The Meadow of Asphodel

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Acheron River, Asphodel meadows, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Cimmerians, Circe, Erebus, Formal poetry, Greek Mythology, Hades, Hell, Homer, Ithaca, Odysseus, Persephone, poem, poetry, River of Flaming Fire, River of Lamentation, Styx River, Teiresias, The Odyssey

The Meadow of Asphodel

Said Circe of the lovely hair,
The goddess with the tresses fair:
“Odysseus, go and set sail,
For in your quest you must not fail.

I will provide a strong north breeze
That will propel you o’er the seas
To where a land is bathed in mist;
That Dawn’s soft rays have never kissed;

Where dreadful Night has spread her cloak.
Cimmerians, unhappy folk,
Live there, close to the gates of Hell.
A meadow clothed in asphodel,

A grove of slender poplar trees,
(They are august Persephone’s)
Two rivers mingle in a gyre –
The Lamentation, Flaming Fire.

The first has waters of the Styx.
Around a towering rock they mix,
And with a thundering are gone –
They pour into the Acheron.

So when this mournful land you reach,
And on its shore your boat you beach,
Then dig a trench a cubit broad,
A cubit long, with your fine sword.

Around the trench pour offerings,
To all the dead, to slaves and kings,
Then barley, white, all over spread,
And say your prayers to the dead:

At Ithaca, when you return,
A heifer you will kill and burn,
And treasure heap upon the pyre,
So all will be consumed by fire.

And to Teiresias the seer,
The blind, the ghost who dwells quite near,
You’ll sacrifice the finest sheep,
So that the sage in peace may sleep.

When prayers are done, call to your crew
That they must bring a ram and ewe,
Jet-black, no others will suffice –
Two victims for the sacrifice.

To Erebus then turn each head,
But look away till they are bled.
And when the trench is filled with blood;
When death has staunched the surging flood,

From Erebus there’ll come a swarm
Of all the souls in ghostly form;
But take your sword, and let none pass
Till you speak with Teiresias.”

Calypso

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Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Calypso, Formal poetry, Greek Mythology, Homer, Nymph, Odysseus, Ogygia, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, The Odyssey

Calypso

Odysseus yearns for Penelope.
The Nymph Calypso, in her vaulted cave,
Says never will he cross the wine-dark sea,
For she must keep the hero as her slave –
Her slave to love – from cruel Poseidon save.
For should Odysseus from her isle sail,
The Earth-shaker will send him to his grave.
He’ll buffet him with waves, lightning and gale,
And shatter on high seas his raft so frail,
Thus on Odysseus take his revenge;
Or so he thinks – his efforts all will fail.
Odysseus will reach home and avenge
The honour of his wife – her suitors kill;
As fair Calypso bows to Zeus’ will.

Discarded Gods

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Ancient Greece, Australian poet, Greek Gods and Godesses, Greek Mythology, Mount Olympus, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, sonnet

On high Olympus Zeus waters his plants.
His garden blooms; he blows away the snow.
Apollo’s firing arrows from his bow,
As Hera, washing done, hangs out her pants.
Poseidon, Shaker of the Earth, just rants;
He can’t get used to life laid-back and slow.
He longs to plunge into the sea below,
And knows that one fine day he’ll get the chance.
Hung-over, Dionysus grunts and groans,
While Hestia, hearth bound, clears out cold ash.
Vain Aphrodite puts her makeup on,
While razor-sharp, his spear-tip, Ares hones.
The smith Hephaestus gives hot bronze a bash.
They’re out of fashion – but they haven’t gone.

Oh no, they haven’t left the mountain top.
Up on those cloudy heights they still reside;
Wait patiently for what The Fates decide.
On fertile slopes, grows high, Demeter’s crop;
The heavy heads of grain she soon will lop.
And Hermes, fleet of foot, still travels wide;
As exercise, the god won’t be denied.
Athena, helping Hera, wields a mop,
As Artemis heads off to hunt for deer;
Her quiver and her bow across her back.
Hephaestus is still making lots of noise,
And Dionysus downs another beer.
Zeus gazes down on Greece, gone to the pack,
And smiles at the obtuseness of his toys.

Hector

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Achilles, Anger of Achilles, Aphrodite, Apollo, Cypris, Death of Hector, Greek Mythology, Hector, Hector's body, Homer, Ilion, poem, poetry, Priam, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, The Iliad, Trojan War, Troy

Achilles’ anger was unquenched, and so,
Three times each day he dragged him through the dirt.
Yet he remained untarnished head to toe –
No bloodied flesh, no broken bones, no hurt
Showed on unblemished skin. Still and inert,
As if asleep, and no decay was seen.
It seemed by unseen armour he was girt,
For Cypris and Apollo kept him clean.
His wounds they’d closed, since, bloody and obscene,
His body had been taken from the field.
He’d fallen to the bronze so bright and keen,
Yet now the cuts that killed him were all healed.
Achilles longed to tear him limb from limb,
Whilst grieving Priam dreamed of burning him.

{Pic – The Triumph of Achilles by Franz von Matsch. {from Wikipedia}}

Troy Story – an inside job

Tags

Fifth Column, Greek Mythology, Homer, Odysseus, Priam, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, The Illiad, Traitors, Trojan Horse, Trojan War, Troy

Resourceful Lord Odysseus, pray tell –
What is your plan to cause the fall of Troy?
For as you know, the war does not go well;
What tactics are you seeking to employ?
What trickery, what subterfuge, what ploy,
Have you, clever Odysseus, designed?
What cunning plan? What means will you deploy?
Odysseus – what do you have in mind?
So spoke Odysseus: “Priam is blind.
Achaeans wait without, but safe within
Troy’s stout defences, patiently, our kind,
Who went there long ago and settled in,
Now wait, embedded – an imposing force;
I call these warriors my Trojan Horse.“