On the Greatness of Homer

Anthologia Palatina 9.24 = Leonidas of Tarentum (320-260 BCE)

The fiery sun, whirling its axis,
Dulls the stars and the moon’s holy circles;
Just so Homer has plunged into night
All the songsmiths in a mass,
Holding high the Muses’ brightest light.

ἄστρα μὲν ἠμαύρωσε καὶ ἱερὰ κύκλα σελήνης
ἄξονα δινήσας ἔμπυρος ἠέλιος:
ὑμνοπόλους δ᾽ ἀγεληδὸν ἀπημάλδυνεν Ὅμηρος,
λαμπρότατον Μουσῶν φέγγος ἀνασχόμενος.

Homer, Girolamo Troppa, between 1665 and 1668

the curse of my death is that

i am with you

through your madness,

stranded and unable

to save you.

— and they say it is mercy

we are children running on the shore,

sand creeping in the spaces of our toes

as we stomp hard enough to leave a mark

because this is all i know the world will remember me for.

we are children running on the shore,

feet never truly touching the sea

because something lives underneath the waves

and you always try to protect me from her.

we are children running on the shore,

hands clasped tightly with each other’s

as we cherish the times we have left to spend;

marking the days we did not know were counted.

and then i was a ghost stuck on the trojan shore,

desperate, and yet unknowing how, to come back to you.

— pyrrhus, why?

goddess,

how do you want me to love?

you think so lowly of this boy

who has scraped his wobbly knees

to chase this omnipotent being

that you call your son;

worships brimming from my throat

and spilling from my wounded lips

because he is a god amongst mortals.

you think so lowly of this boy

who does not want your son to perish

even if he is forgotten through time,

because what good is his epic

when he is dust?

you think so lowly of this boy

who loves achilles

for what he is not allowed to be—

a boy.

so tell me goddess,

how do you want me to love?

how do you want us to love?

— prayers thrown at the sea

mother,

am i selfish for being afraid

and angry

at the prospect of him loving another

once i am gone?

she said,

he will rather slice his own neck

than love someone not you.

i preen at her reply.

— am i like peleus?

so many times i have lain awake in silence,

hands pawing at the emptiness seated within my ribs

as though they knew that i am never myself without you.

so many times i have whispered your name,

the only part of you that i possess,

in hopes that it will satiate the desire i have for you

growing in me.

so many times i have wished for this day to come;

when my love is fully returned,

and my heart now whole as you offer me the half of yours.

so many times i have prepared myself for you,

but nothing ever prepared me for the loss that love would bring with it too.

— this is what i will lose

he weeps in his solitude

and calls for my name

as though it would bring life back to me;

as though it would bring me back to him.

—pa-tro-clus

i remember the figs and the grass

and the quiet in mount pelion.

i remember the casual looks

driven by unnamed feelings,

unsaid but not unrequited.

i remember master’s stories

and the lessons he imparted with us,

and i remember loving each shared moments—

those that we did not know were numbered.

i remember my skepticism in some of his teachings

but now i think of how true his words had become;

the greatest grief, after all,

was sending you to your death

while life continued to run through my veins.

philtatos,

we were separated once again.

-his blessings amidst our curse

the scent of pomegranates filter through the chasm

and i turn, hoping to see you—

you have never outgrew the smell of pomegranates on your neck and sandalwood on your legs—

but it is simply the goddess,

whom is beautiful beyond words to compare,

but never as beautiful as you.

she breaks the fruit open and hands me the seeds

and it feels like kissing you once again.

they do not tell me where you are

but surely, you were not meant to be in the asphodel meadows

where my mere soul rests.

it seems, my love, that even in the afterlife

the gods do not favour us.

- semantics of the dead

he grieves in silence;

continues on for days as though

he does not know how to live without me.

he has won the war

but he does not dare to celebrate,

and the life in his eyes leave

as if it were his ashes in the urn.

“who do you blame?” the god of the dead asks.

myself.

i do not answer.

- from the other side

why does an honourable death not deserve the same surge of grief and anger?

they look at me glass eyed as i mourned for your departure

and although they do not say it outright,

i catch them whispering to each other,

voices quiet as to not rouse the anger welling in me.

“we have won the war,” they say,

“patroclus died for us,” they continue as though i do not know this;

as though i do not map out the emptiness you have left.

that when i look at the cattle i think i can see you herding them in silence;

that when i turn on my side i think i can feel your chest from my back

and your arms on my waist

and your lips on my nape—

you are so integrated in my life and i see you wherever i look,

teasing me with your wide smile and your deep voice,

leaving goosebumps on my skin.

death took you away from me and yet it feels like you have never left,

and they do not understand that this is grieving.

because despite being blessed by the gods,

my eyes are still blind to ghosts

except for yours.

- the ghost of his memories

i made peace with death–

flirted with thanatos at the face phanes

and watched as the pillars of agamemnon

crumbled before hector’s vigour

because olympus loved only you.

i sent offerings to hades

and veiled myself with persephone’s flowers

because achilles, my love,

i am simply a song to your epic–

i am not meant to be with you.

when your mother dipped you in the river of styx,

i was already cursed with death

as i whimpered before my mother’s averted gaze;

you were made for more

and i simply am not.

so when i am gone

please do not ask what else you could have done;

do not antagonize yourself for my own grievances

because before i even met you

i already knew i would be leaving.

