By David John Mowers

Oceanus, Acheron, Styx and Gyges, Phlegethon,

Phaeacians lament, mourn the loss, Scheria, dissolved in froths.

Virgil’s tale, found correct, a land too good, a nation wrecked,

Nausikaa, burn the ships; their minds released, cool airy nips,

Below the wave, watery grave, submerged to bottom, fathoms by stave,

Fathoms some more, until the whorl, descending to, another world.

Through Omphalos, to Land of Sleep, awaits a beast, where time has ceased,

Darkness here, underworld, cold and frigid, below the whirl,

In solemn grave, souls released, judged and counted, by the beast,

Deeper than, the deep itself, past drowning fairies and dying elves,

Who did mourn them? Those golden men, magic mariners, Mino's kin?

What wrong was seen? What vice not true? What awful sin? What did they do?

One thousand years, first black age, Two thousand more, to find the stage,

Cast off Aries and cast Orion, to find beginning, of Golden Lion.

Man of Heavens, Beast agrees, Bull of Sky, Ox of seas,

Land of Punt, Land of Éire, Ogyges blue, hearts on fire,

All the seashores, all the mines, Tribe of Dan, from ancient times,

Port of Sais, Port of Thera, Port of Lagash, bygone era,

Sailor’s horse, Minotaur, a lyre is crying, strummed guitar, nation dying, abattoir.

Ochre foams to sanguine depth, there they rested, where Kronos slept,

He’ll never answer, he doesn’t care, we’ll never know, if this was fair.

Our hearts in sadness, hands on the gates! I curse you Poseidon!

. . .and your Sea of Fates!

As the walls of Troy
came crumbling down
I wonder where it was
that you ran

I keep a small faith
that something stole you
           instead
wrenched you onto its ship
           bedded you

I have words
which taste like venom
           or a sinner’s eulogy
the way
that I can put them together
bringing rhapsodists to their knees

            and you
have a self-conviction:
           your words
are better than mine
           my words
are merely the stink
which rises
from the suburban ******* tip

you forget that we speak
            the same language
the same words
over and
            over again

I wake up in May
there is dew on the sill of the window
            culminated
from my ****** foulness

you climbed through it
             said goodbye
with a dry mouth
and a steady voice

every evening
is an odyssey for you

I was the antagonist
I wanted to flood your ship
I wanted to drown your men

you are the wise man
               the one
with the ideas
               the one
who in the end
is meant to save us all

a different you – I know it’s you
you feel the same
                same
strength in your knees
                and same
self-conviction

returned to me
and to this archaic city
at the start of May

your words are different
and now
you have a kiss
like the world is ending
and I am your final prayer

we are always searching
for a way to disappear
indefinitely
inside each other

between the walls
of a timber stead
we have cycled
back to the beginning

                   begin again.

Gentle
Gentle
breathe it in
it's all for you:

The moss on the trees
the acid in your mouth
the choked air in a sun room.

We can share this together.



See here is the man missing.
         the hero is missing.

We heard many great tales of his exploits:

The wife at home,
her endless tapestry

The fatherless son now
A quarter century old.

We can share his glories,
the glorious goods:

Waking up to blood
on bedsheets
without a sign of scratch



Here
Here
     Come gentle now
forgotten son:

The sail is escaping from your grip
This ship is taking us nowhere
Change the gears.

A hero will come, he’ll come
He’ll come
He’ll come

(The hero has left the room)

spill your glowing grace over me
let it bask my shoulders in golden light
i want to ascend to your mighty mountain
let rest a thorny crown upon my head
then must great kings kneel at my sight
and forever live in heavenly youth

What words would I have written then
If my fate had lied within?
Stories remembered? Studied lines?
Or eroded by passing time?

Rejoice, muses, for the traveler, descended from his namesake:
Odysseus, son of Archon. For he carries in him the spirit of his ancient father.
Time immortal has lost the tale of the ancient King of Ithaca,
Odysseus, son of Laertes. This explorer will travel the stars,
The vast Unknown shall know his name, and he will know it's spirit  
As his ancestor traveled home from Ilias
His way inhibited by the gods
Meeting strangers along the twisted road.

Odysseus, son of Archon, rests upon his Captain's throne
Observing through the glass the void which called his name:
"Come, Traveler. Come, Adventurer. Come to me,
And all which is unknown will be known.
Come and see, Traveler, and I will set you free.
There are no endings here; no edges of the map.
There is only that which has always been, and will always be"

The Captain: alone in his ship. No crew would follow him, no crew was needed.
He was afraid. Odysseus knew his choice was made, and
He knew what lay ahead! He knew that he knew nothing.
A push was needed, and to his log he spoke:

"I embark today from home. This journey will take me far away;
Farther than any man before. I begin at mother Earth, and I go out and away.
Away from Mars, the crimson orb of furious war
Past Neptune, the super giant with its swirling eye.
All of this behind me, I will continue still.
I will follow the Unknown, to the vast beyond."

With that, the Traveler ****** forward the controls,
And in so doing, lost all reservation.
For seemingly innumerable days he did not stop,
Streaking away from home faster than light;
An arrow, which was not released but which leaped forth with joy.
Not fired away in anger, but shot into the stars, ablaze,
Seeking a place in which to bury its point.
A signal to all who saw or cared: man is coming.

“Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed.
You will never be lovelier than you are now.
We will never be here again.”

― Homer, The Iliad

Oh, goddess Athena.
Bright-eyed
daughter of Zeus.
Third-born of the gods
whose spear hurls thunder,
tireless hope of soldiers:
lift me on my broken shield
and bear my body home,
far from these hollow ships,
the wine-colored, loud-roaring sea
and these high-hearted men
who have called down
stony-death upon me...

I pay my ticket to enter the giant
concrete staircase on the periphery
of the bay of San Francisco.

***** Mays and other boyhood
heroes would do their magic
along this shore for so many years.

Now that I no longer feel the
baseball enthrallment–
because my body cannot see
itself moving with such speed and grace–
I dream of a different crowd.

Homer pitching the ball,
as someone must start the play;
Lao Tsu striking with wood
at what moves so fast it
can barely be seen.

Such hollow sound as ball
is soul-bound into the ether
of the Psalms. Emily
Dickinson snags the high hit.

The onomatopoeiac crowd
lifts its unified heart to
the resounding cheer of
Walt Whitman on grassy
outfield of bliss.

This warm day in the concrete
hang-out, I see in the concrete
dug-out such heavy hitters
lined up for a quick swat at glory.

Maybe something soothing
in between the innings–
an oriole or an Indian foot dance,
while I dream of dancing in my sox.

Someone once said,
"Vietnam is
the great, epic poem
of our generation."

The greatest epic poem
ever written about war
is Homer's Iliad.

So I wondered,
which character
would I be?

Agamemnon? Too pompous.
Achilles? Too deadly.
Odysseus? Too crafty.
Paris? Too dishonest.

Hector, of course.

Destined to fight on
in a lost cause;
his death inevitable,
already foretold;
courage in the face
of doom.

Hector. I like that.
It has a bold ring
to it.

Maybe I'll change
my name.

  ~mce