246 Mythology poems

All the dead kings came to me At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming, A few stars glimmered through the morn, And down the thorn the dews were streaming. And every dead king had a story Of ancient glory, sweetly told. It was too early for the lark, But the starry dark had tints of gold. I listened to the sorrows three Of that Eire passed into song. A cock crowed near a hazel croft, And up aloft dim larks winged strong. And I, too, told the kings a story Of later glory, her fourth sorrow: There was a sound like moving shields In high green fields and the lowland furrow. And one said: ‘We who yet are kings Have heard these things lamenting inly.’ Sweet music flowed from many a bill And on the hill the morn stood queenly. And one said: ‘Over is the singing, And bell bough ringing, whence we come; With heavy hearts we’ll tread the shadows, In honey meadows birds are dumb.’ And one said: ‘Since the poets perished And all they cherished in the way, Their thoughts unsung, like petal showers Inflame the hours of blue and grey.’ And one said: ‘A loud tramp of men We’ll hear again at Rosnaree.’ A bomb burst near me where I lay. I woke, ’twas day in Picardy.

fools, who ate the cattle of Helios Hyperion; but he deprived them of the day of their return. — Odyssey Since we still had some hardtack how stupid of us to go ashore and eat the Sun’s slow cattle, for each was a castle you’d have to battle forty years, till you’d become a hero and a star! On the earth’s back we hungered, but when we’d eaten well we fell to these lower regions mindless and satisfied.

