THE PENELOPEID

The Penelopeid
Is a poem you will never read.

There is no sacred text

Upon which the words of the singer

Were carefully scratched.

Because there are no words

For the story that must be told.

A good plot,

Aristotle tells us,

Consists of goals, complications,

Revelation and suffering.

The order must be careful,

Deliberate.

Designed.

Patterned.

Who would read the tale?

This island is small.


And this hall smaller.

Large enough to hold so many strong hands,

Manly loins, hungry mouths.

Large enough to hold the dreams

Of a boy who becomes a man

In the shadow of his mother’s fear.

Large enough for twenty empty years.


What hero is this?

Who sits and warps and wefts

Wrapped in shadow against the sun’s heat

Only to steal back in the silvery splinters

Of moonlight to unravel her threads and tears.



What hero is this?

Who’s only strength lies in a dream

She never had.

Who cannot hold her lover true

And is glad to have him from whosoever’s bed

He’s warmed these thousands of salty nights?

What hero is this?

Indeed.

None for your tales of Phaikians and affected sobs.

None for your sirens and witches and nymphs.

Harlots all.

None for your Cyclops and Scyllas sprinkled like

Pepper between years in lusty silken sheets.

My deeds lie in the careful maze

Woven into my father’s shroud. Him

I will not deny.

My deeds lie in my son’s

Sure step and careful strength.

(The bow was as easily his, you see.)

My deeds are done

In flesh and bone

More vital than any song.

My tale lies there

For those who have eyes to see

And a heart

To hear.

6 november 2005