Archaeology Poetry: A Tale of the Phaistos Disc


A Tale of the Phaistos Disc	"Shall I Compare Thee to a Backfill Pile?" April 27, 2000
by Bradley D. Steinberg

Your March/April 1999 issue brought back a flood of memory. The introductory article by Nancy Wilkie, concerning her recent trip to Turkey, remarked of her having been with a group of Carleton College alumni and the group's "feeling for life" and "envisioning" at the various sites visited. Although I was not on that trip, I am a Carleton alumnus and in the Fall of 1998, was part of a group of bicyclists touring the southwest coast of Turkey. In the course of that trip I spent a great deal of time at the various archaeological sites throughout that area.

Reading on, I then came upon the article by James Wiseman and his intriguing examples and discussion of archaeologically oriented poetry, grounded in imagination and observation. I was particularly moved by the work of Loren Eiseley, to whom I've been drawn since my college days as a take-time-out thinker and, in more recent years, as a poet. Upon savoring this I moved on to other memories via the article on Knossos which brought me back to 1997 when I was privileged to visit Crete with another bicycle touring group and pedaled to the plethora of that island's archaeological sites. Naturally, one of the places visited was the palace at Phaistos, where I had the never to be forgotten opportunity of standing within remnants of the very room where the famous Phaistos Disc had been found in 1908. Having seen the disc in the Herakleion Museum and listening to a talk on its finding and the might-be of its varied meanings, I simply could not resist thoughts concerning its creator, what might have been on his mind, as well as other circumstances leading up to its creation. Needless to say, wandering Crete on a bicycle brought much to the fore and ultimately resulted in a piece of writing which I dubbed, "A Tale of the Phaistos Disc." The composition occurred during the course of the bicycle trip itself so I also had the additional pleasure of being able to share it with other members of the group who had experienced along the way some of its flavors and the imaginings of what might have occurred 1600 B.C. or thereabouts.

Finally, I want to express my thanks to you and the persons responsible for putting together this edition of the magazine. Starting with the cover of "The Parisienne," and thereafter being pulled into wonderful memories is to experience one of the more delightful aspects of growing older.

note on the following tale

on the island of Crete in 1908 a disc of clay
was unearthed at the ancient Minoan palace
of Phaistos by an archeologist.

it was 6" in diameter and approximately 3/4" thick
and printed on both sides with 241 signs comprised
of 45 separate pictograms and ideograms.

it is the world's oldest printed script.

the room in which it was found appears
to have been a place where sacred or precious
objects were stored, next to which was a guardhouse.

each sign was printed separately from a small
carved stamp of wood, or, possibly metal, in a sequence
of phrases arranged in a spiral format.

These signs, composed and impressed on the disc
prior to 1600 B.C. by an unknown person,
have never been found elsewhere and the content
of the inscription has yet to be deciphered satisfactorily
despite numerous attempts by experts.

imagination finds such silence
irresistable

a tale of the Phaistos disc

there was a time
before harshness came
and mountains barrened,

well before Christ,
before the conquerings
forced people inward.

it was a time Crete called herself: a crown
whose earth was pure gold
and rocks were diamonds

when life
was not yet written
into words.

in sum, a time
before the need
to invent Eden,

when people were more,
familiar
with their silence

when image makers
dreamed
into their images

and one, who
at a hired task
in now forgotten language

or perhaps for himself,
just one man's way
of putting things

wrote a tale of life
carefully spacing, placing
to meter, like speech

pictures, glyphs
the events, moments, myths
his mind had lived.

His work, giving life
to the mark of another
keened him as observer;

he was, after all
skilled in putting things
as image maker:

carving signets, a signature
identifying patrons
as they wished to be known.

so it was no great remove
to flesh out images
of other lives, even times;

why then not
onto a record of clay
record his touch

to the shape of things
that moved his thought;
his wish to be known by?

what to tell by symbols
chosen and their order
was to keep no secret,

much as the seasons
told people
what to do.

the mark within him
was to tell things
that had emerged

from sights
sounds of his life;
from earth, sky and the unseen

from the fires
burning low at night
in the chill among stars;

at the harvest, when the grain
winnowed and the grapes became
wine, bringing men together.

it was to come from the quest
the hunt, the disappointment;
the desert and the drought of men

and from those becomings
of ships that brought
and never arrived because...

voices of gods
manipulated, cursed, transformed;
were timeless to men.

He well knew men's ears
lead to their hearts, as listeners
shaped to tales

and that the order of his imprint
must contain closeness to men's lives
and reach toward that mystery of beyond.

i shall print of men and kings;
the tall, jumping fish of the sea;
of light jagged from the sky.

with scent of lemon and olive trees,
ancient before the face of all winds
i shall fix unseen meanings

of rain, streams
before earth shakes
and rock breaks;

of a man's run up
and with dry mouth, down
a mountain pass;

the mark of men
upon a man
who seeks

and his mark
upon the land, flocks, flowers
that to the great disc of sun

awaken, bloom open in morning
and into years that swirl
men toward death

where all of us
fall
like the sun with its light

becoming quiet light, shimmering
trees and the sea
that calms the night.

it is to be a story seen;
remain, remind
like a prayer

held gently
in hand...
a caress of this land.

And by this stretch
of a single mind
the sealmaker outlived his time

passing beyond
the power of kings
palaces, domains

as exploration of thought
wombed in clay
exploded meaning this personal way;

swirled feeling
framed in a spiral
good, to the last rosette.

Upon showing it, he told it
gave it to his friend.
an offering over raki.

a lovely telling
smiled the priest.
unique, a worthy archive.

but hearing and seeing this device;
this passion so recorded,
permitting repeat of a soul's gift

to others
and by others
to themselves,

brought a piercing uneasiness
of which the priest
could not speak.

and it came to pass,
what the sealmaker had placed
to be known to eye, ear and heart

gods and fate
had written and sealed
otherwise.

their conversation touching
new intimacy,
two men left a table satisfied

while leaving us
and the ages
mystified.

For more on Phaistos, see "Cretan Minoan Finds," April 15, 1998, and "Saving Knossos," January/February 1999.

For more on the Phaistos Disc, see Findings from Phaistos.

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