Monday, October 12, 2015

October 12





16 comments:

  1. Not exactly what you asked for, but...
    On a Funeral Urn by the Polyphemus Painter

    Thousands of years later, we're still
    telling this story about the uncouth
    cyclops, Polyphemus, who knew no better
    than to eat his guests, and the grim enforcer,
    Odysseus. Even now, there are rules
    for being a host and also for being a guest/
    We still agree moderation in all things
    is best. Why then do we revel in this wild
    adventurer, best liar of the bunch?
    For the sheer love of stories
    and the joy of making them.

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  2. really, really like this..."Polyphemus, who knew no better
    than to eat his guests" sympathetic humor) and the ending!

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  3. Abounding in Songs and Legends... and Nobody

    O Polyphemus, the son of a god you are
    larger than life and stronger than the sea
    yet falling short in humanity

    Great Odysseus, scallywag and fiend
    your courage and heroism is matched
    only by your audacity

    Fool Polyphemus, who's appetite is disturbing
    gluttony on a giant's scale
    will be your undoing

    Clever Odysseus, your mind always churning
    the ultimate opportunist in everything
    the trap is already set

    Poor Polyphemus, a legend destined to fade
    undone by drink and a sharp stick
    from the hand of Nobody

    Silly Odysseus, you never learn your lesson
    nor can you ever leave well enough alone
    why did you reveal your real name?

    Frozen in time, forever locked in battle
    trapped on the urn of a departed child
    who was more grown up than you

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    Replies
    1. Love that last line especially. Really wonderfu!

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  4. Why did the urn fascinate you child
    Were you to be Odysseus
    saving your people
    or was Cyclops,
    your father
    did mother lion beneath your feet
    discipline to harshly
    or was she there to lick
    your wounded heart.
    As the chalice held
    your dripping blood.

    Keats, your urn figures
    dance in syncopation
    with grace and beauty
    Did your figures bridge wisdom
    While the child’s play
    Was surpassed
    by death’s terror.

    I will place my hand over
    Cyclops last eye
    As I ease
    your consecrated remains
    from the urn of chaos
    to deserved rest
    with Grecian dancers.
    And their sweet lullaby.

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    Replies
    1. That's wonderful. Love it. Love the language of it!

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  5. Cyclops

    singular vision lost
    immortalized — burned in the earth
    in warning

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  6. The Anti-propaganda Prayer for a Geometric Pattern In Lieu of Obligatory War-scene addressed to Attic Clay for Burial Urn of My Unborn Son.

    this clay is no womb for things that will eat
    or be eaten no rove-whisper of cat
    tail among the whey nor wove-lion sat
    with endless mouth fed by plow and the wheat
    drug down the wide spun lips the “men” compete
    thrown wet upon the wheel the Cyclops spat
    out his sported eye the warriors attack’d
    this far se’er of my desolate son future peat
    pyre nothing grows within this salted soil
    and brains jellified do not deliver
    freedom is sung not spun and left in urns
    I see you worship where I left you coil’d
    porn-graphic reel of war we must break river
    wash out alive my child you can’t return.

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  7. Sleep, sleep this longest of the nights
    I’ve tucked and folded your bedding tight

    After tomorrow’s pyre, what shall I fix?
    Ashes, then dust, swept in a clay cradle,
    A lonesome journey down the river Styx
    respite from pain and Life’s betrayal.

    I wonder, how will I know that you’re safe?
    Odysseus used his wily spear for fight,
    our bedtime hero, but you, my small waif?
    I only have this urn for your body, so slight.

    There was no escaping fate under lamb’s wool.
    No happy way to kill the stupid giant
    I drew him here, with a rhino, and a bull
    that I’m with you always, strong and defiant.

    But I will send up incense and my prayer
    to your gray world without disease and fears.
    Although I may laugh to battle my despair
    inwardly I’ll be counting down my years.

    Sleep my child, sleep this longest of the nights
    I’ve tucked and folded your bedding tight

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    Replies
    1. Hi Judy, just wanted to say this is gorgeous. Your control of form and the way it releases content is incredible. This poem is heartbreaking.

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    2. Thank for the delicious compliment, I was teary eyed writing this. You never know when you succeed in tapping into universal feelings and I am aways happy to share heartbreak. (in a sonnet!)

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    3. I'm just going to agree with Mouse (Poet Cooper). This is a great poem!

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