The Medusa Stare

Follow the dread lure of my gaze

Look me in the face.

Once, it wasn’t the stone in my stare that stunned.

Follow the dread lure of my gaze through the winding labyrinth of mythology — those twists and turns of power and patriarchy, those hedged dead ends — the savage slight of oblique references — where the Feminine is violated, slayed. Left for dead. Transformed into silent and petrified statues to adorn the new era of Man, the reign of male Gods.

Long before the banishment to this forsaken shore, I was beautiful to behold. Despite being mortal, Athena chose me for priestess, bidding me guard the temple door, sacred haven for virgins, free from the constant shaping stare — men’s desires and designs. Where we could be all one* with ourselves.

Oh and how their eyes stared at the gracious girl with snaking tresses of golden hair, radiant in linens white. Those eyes could seduce and still a man’s heart.

Yes, once it was the men who stared as I walked to the temple, waves of hair holding sunlight to blaze past dusk about my shoulders. The men who stared — and I, who looked away.

Athena said you’re beautiful, Medusa. But her eyes were cold.

And who is that man, filling the entire space of the the temple’s entrance? Forcing his way in with cruel and phallic trine? Why does he not respect this sanctity of the virgin Goddess, his shadow looming over me as I kneel before the altar?

My offerings did naught to protect me from Poseidon. When he forced me to the floor, winding my hair like a golden prize in his huge fist, so I could neither make him meet my eyes nor escape his seed — Athena looked the other way.

She, who was sworn to protect me, betrayed me. Those prongs and pillars of patriarchy, driving chasms between women. Athena, enraged and narrow-eyed with jealousy sees only the sacrilege — the blemish of blood — spilled upon the temple floor.

No punishment for Poseidon. Lust satisfied, he forges on ahead to other conquests without consequence. Did he wink at Athena as he swaggered out the door? Did he pass her a pouch of rarefied pearls, plundered from his briny kingdom, an exchange of unhallowed bribery? Did the oysters weep, knowing what they gave up their treasure for?

My story is laden with sidelong glances, slantways looks. A tyranny of turnings away.

Look me in the face.

Athena assesses the ruin of me, through the mask of misogyny. My hair and beauty deemed the cause of defilement of the sacred site, rather than lust unbridled of a greedy male God.

Virgin no longer, so begins my dark fall into infamy. And those long and winding tresses start to writhe and hiss in my ears — words like shame, words like slut.

Ssseee what you’ve done, girl?

Athena ensures no man will again look on me with desire. A protection as twisted as the serpents coiled about my face. A judgement as cold as antithesis of light, refracting back from now-obsidian pupils in my granite gaze.

My world, gone dark.

Now, I sit alone on this desolate shore hard by night, where desire will never find me. It is I who am petrified with grief. Grief for the girl I once was and will never be again. The only sounds, the susurrations of my constant serpentine companions, mingling with waves and seaborne winds. Even the gulls turn their eyes from my face — lessons learnt from the corpse-grey stones never to take flight again, scattered upon the shore. More loneliness than any mortal woman should bear.

The stone in my stare — a misbegotten legacy. Misbegotten as my hybrid offspring — curdled seed of Poseidon from the force of that unsought coupling — soon to spring from my dying corporeality.

And still you come to seek me out. Those of the lineage of Poseidon and Perseus. All the privileged perpetrators, down through history. Not content with my isolation and my silence. Old patriarchy, always wanting women’s heads. I sense questing prows, pushing insistently through formidable waves to penetrate the boundaries of my shores.

Here comes Perseus, with all the might of a cunning coward. Deception on his side. More gifts from male authority. Sleight-of-hand mirror for his shield. Helmet from Hades that rendered a murderer invisible, impermeable. Thieves have always used night as their alibi.

Look me in the face.

The myths say I was asleep when you sidled up to me, not valiant enough to confront me directly. Under the guise of darkness — the trickery of your shield, seeing slantwise to catch me unawares. Your shield, yet another version of patriarchy’s mirror, splattered with the blood of my beheading.

Take the truth of the Feminine. Reverse its image. Deflect the real story. Decapitate women’s heads from their bodies, intelligence from their form. Spill the blood of our silence, carelessly under your carnage of cunted conquering. Diminish our power, to serve as mere decoration to your plagiarized tales.

My story is laden with sidelong glances, slantways looks. A tyranny of turnings away.

I say to all you descendants of Perseus — I wasn’t asleep. Your swords won’t silence me anymore. Even when you take my head, I still possess the power to petrify. My spilled blood, full of the venom of unforgotten violations, will rise up to bite you.

If you had but the courage to gaze at me directly, you’d see my true face — formed from beauty, intelligence and grace. If you’d only look deep into my eyes, as you unbuckled your belts and fondled your own selfish need for a semen-rush of power/ domination /control, you would see truly what you destroy. Castrate your carnal longings. Banish your blamelessness.

I am wide awake. My eyes will never close — were never closed.

And I am looking. Straight. At you.

If I am the monstrous feminine, what does that make you? The dread in my gaze … who do you think I see?

Look me in the face.

© Melissa Coffey August 2021

*I refer to the original meaning of “virgin” here, as “all one”.

Quote fragment from Theogony by Greek poet Hesiod (c. 700 B.C) describing where Medusa was banished to — “beyond famed Oceanus at the world’s edge hard by Night.”

Birthed from the awe-inspiring prompt by J.D. Harms — “Painting the Fear”. I was compelled to revisit a fascination with the Medusa myth, that became the seed of The Medusa Stare, a theatre performance I created and directed for Melbourne Fringe Festival 2001, exploring ten femme fatale figures through art, history, and literature via a feminist lens. I decided to write a (completely new) piece, somewhat inspired by the seed of my former theatrical creation, but also driven more by who I am now — as a woman, as a writer.

I see Medusa as embodying powerful femme-fatale qualities of sex and death, especially when one explores further back into her story origins before she became the “dread gorgon”. But she can also be seen as emblematic of what is now known as the “me too” movement. On this level, this piece is also influenced by French linguist and feminist Helene Cixous’ seminal essay The Laugh of the Medusa (1976), where she incites women to:

Write yourself. Your bodies must be heard.

I have this quote above my desk — inspiring me to write from the stories and insights of my body, my experiences — difficult though some of them may be.

Thank you for reading — you may enjoy more of my myth retellings:

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