One of Odysseus' men, becalmed on an island:
not long after that
Still praying for an easterly breeze
I was bathing in the stream
When a fat eel showed its head
through the stones
on the verge
Just downstream from me
I moved (with the flow)
Towards it (a prize
I had not tasted
in years)
As it came
Next to my hand
I recoiled as my eyes
(hungry for home
and the eel traps
that fed us each week)
Finally recognised it as
a snake
Longer than my arm
Climbing the bank
I was met by our augur
Who hastened down with his knife
beheaded the thing
to witness two frogs
emerge from the cut
And hop away uninjured
Which revealed to him
(myself sworn to secrecy)
That we would leave this place alive
but only after emerging
slick and contrite
from the stricture
Of our tormentor’s maw
As with most divinations
This Truth (eventually)
came true
As soon as it was no longer
expected
Or desired
(January 2022)
Odysseus, alone with Kalypso, after a hard night's reminiscing about Troy:
my hostess
Sends the servants from the room
(I know they clamour by the door
whether waiting
for titillation
or command
I know not)
Am I due
strong words
On my behaviour
In respectable
Company
Or allusions to the gratitude
Any other man so far from home
Deserted by both his men and fate
Might think to lavish on his benefactor
Especially one as powerful and (yes)
beautiful to the eye
as she clearly is
She pushes still for marriage
Despite her persistently
flat belly
I cannot refuse her
For much longer
my excuses
Have ranged from ingenious
to humorous
Into the commonplace
truisms
Of an already married couple
Too used to completing
Each others’ words
To bother much
About new
ones
She lays back the sheets and lamb fleeces
(the nights here are cold)
Climbs under them
Watches me undress
In the light of the last candle
(I pull in my stomach and remember
to stow my tunic on the stool)
Before I snuff out the taper
I see the tear in her eye
Glister in its final
light
(September 2021)
Odysseus', inside the Wooden Horse, parked outside the gates of Troy and surrounded by perplexed Trojans:
The most memorable sneeze I ever heard
Was at the court of a Theban noble:
We had been patiently explaining
the gravity of his position
(surrounded and about to be filleted)
Decorated with the deepest heartfelt marks
of respect to his dignity
(the men were tired of sieges
and Achilleus was away)
When he declared that he would not surrender
Until the Gods sent him a clear sign
That so was their will
Just as he spoke
A feaster on the other side of the hall
let loose the loudest sneeze
I have heard
before or since
which
(apparently in Thebes)
Is taken as a token from the Thunderer
That the Lord's request is answered
in the affirmative
And so
he promptly surrendered
I mused (to Menelaus it was) later
That if the man had instead let forth
a thunderous fart
It could have been seen as misdirection
from the Lord of the underworld
and
We might have still been camped outside his walls
Which Menelaus thought rather blasphemous
And I whispered this brilliant anecdote
(that you will hear in no
God-inspired bard's song)
to poor Anticlus
(tenderly and softly
as to a lover)
As I wrapped my legs around his
pinned his arms
pinched his nostrils
And clenched his mouth
until his own sneeze
Died along with him
(March 2021)
Gravedigger
Glimpsing a future after work
Alone in a little room with screens full of apps
Watching for contact notices to flash in from the right
Streaming any music I want
It is raining
The Cockatoos are agitated
If I leave will I be policed on my way to shop
In the meantime I could garden
If it would stop raining
My tea is cold
Dave Matthews playing Gravedigger
(April 2020)
8.15am
It is 8.15am
20 minutes late into town
In a train affected by wiring
melted at Berowra
Red sun choked with dust and smoke
Recirculating with each Northerly
That smell of resin and cooked
break pads
It will not rain
The news is fire
The same as yesterday
orange suits
Labour through
Charcoal stubble fields
eclipse-dark
People
stare
Out of windows
As the wind picks up
They say
it won’t rain
Until February and
That will be too late
20 minutes late into town
In a train affected by wiring
melted at Berowra
Red sun choked with dust and smoke
Recirculating with each Northerly
That smell of resin and cooked
break pads
It will not rain
The news is fire
The same as yesterday
orange suits
Labour through
Charcoal stubble fields
eclipse-dark
People
stare
Out of windows
As the wind picks up
They say
it won’t rain
Until February and
That will be too late
(January 2020)