Appolinus his leve tok, To God and al the lond betok With al the poeple long and brod, That he no lenger there abod. The king and queene sorwe made, Bot yit somdiel thei weren glade Of such thing as thei herden tho: And thus betwen the wel and wo To schip he goth, his wif with childe, The which was evere meke and mylde And wolde noght departe him fro, Such love was betwen hem tuo. Lichorida for hire office Was take, which was a norrice, To wende with this yonge wif, To whom was schape a woful lif. Withinne a time, as it betidde, Whan thei were in the see amidde, Out of the north they sihe a cloude; The storm aros, the wyndes loude Thei blewen many a dredful blast, The welkne was al overcast, The derke nyht the sonne hath under, Ther was a gret tempeste of thunder: The mone and ek the sterres bothe In blake cloudes thei hem clothe, Wherof here brihte lok thei hyde. This yonge ladi wepte and cride, To whom no confort myhte availe; Of childe sche began travaile, Wher sche lay in a caban clos: Hire woful lord fro hire aros, And that was longe er eny morwe, So that in anguisse and in sorwe Sche was delivered al be nyhte And ded in every mannes syhte; Bot natheles for al this wo A maide child was bore tho. Appolinus whan he this knew, For sorwe a swoune he overthrew, That noman wiste in him no lif. And whanne he wok, he seide, "Ha, wif, Mi lust, mi joie, my desir, Mi welthe and my recoverir, Why schal I live, and thou schalt dye? Ha, thou fortune, I thee deffie, Nou hast thou do to me thi werste. Ha, herte, why ne wolt thou berste, That forth with hire I myhte passe? Mi peines weren wel the lasse." In such wepinge and in such cry His dede wif, which lay him by, A thousend sithes he hire kiste; Was nevere man that sih ne wiste A sorwe unto his sorwe lich; For evere among, upon the lich He fell swounende, as he that soghte His oghne deth, which he besoghte Unto the goddes alle above With many a pitous word of love; Bot suche wordes as tho were Yit herde nevere mannes ere, Bot only thilke whiche he seide. The maister schipman cam and preide With othre suche as be therinne, And sein that he mai nothing winne Ayein the deth, bot thei him rede, He be wel war and tak hiede, The see be weie of his nature Receive mai no creature Withinne himself as forto holde, The which is ded: forthi thei wolde, As thei conseilen al aboute, The dede body casten oute. For betre it is, thei seiden alle, That it of hire so befalle, Than if thei scholden alle spille. The king, which understod here wille And knew here conseil that was trewe, Began ayein his sorwe newe With pitous herte, and thus to seie: "It is al reson that ye preie. I am," quod he, "bot on al one, So wolde I noght for mi persone There felle such adversité. Bot whan it mai no betre be, Doth thanne thus upon my word, Let make a cofre strong of bord, That it be ferm with led and pich." Anon was mad a cofre sich, Al redy broght unto his hond; And whanne he sih and redy fond This cofre mad and wel enclowed, The dede bodi was besowed In cloth of gold and leid therinne. And for he wolde unto hir winne Upon som cooste a sepulture, Under hire heved in aventure Of gold he leide sommes grete And of jeueals a strong beyete Forth with a lettre, and seide thus: "I, king of Tyr Appollinus, Do alle maner men to wite, That hiere and se this lettre write, That helpeles withoute red Hier lith a kinges doghter ded: And who that happeth hir to finde, For charité tak in his mynde, And do so that sche be begrave With this tresor, which he schal have." Thus whan the lettre was full spoke, Thei have anon the cofre stoke, And bounden it with yren faste, That it may with the wawes laste, And stoppen it be such a weie, That it schal be withinne dreie, So that no water myhte it grieve. And thus in hope and good believe Of that the corps schal wel aryve, Thei caste it over bord als blyve. The schip forth on the wawes wente; The prince hath changed his entente, And seith he wol noght come at Tyr As thanne, bot al his desir Is ferst to seilen unto Tharse. The wyndy storm began to skarse, The sonne arist, the weder cliereth, The schipman which behinde stiereth Whan that he sih the wyndes saghte, Towardes Tharse his cours he straghte. Bot now to mi matiere ayein, To telle as olde bokes sein, This dede corps of which ye knowe With wynd and water was forthrowe Now hier, now ther, til ate laste At Ephesim the see upcaste The cofre and al that was therinne. Of gret merveile now beginne Mai hiere who that sitteth stille; That God wol save mai noght spille. Riht as the corps was throwe alonde, Ther cam walkende upon the stronde A worthi clerc, a surgien, And ek a gret phisicien, Of al that lond the wisest on, Which hihte Maister Cerymon; Ther were of his disciples some. This maister to the cofre is come, He peiseth ther was somwhat in, And bad hem bere it to his in, And goth himselve forth withal. Al that schal falle, falle schal; They comen hom and tarie noght; This cofre is into chambre broght, Which that thei finde faste stoke, Bot thei with craft it have unloke. Thei loken in, where as thei founde A bodi ded, which was bewounde In cloth of gold, as I seide er, The tresor ek thei founden ther Forth with the lettre which thei rede. And tho thei token betre hiede; Unsowed was the bodi sone, And he, which knew what is to done, This noble clerk, with alle haste Began the veines forto taste, And sih hire age was of youthe, And with the craftes whiche he couthe He soghte and fond a signe of lif. With that this worthi kinges wif Honestely thei token oute, And maden fyres al aboute; Thei leide hire on a couche softe, And with a scheete warmed ofte Hire colde brest began to hete, Hire herte also to flacke and bete. This maister hath hire every joignt With certein oile and balsme enoignt, And putte a liquour in hire mouth, Which is to fewe clerkes couth, So that sche coevereth ate laste: And ferst hire yhen up sche caste, And whan sche more of strengthe cawhte, Hire armes bothe forth sche strawhte, Hield up hire hond and pitously Sche spak and seide, "Ha, wher am I? Where is my lord, what world is this?" As sche that wot noght hou it is. Bot Cerymon the worthi leche Ansuerde anon upon hire speche And seith, "Ma dame, yee ben hiere, Where yee be sauf, as yee schal hiere Hierafterward; forthi as nou Mi conseil is, conforteth you: For trusteth wel withoute faile, Ther is nothing which schal you faile, That oghte of reson to be do."