- the fate of your fated

when the war is over

i will only sing of our love;

the crowds will only know

of the time we had looked at each other’s eyes

and felt our hearts thundering within our chests

with the realization that there is

no one in this world,

throughout the scattered cities,

that i rather grow old with

but you.

they will only ever hear

of the way your hand shyly sought out mine,

tangling our fingers as we rested amongst

the sheep,

backs pressed on the grass

and eyes watching the clouds,

thinking of nothing

but the heat we share through our palms.

they will only ever see

of the love dripping from my eyes

as i recount the stories from our youths—

when we had yet to grasp swords

and only held each other.

love is all i will tell the people;

your name is all they will hear

because the war is unkind

and i will bury these memories

as i bring you back to life

through my stories.

i will only ever sing of our love

because that is the only way

i am able to keep you with me.

- poets and singers

they did nothing.

they knew how i felt about you;

saw the way we loved,

watched as promises spilled from our lips

and did nothing.

they knew what was going to happen–

planned the fallout before it began,

whispering amongst the stars

as we remained unknowing

and did nothing.

they led him to you,

led his spear on your body–

knew that the one behind the armour

was not me but you

and did nothing.

they did nothing

but take you away from me–

pawned your body to fight their games

and made me watch

as i lose the only person i have ever loved.

they did nothing

and that is when i knew,

it was not only mother

who was against us

but all of them too.

- how to fight the gods blind

[not a poem! but i really just want to talk about how stark the difference is between modern heroes and ancient heroes.]

see, modern heroes would sacrifice their lovers for the world—that was what made them heroes after all. they would abandon the very person they treasure the most just to save the people who shouldn’t matter to them from the villains.

but ancient heroes? so much of their stories are about vengeance for their dead lovers. i.e.: achilles killed hector and dishonoured his body because hector killed patroclus. achilles, in the same breath, refused to fight the war even if his brothers in arms were being killed by the trojans because agamemnon took briseis from him. twist his story, publish it in this modern context, and watch how achilles would be the villain.

so much of selfishness is associated to villainy these days, but back then? selfishness was what differed the heroes from the gods. so who’s to say which of the two versions is “better”?

when persephone visits me, i gain a part of my consciousness

enough to feel time pass by slowly.

i rise from the depths of nothingness,

only aware of his name.

i struggle from her hold,

fear gripping me taut and only then

does she gather me in her embrace.

she brings me flowers and places them

on my head, tucking them deep within my hair.

in her embrace,

i remember more.

i remember his eyes—

pools of green that reminded me

of life.

he is beautiful, i remember now.

when persephone visits me, i shake the

emptiness that engulfed me whole,

reminded of who i am still here for.

persephone must have seen herself in me—

a lover who can only wait.

- achilles, when will you come for me?

they say we die twice.

the first is when our bodies decay

and rot after being hammered down

by the adversaries of the earth—

the first is when hector drove his spear

into your flesh,

tearing through the skin i remembered

countlessly caressing

and ripping you to your end.

the last is when our names are said for the final time

then the world would tumble and turn

and forget of our existences—

so let me be the person who will

never forget to say your name.

you were taken from me too soon,

too fast;

my heart remains shattered as though

a taut spear that has been snapped.

so let me be the one

who will say your name

until the world will never forget who you are;

until even apollo feels the guilt of having

taken you from me;

until all i am is you.

- your name means more than i love you’s.

counting the stars as though they are the scars

licking your face

simply to ask you

do you ever wonder why we hurt?

you must think i am mad

for turning to you in search for the answer

as to why the fragility embedded in this world remains constant;

for looking at you as though you are all that mattered.

and maybe i should have made clear—

that when the battalion was assembled

and i was made to tuck my heart

deep within my chest,

that when you handed me your beloved armour

and i turned to the field

pretending you were embracing me—

you are everything my being calls for.

that when divine apollo led hector’s sword to my being,

all i felt was you.

- my lover, we meet in death

helen must be the only woman

who had been seduced by a goddess;

that when aphrodite bewitched paris,

so did she kiss helen.

- sappho’s jealousy

love comes so easily to me

that i was able to recognize the fire

ignited within the eyes of father’s champion.

aphrodite’s muses had always sung about

the different forms of love,

but i think this is the first i have seen of

love binding itself with anger;

with grief;

with mourning.

the first i have seen of love

born from hatred.

-come here young achilles, let me show you why they call me hecatus, the shooter from afar.

lionofchaeronea:

The Woes of Mortality

Sappho, fr. 91 Edmonds (=Aristotle Rhetoric1398b)

To die is an evil,
For so the gods have judged;
For were it otherwise,
They too would die.

…τὸ ἀποθνῄσκειν κακόν: οἱ θεοὶ γὰρ οὕτω κεκρίκασιν: ἀπέθνησκον γὰρ ἄν.

Vanitas Still Life in a Niche, Adriaen Coorte, 1688

~~~

Bene. Latine:

…Mori malum: Dei enim sic iudicaverunt: morerentur enim.