Ulysses’ return (a song)

Move on, move on

eat not, drink not

and when you speak

let it be prayers to reason.


Go on, go on

don’t linger, don’t

you’ve been away

too long to even mention.


.  _______ .

You’ve been away too long

to be a lotus eater

play Circe in her own game

and do your best to beat her.

.  _______ .


Be fast, stay cool

no wiseman, no fool

better be nobody

and teach Cyclops a lesson.


Be there, be alert

stay awake, fear not

the sirens’ song

can always be forgotten.


.  _______ .

You’ve been away too long

to sit down and be eaten

play them in their own game

and do your best to beat them.

.  _______ .


Let it flow, let it be

be thankful but be free

tell Nausicaa you are

only a chimney’s smoke away.


Be sure, be strong

no need to tell, only to show

you have arrived

and now you’re here to stay.


.  _______ .

You’ve been away too long

and now you must fight

for her who’s always been waiting

but took you years to find.

.  _______ .


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Everyman’s labour

To work, 

to plough through this naked land, 

to lay 

your bones on the slab; 

to brake 

your heart in silent agony, 

to sculpt 

the subtle mist;

to serve 

the immaterial, 

to feed 

the grand illusion;

to perfect 

the perfect pretense. 

To be, 

then not.

Reprimand to a scientist

It would have been wise of you

to send away your son at night.

But in your own construction once again

you twist and bend and lose your chance

to be wise in every turn.

Immersed in cryptic diagrams

and secret trigonometries

you could not see that feathers,

wax, and muscles ripe

would not have been enough

for someone as young as Icarus

and as determined to escape a world

that kept him in a vast, labyrinthine darkness.


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Helle’s flight

Poseidon’s eyes are on you

riding his magical offspring

and, maybe stirred by jealousy

or by divine lust,

he beckons.


You dig a pale soft hand

into the golden curls,

squeezing onto your brother with the other

while you turn towards the shore

that was your land.


You try to steal one last glimpse

–your father’s house, a chimney’s smoke,

the grave of your mother, but

that golden ram flies too fast

–Poseidon still beckons.


You know this is no ordinary ride.

It takes away all memories

and leaves behind a gilded trail;

a promise of riches starting all

the bloody give and take.


And in that trail you see the ghosts

of future heroes; murder of children,

burned down walls and untold pain.

Your tears now fill that gilded trail

and to Poseidon you surrender.


Context: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_Fleece#Synthesised_plot_synopsis


My Muse is mad at me again;

she’s gone mid-sentence for chrissakes

and left me looking like the idiot I am

the middle-aged what

alone in a restaurant

a glass, a beer, ashtray siggies lighter

a page, a pen, a hand that hovers



What dreadful fate is to be born

out of the semen of a randy god

and placed in the realm of heroes

as a woman; as something men think

they must own, must woo, conquer,

deal as they please or simply steal.


What strange prophesy must be fulfilled?

What twisted game of ironic gods

demands she be so perfect, that even

Aphrodite will use her as a bribe

to someone as worthy as that Paris,

for something as precious as an apple.


Stolen once, then once again, the toy

of daring men who never knew

the colour that she liked, the beating

of her heart when not immersed in fear,

the child that would cry on Troy’s walls

for the absence of her brothers.


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His Achilles’ heel

This is the education of Thessaly’s flat lands:

there’s always a measure for the mightiest horse,

the best in shining weapons; for who is he

that fastest runs and which young body has the weight

that casts the heavier shadow.


Men must be born out of the mud,

their own sweat and blood of others

lest they forever be the children of their mothers.

So, competition is fierce among the cubs

while elders watch their lives replayed.


This is the way, they all agree;

noble antagonism between the young

will make them daring and fearless in battle,

but pray that this will happen soon, for until then

they’re just the village bullies.


One of them really tops the bill;

born in the ruling clan from ancient blood,

handsome but violent and wild

–maybe the stuff that heroes makes

but also vagabonds, criminals and berserkers.


It’s off to the mountain for him;

the plains cannot contain this primal force

and in the hands of tutor half animal half man

his harness must be trusted –the only hands

that know best how to tame the beast.


He’s fed with blood and wild animals’ raw meat;

gallops like crazy with his mates and hunts like a demon

–wolves fear him and lions bow their heads.

He also learns how to cure disease, prepare potions,

set broken bones and mind for the weakest.


Down the mountain he comes, the pride of his mother

–more beautiful, much stronger, more respected–

but not his teacher’s joy; the dark dark wound

that fills his soul with wrath has not been healed

and, Cheiron knows, this rage will be his undoing.


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