Chonac smólach marbh sa choill é seargtha ar an screablach. Bhíos ag déanamh trua de nuair a tháinig madraí de rúid is thugadar ruathar fúm ag snapadh, ag glamadh agus drant orthu. Uaimse do tháinig liúbhéic, gach bagairt is buille coise: Bhí ina bhúirchath eadrainn. Chorraigh na ba sna goirt is chuireadar leis an gcór allta. Theith lucha is dallóga fraoigh isteach faoin doire donn, sheas madra rua ar shiolpa, a cholainn iomlán righin. Chuimhníos ar mo choisíocht; bhí ceithre chrúb fúm. I saw a thrush-corpse shriveling on the woodland’s scrabbly floor. I was busy pitying it when there came a harrying pack of strays that set about me; they bayed and snapped, growling bare-toothed. From my throat such roaring; my every curse and foot-swing made a bellow-war between us. Fields of agitated cattle augmented that wild choir. Mice and shrewmice shrunk back into the oakleaf brown interior as a fox reared upward on a stony ridge, its stance utterly rigid. I remembered to run, felt the four paws under me. Translated from the Irish by Billy Ramsell

It could have been a car door leaving that bruise, as any mom knows, almost anything could take an eye out, and almost anybody could get their tongue frozen to a pole, which is kind of funny to the point of tears plus a knee slap or two that an eye can be made blue, pink by a baby’s fist, it fits perfectly in the socket. It’s happened to me. Get it? Any scenario is better, beats sitting in a car and hearing someone you love sob, which I have done with a black eye. For me, a woman’s tears are IKEA instructions on the European side. I’m sure for Laius, Oedipus’s father, it was the same. Think of him sleeping after having held a crying Jocasta because they had fought for hours because she was stronger. Who knew better the anger of young Jocasta? Knew that when the oracle, or the police, come, they are taking someone with them. I’m sure Laius looked at the crib and thought better you than me, kid.

A yarn ball and a hill maintain an equipoise until their neatness starts to bore the gods of potential and energy who hedge bets, reckoning the odds of when the rest will be set in motion, and who, first stumbling upon this clew, constructed both the incline and the inclination to unwind. Like most gods, though, they haven’t planned to stay; they mastermind the scheme,ex nihilio, then slip behind the shadow show and designate an agent, chief remaker of their mischief made. Each time, disguised, this leitmotif gets salvaged and replayed, a universe begins, for orogens and origins suppose a Way Things Were before some volatile, untimely That— sweetness perverted by the core or belfry by the bat, or here, a hilly green, whose still life, eerily serene, completes their best contrivance yet: from high above, a williwaw, a hiss, and then the silhouette of one terrific paw.

A mountainous and mystic brute No rein can curb, no arrow shoot, Upon whose doomed deformed back I sweep the planets’ scorching track. Old is the elf, and wise, men say, His hair grows green as ours grows grey; He mocks the stars with myriad hands, High as that swinging forest stands. But though in pigmy wanderings dull I scour the deserts of his skull, I never find the face, eyes, teeth, Lowering or laughing underneath. I met my foe in an empty dell, His face in the sun was naked hell. I thought, ‘One silent, bloody blow, No priest would curse, no crowd would know.’ Then cowered: a daisy, half concealed, Watched for the fame of that poor field; And in that flower and suddenly Earth opened its one eye on me.

These are the seasons Persephone promised as she turned on her heel— the ones that darken, till green no longer bandages what I feel. Now touches of gold stipple the branches, promising weeks of time to fade through, finding the footprints she left as she turned to climb.

With only his dim lantern To tell him where he is And every time a mountain Of fresh corpses to load up Take them to the other side Where there are plenty more I’d say by now he must be confused As to which side is which I’d say it doesn’t matter No one complains he’s got Their pockets to go through In one a crust of bread in another a sausage Once in a long while a mirror Or a book which he throws Overboard into the dark river Swift and cold and deep

