Some More Poems from the Past

I'm feeling sorry for Greece right now--such a lovely, hospitable, proud people, facing who knows what for a future. Will their precious heritage be sold to the highest bidder? I sure hope not. I'm not likely to visit Greece again in my lifetime, but I have very fond and pleasant memories from my visits there over the years. My pictures from Greece are all on slides, mostly put away in binders, but one of these days I'll have to dig some out and scan them for the blog. But for now I will have to illustrate my poems with other things.

Collage with leaves and transfer

At Delphi, 1971

When we had climbed,

stumbling on the loose pebbles,

struggling up the high steps,

the long path to the place

where his Pythian priestess sat

dispensing the future suitably

in ambiguous hexameters,

there was nothing for us to see

but weathered memories.

Our guide unequivocally announced

the irrefutable fact:

APOLLO IS DEAD

I found it was not so.

I knew why I had climbed:

to hear, still echoing

across these sacred stones

the music of his golden lyre.

Collage with transfers.

Clytemnestra Speaks her Mind

Beetlehusk I

who was once iridescent, expectant of life

stood in my robe of soft folds of love

enveloping, caressing,

waited to be drawn into the net

of a bride's veil, a prized catch

to grace some royal house.

Treasure of the House of Atreus

you came in gleaming gold,

Agamemnon, Marshaller of Men

to court my sister, Helen. She,

daughter of Zeus or Tyndareus

went home to Sparta with your brother

while I, of no less age and worth,

followed the greater King to Mycenae.

You, like that warrior-laden horse,

were beautiful and strong to look upon,

but full of sharp and deadly little things

to strike the color from my folded wings.

Without complaint I bore all that was

to be borne.

Then, wretched day at Aulis!

the fairest flower of your house

I watched you pluck

and dash against the altar of expediency;

and in my grief and rage I swore

if you lived through your stupid war

a second sacrifice.

Ten years now I've waited wrapped

in the hard shell of hate

keeping your kingdom's keys

winding, spinning, weaving,

bringing honor to your throne,

dishonor to your bed,

preparing for the day of your return.

Now, come, in gleaming gold,

step out into this blood-red trap I've laid:

step out, march forth

into the thick enveloping folds

of my vengeance.

Let me hack this lump of vengeance out

with a two-edged sword:

One edge for her who never shall return

and one for me who never was.

You shall feel the sharp edge

of my beetle mouth, caught in my jaws;

for this have I waited expectant of death

and I shall not let go.

Digital collage; texture from my photos and scans,
clip art from Dover, colored in

Menelaus Tells the Truth About the Trojan War

The poets say we went to war

spent ten years on a foreign shore

because some cockamamie kid

ran off with my wife.

That's my Helen, over there,

the pretty one with yellow hair

throwing weft threads on her loom

quite content with life.

She insists it was a hoax,

says she visited some folks

in Egypt, pure as driven snow

avoiding all the strife.

Her royal hosts will surely claim

that she alone and blameless came

to them, and took no part at all

in her supposed rape.

My friend, what difference does it make?

My honor's never been at stake

when gods take part and interfere

with history's true shape.

We monarchs didn't go for her--

we marched away because we were

young and strong and brave and ready

to play at war, escape

the mundane and the nine-to-five, 

because it made us feel alive.

The glory of the battle won

excitement and comraderie--

that's why we went!

Our names and deeds from hearth to tent,

in triumph sung, we laugh and cheer.

We weren't the ones who had to die.

That's all for now---Nan