Intense and distant, the sun Slid imperceptibly upward through the yellowing sky As the ships powered across the water Oars cutting into the waves. Like a crumbling sentinel, on the cragged promontory The temple observed the sea. Within Sat Poseidon, golden trident in hand, his Features frozen into gleaming marble. Around Him, murmuring incantations, marched His priests. Time has dismantled it all, except For the pillars that poke upward, jagged Snapped-off fingers of stone clothed In moist, inch-thick moss. The ships Have long disappeared. The crews dead. Beneath the waves the turbulent god Waits, his muscular invisible arms Shaking the ground, as he roars out His discontent. Reduced to bedtime stories, Beautiful Technicolor films, the old gods Drift hopelessly through the memory Desperately trying to be noticed again.
Where perils cut Do sorrows bleed? Does pain depend upon the laying of our scene or are the plagues upon the race a universal theme? The winds are wanting change and haunting all the sleeping’s most pleasant dreams.
The title refers to the idea of the four humours as presented in the Elizabethan time period. They are thought to be the four essences within a human's blood that brought balance to their life - when the humours were out of balance, so indeed was the person. I wrote this poem during a discussion in a literature class during our study of Hamlet.
The clang of armour rings through the clamour of our men screaming thy name. Thy name that I bear, blazing bright as these brazen greaves. A-CHIL-LES.
It is not I that they know. It is not my feet that are thus as swift as thine; though they would believe it. It is not my rough hands that are never wrong; but that have rather slain Sarpedon, now.
It is not thy knees that quake at Hector's call; 'tis mine own. A-CHIL-LES. It is not thy eyes that water in fear, it is not thy hands that grasp thy spear, 'tis mine own. Never wrong. Never wrong. Never wrong.
It is not thy gold-spun curls that spill forth, as thy helmet falls. It is not thy blood that stains Hector's spear; it is not thy chest that splinters, 'tis mine own.
The clang of spear piercing armour rings through the clamour of our men screaming my name. My name that I bear, blazing bright as thy brazen greaves. PA-TRO-CLUS.
Gold crown of Olympus, hair crown and Skin gown. First we throw our bodies at One another. Heaping piles of human soup. Bold maneuvers, hands and mouths and Boy meets girl lying down, on top, intertwined. Skittish moves on a tryst. Wet fingers of freshly Tendered infinite decibel pleasure screams. Streamers above a long rooting movement.
Overture of Aphrodite. Sparkling, glitter woman, Legs pressed tightly to the chest, Loose appendages intertwined. Intersticed dactyls In rapture, soothing. Bodies build to one heart's beat. Two muses fused together. If I wasn't afraid I'd wake you up I'd slip on my shoes and make a tropical fruit fondue.
Ice cream lover's delight. Opus to brown sugar. To swimming again, a pursed lurking of lips In the academy of the pastoral commonwealth. We eat at our stations of the sublime. Today which was A day of discord- you nursed me back to the land of the living.
As we earn our pageantry to take Stride on this Earth, and string a Great bow of eager success among all of us, You, me, them. While I continue to Gaze at you. If not dinner, perhaps a Cup of tea instead.