I will take your stony heart and give you one of flesh. The wake     sewing shut those white lips and after    when leagues     and all behind to salt fell     the grateful Spaniards prayed It became their habit     to turn eyes     sore away from surfeit     Rashes and abrasions of spring leaf  stem  vine  blossom  aphid & berry stridulant intricate and promiscuous     without the rose or borage or pomegranate embowered in flaunting silks on gauntlet cuffs     No none of that repose their soldier-love required to root 20,000 had died in Ravenna     He survived without mark to show what he knew how fear cramped each man solitary inside himself until the spark that leapt     stinging them on to violence     the grass-fire battle-frenzy the grass that kneels to its burning Then aftermath’s vegetable melee     limbs and bodies But what is not threat in this contagion and panic of green     Whores  wives  saints  sovereigns this beach     that thick-leaved mustardy shrub     Names he thinks     the names keep slipping Swift     intent     armored obdurate as beetles     no one man felt the wound of where like Adam     too late he walked *     *     * The air     flexing     began to bruise green around them the fresh human injury of them     Like flies trapped in a bottle     they didn’t know what to do and carried on doing it while bird     by bird invisible rescinded its song while the sun     a drop of vinegar in milk      curdled the sky Quiet     sumptuous as pain eased by what hand abrupt as that held in the breath exhausted just before the witch confesses Like an executioner     who ropes hair over hand to bend and lengthen the neck for his ax the wind brutalized palm trees     spun men before it loosely as leaves in a stream He linked arms with another Broken wing     Splintering oar     Chainless anchor dragging through darkness thick with sand and water and noise whistles  braying  drums  timbrels & ululations Pressed all night to the porch of the storm his ear mistook the self’s own alienated music     called it sorcery That the fury never ended he would learn walking the eye of its silence After the hurricane the stunned brilliance     like a spell or question he woke into     waking by himself     to himself and naked as a saint     to discover his ship with its ropes  tools  weapons  salves  Spain was the anchored ship now hoisted on planks of sunlight     over the palm-trees sailing out of sight     The boat sick for such mirth made by root  sap  riverbank & squirrel it would return to that green oak it once had been *     *     * In what hour of what night did he know his soul to turn a stranger to him Pilgrim     he will venture forth across uncertain fields Explorer     he will cry out He may be nothing more than a hide rigid with gore & soil to be scoured  pounded  abused by caustics and by iron and     in watered pigeon-shit     kneaded until supple for the hand— but whose     and must the hand continue to wear     or it will toughen again *     *     * Daily he marched his men into corrugations of blue distances dissolving one to another    like promises of gold & corn made by guides snatched from villages As the Spanish found new ways to die     natives loomed     naked on the horizon they looked splendid & violent as idols     Their women & children restored for ransoms of melons or fish Often some chief would repeat his good friend possessed more of each thing they desired     His noble gestures spread like balm     his speech intoxicating but so militant their hunger     his words came entire & legible to their sense as the amber & musk that steamed from these his fine furs *     *     * His dwindling force through swamps & ambush labored     circuitous     stalled like mayflies in their brevity & towarding and never fable  riches  youth  nor rest to take Only the body with its anxious extremeties     eccentric     naked not natural     from which a vein of fascinated shame opened darkly     glittering     smoldering like sea-coal     Every eye interrogated Each inquisitor humiliated by these echoes of himself     his body violating the silence *     *     * Now alone and exposed     approaching he amassed his ocherous archive of blister and of bruise     the old fabulous atlas of faith in blood & smoke redrawn Still even the most exacting map dreams omits & lies brindled with sums & suppositions Every step makes him more wilderness He goes interiorly to trade conches  sea-snails & screw-beans for red-dyed deer-tail tassels and the arrow-makers’ sinew & flint between ragged bands surrounded by enemies     enthralled by visions that command them to bury their sons alive Girls whose marriages would multiply their foes become meat for their dogs Where were the jades  turquoises  zinzibar Where the sacred monsters  cannibals  or kings fielding legions of dog-headed warriors Husbands groaned bucked by pain onto the dirt when wives gave birth & both sexes wept strenuously after any absence     overjoyed to see each other again in no essential changed Had any man traveled farther than he *     *     * Whether time is the ripening of fruit     the dying of fish & the position of stars     or all the king’s clocks ringing his will upon the quarter-hour hunger is the self’s severe eternal god