Madeline Miller’s ‘Circe’

Rating: 4 out of 5.

This was a really enjoyable read and almost impossible to put down. The eponymous Circe manages to learn and evolve throughout the novel, despite being immortal. She is powerful, individualistic, and her struggles with her family frame the character and the narrative nicely. While not always a necessarily sympathetic protagonist, Miller does well in portraying her monologue and making her feel known to the reader.

However, some of the characters fall flat and 2D in comparison. I found Odysseus, despite being the primary love interest and, indeed, the reason why the myth of Circe is well known, unlikeable and ultimately rushed as a character. As it is only a small part of the novel, however, it is easy to overlook in light in the wonderful portrayal of his wife and son.

Overall, Circe is a lovely feminist retelling with some beautiful prose, and Circe’s to-the-point narration will stay with me for a long time. It’s a must-read for any Greek mythology fan who can discover the Easter eggs within the text but also discover new twists and turns to the myths we know.

A book review of Circe by Madeline Miller.

prayer

I used to pray to God
I used to pray to the
boy next door and my
father's unyielding
tour-de-force and
the superhero shining
from glossy pages and
for ages I thought
I had to pray to men
to be heard.

I used to think faith
was something earned,
but I learned that boys
start the race halfway
down the track and
why should I have faith
in that?

now
I don't pray to white guys 
with beards or boys
who spent years pulling on
pigtails and pulling down skirts
I don't pray to the men 
who let me down

I pray to the girls
to the girls skipping school
on a Friday afternoon
to the girls who are going to
be mothers too soon and 
to the girls who never get
romance or dates

to the girls who never get a break
taken for granted and for the sake
of the argument 
I pray to the girls who never got
to be girls in the first place
for once
I pray to me

poetry

your fingers kiss the keys.
you fumble through an arpeggio
you haven’t played in a long while.
the wrong note echoes, grows
around white space.
you spread your hands
like paint on a canvas,
fingers dripping red,
a handprint on your heart.
you start to play,
one note playing out into the abyss.
allegro, legato,
your melody slows. one note,
so sure it could raze Rome.
it sounds like music. it sounds like home.
take a breath.
every minor has its major part,
and this, my friend,
is yours, is you.
bars like pathways,
leading you back.
music spills out of your pores,
bleeds, falls, drowns.
you place your fingers over the chords
of your heart.
you take a moment
wait.
wait.
you breathe out.
music.

homegrown

he grows up in sepia stained
East End streets
red welly boots bought
two sizes too big
worn until the plastic melts
into his milk bottle calves

mum catches the neighbours
in headlocks
throws gardening shears over
the hedge
never turns the front door lock
hands always on the edge
of being fists

she grew up
prepubescent post-war
her parents collected her brothers
like postage stamps
Jimmy had his jaw knocked in
by the Cray twins
and Maggie married into the mob

scraping by, spam
on sandwiches and learning
to sew before spelling
she had three kids
back to back
and never snapped back

she pushes her boys into fights
never wants to see them 
end up beaten
life’s gonna beat 'em
down enough, don’t you know?

under her tutelage
they use their fists instead of words
pushes down the other boys
who try to get up
from the gutter

mum dies when he’s eleven
never comes back from having
three boys too late
and the cancer took her quick
she made getting sick
look easy

left three boys in the care
of their dad
hair already turning white
tryna do right but failing
could never keep the boys
out of trouble and in sight

three boys claw themselves out
move to Scotland, make a life
away from concrete slabs
and black cabs, but
they’ll make it back
one day.

maybe we can keep

maybe we can keep
believing in a future
that could be different
and better
maybe we can keep
treasuring hugs and
holding hands

maybe we can keep
smiling behind masks
and keep our space
from strangers who need it
we all need it,
someitmes

maybe we can keep
reaching out to loved ones
through window
boxes and twitter threads
spun in the spaces
our space leaves

maybe we can keep
our distance
keep our friends & our family
maybe we can keep
them for just
a little while longer

delicate

she never was content
to wait in towers
and maybe that’s why
she’s never been able to
recognise a cage.

they said
she will never be anything
but delicate.
they said no man
would ever touch her again.

and she cried,
I want no man.
I want no brand defiling
what is mine
to give away,
to hold close,
to do with as I please.

so they said,
have it your way,
and tricked her into
porcelain and velvet.

now her heart is trapped
between one beat
and the next, her hair
brushed into stillness.

warm flesh melts
into cool porcelain.
flowing silk frays
and moves no more.

her leg is bent behind her
as if fingers were wrapped
around her ankle, pulling
her into place.

the difference between gold
and porcelain
is that one can crack,
so be careful, darling –
don’t try too hard to cry.

gears click into place
and she spins
without moving,
her chipped fingers
outstretched, dancing,
one touch away
from breaking.

happily ever after

I won't tell you the end
of this story.
I want you to pretend
for a moment
that this is a book
that you can close.

this is a chapter you can
brush over, love.
you don’t have to ever
read it again.
the characters don’t die
if you turn the page.

don’t mourn them;
they were never real.
they never had red blood
make maps through
their veins.
they never felt pain.

though their spines
feel real, their skeletons
flush against
your fingertips,
they were only ever
wood and ink.

it’s okay, darling.
close the book.
the words can’t follow you
if you place them on the shelf,
tight between the Bible
and a love poem.

close the book.
we can end it here.
no one will know
that there were chapters
you couldn’t bear to read.
no one will know
about the words you scratched
out like eyes.

whisper it,
lit by the light of a torch
under bedsheets,
and it becomes real.
I promise you, this is
the end.

what I don’t know

what I don’t know
could fill a bus seat
could fill a basket
of your favourite fruit
could fill a glass
teetering on the edge of a table
fill the cracks when it shatters

it could fill
your heart, if you let it
it could fill all the fractures
like poly filler
like polly pocket dolls
in the heels of your shoes

what I don’t know
could fill a secret safe
where you stash your
year eight diaries and
rocks shaped like hearts
and friendship bracelets made
for friends you don’t have anymore

it could fill a coffin
we could bury it
and lay flowers every sunday
we could burn it to the ground
like alexandria
like guy fawkes
a forest fire culling
everything in its path

what I don’t know
could fill a young adult novel series
fill a bucket list
fill a swimming pool
complete with those inflatables
you hold yourself under and pretend
that someone would save you

but what I know
could fill the egg cup
that you slide across the table
before my eyes have adjusted
to the morning light
could fill the bedside drawer
you offered me after our fifth date
shy eyes and fitful fingers,
tucking your hair behind your ears
and hoping I’ll say yes

what I know
is a friendship bracelet worn thin
is a stuffed toy with threads
come loose at the seams
a gravestone inscribed with the words,
beloved,
enshrined together in cracks in marble
what I know, darling, is
I love you