Actaeon, Hunter and Prey

Actaeon, Hunter and Prey

You are not the only hunter in these woods, Actaeon. 

You have a double close at hand that you’d be wise to fear,

Diana-Artemis and her women of the bow and spear.

Both parties take a break from hunting at midday, 

but you wander off like Narcissus alone, while your men stay

to muster hungry dogs and then to sort the bloodstained gear.

You’ve made a killing, yes, but where’s your hunter’s subtle sense?

Someone surely told you that you should always be aware

of things like the scent of water in that thicket there,

the sound that arrows make when sliding in a quiver,

to pick up distant laughter like the whisper of a river,

to spot a flattened blade, a broken twig, and to beware

of unexpected changes of pressure in the air,

but you wander into sacred groves without a care.

Now Ovid pretends to do his best to let you off the hook,

drawing our attention to how you didn’t mean to look,

but there she was and disrobed too, you saw the thing no man should see,

and you would brag about it to your men, you could not resist.

If you were very lucky she’d have put an arrow in your chest.

But naked she must improvise, throwing water in your face

that woke you from your negligence and then you see yourself,

your head with antlers growing there reflected in the brook.

Then dogs that you had bred to kill pick up your scent and bay,

while mute and panicked you take flight, and try to slip away, 

but you have trained them far too well to let a stag deer go,

and your own men urge them on, and call you biting names,

for wandering off to take a break in haunted woods like these, 

where one can suddenly transform from hunter to the prey.