So, as his senses swooned —
From painful cramps and and utter disregard
Of anything except the sweet relief
That soon he need no longer force his flesh,
By power of his single-minded aim,
Beyond its normal capabilities —
He threw the final bauble to the ground
Heedless of whether Atalanta would,
So close to victory, bother herself
With it; for her’s it would be, if she won,
And he her sacrificial offering
To liberty and virgin purity!.
Lithe Atalanta, having twice been duped,
Was ready this time!. With athletic stoop
And perfect poise she caught the trinket up
Just as it bounced beside her fluent feet,
Without breaking step. But Aphrodite’s
Magic was too strong for her resistance.
She glanced at it one moment — that was all —
But in that instant she renounced the chase
Because, unwittingly, she slowed her pace
Sufficiently for brave Milanion
To pass the post just half a step ahead
Of Atalanta, his distracted foe!.
The huntress saw her erstwhile prey collapse
Into oblivion. Although she knew
She had been tricked out of her victory,
She also understood that nothing’s barred
To hunted creatures which must save their lives
By any ruse their wits can improvise.
So she accepted with good grace the loss
Of that invincibility which had
So long sustained her proud virginity
And independent liberty to live
Untrammelled by wed domesticity.
Thus, when Milanion awoke, it was
To find his head pillowed upon her lap
Whilst she, with tender care, bathed his hot head
With cooling cloths and murmured in his ear
That he was master of her life and fate.
(Sure, she had lost the race, but won instead
Not only this courageous husband who,
With foresight, had prepared himself to win
The object of his heart — which promised well
Of his abilities as future king
Of that realm which would come to him, in time,
Through her inheritance — but also those
Three jewelled golden apples whose rare charms
Had stolen victory from her, but won
Her back to that humanity which had
Too long lain dormant in her heart and life.
Such gains outweighed the losses and brought her
The satisfactions of contentedness
And future consequential benefits).
So she was glad to share Milanion’s
Self-evident signals of happiness.
Sly Aphrodite, watching these events,
Delighted in the knowledge that she had
Not only helped love win its earned reward,
But also gained a new recruit — the proud
And noble Atalanta — who would spread
Love’s influence more widely in the world!.
The lessons of this story should be plain
For all to see and understand. For first
It tells that talents, of themselves, cannot
Assure success — no matter their degree —
Unless intelligently used to best
Effect through wise appliance of courage,
Determination and consistency.
Second, that even mediocre skills,
(Enhanced by concentration and good sense
Right to imagination’s fullest stretch),
Can win achievements far beyond what they
Might be expected, even outperform
More highly-gifted individuals
Who lack the necessary strength of will
Or the creative brilliance of bright
Imagination’s inspirational
Results.
Thirdly, the best endowed may fail,
The less advantaged win success, through this
Sole difference; how well a mind can use
The raw materials available
To conjure excellence from seeming dross.
This difference divides the losers from
The winners of life’s constant challenges.
If you should really mean to hit the mark,
Striking your target where the bull’s-eye stares,
Do not allow your aim to be disturbed
By the intrusion of distractive thought
Or sight. Just concentrate on your intent!.
