The Metaphor of Work

They say “She held down a steady job
for many years” as if it were a wrestling match:
the job floored (literally!) but fighting back,
refuses to submit, a sweating,
heavy body lying prone as someone
counts the seconds out, but very slowly,
for years, in fact, like an interminable
nightmare.

Or perhaps an arresting cop is astride
this occupation, yelling at it to put
its arms behind its back, cuffs at the ready,
jangling metal adding to the symphony
of the street, the crunch of boots on gravel,
the job face down, struggling not to taste the dirt
between its teeth, struggling to breathe at all.

In any case, it doesn’t sound quite right.
You almost start to feel sympathy for the job,
to empathise with its chafing wrists
or shoulders pinned down uncomfortably
on the ground. And the poor thing is steady too,
like your first reliable boyfriend,
or the progress of a large container ship,
or a lucky rock you cling on to
just on the point of drowning.

Something’s wrong, because it’s so often the job
that has you between its teeth, or on a short lead,
steady only in its domination,
always threatening to pitch you if you don’t behave,
whittling you down day by day and year by year
towards exhausted submission.

Better then to say: “It was a hefty job
that held her down for many years.”

Athena

Twice born: once from an insect and then
from your father’s head. It’s a strange start,
but when your pregnant mum was turned
into a beetle and consumed, then
you clearly needed to get birthed quick.

That must have been some journey from the swirling
gastric juices of Zeus to his complicated,
philandering grey matter. You made
some noise there, causing him a headache,
crashing your sword and shield together in his brain.
He called the blacksmith to axe his skull open
and there you were: full-grown and armoured,
ready to begin a life of strategy.

Despite all that, you were your dad’s favourite girl.
Protecting at first the hearth and home,
then diversifying into the arts of war,
but cleverly, not like that blood-thirsty Ares
with his shock and awe, you were far more canny.

No surprise then that you chose your favourites
carefully: Heracles who appreciated
help with thinking through his tasks; Jason favoured
with the Golden Fleece; Achilles who, after all,
despite the sulking, was so much more appealing
than Agamemnon; Odysseus with a cunning
to match your own; and the city, to which
you gave the silver-grey olive tree.

What a wise owl you turned out to be.

Ali Rowland is a poet and author from Northumberland. Her poetry is sometimes about her own mental health disability, and just as often about the world in general. She is assisted in her endeavours by a wonderful husband and a beautiful Border Terrier. Ali won the Hexham Poetry Competition in 2023 and was Runner Up in the Positive Images Poetry Competition. She has been published in Tabula Rasa: Poems by Women (Linen Press): Ten Poems of Kindness Vol. 2 (Candlestick Press), as well as a number of poetry magazines.