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Zoe Mei Apr 2021
May the gods drink deep your blood
and may the crimson please their gaze
and may the iron scent whet their lust
that the taste may sate it
for you are my greatest offering.
For Iphigenia
lua Aug 2020
fierce and benevolent
these eyes of gold
warm and shattering against the light
of sunkissed skin on marble floors
he's sweet as figs
and sharp as a sword
and his heels pink and unmarred
by the heat of the sun
when our bodies touch for the first time
two souls intertwine
sewn together by threads of fate
i feel nothing other than him
and his gentle gaze and soft hair
but dawn comes around
during the pouring of blood from our cupped hands
onto tainted sheets
of dishonour and rage
and when i breathe my last breath
he roars, like a lion
loud enough for the gods to hear
and does not stop until his face hits the earth
with a smile.
patroclus and achilles
michael Jun 2020
Rain drops shell station road
Hurst turns point thirty three
Degrees north-west-west. See,
The quiet stones ahead

Lower the lead scarred flesh,
The soul of this marred son,
Into the dirt it laboured.

How many times should
Gorgythion's root-stem
Lose its petal-wreathed head?
Oskar Erikson Jul 2019
i understand the Greeks
When they wrote of boys
turning to men as
“in the flush of their strength”.
as if the tides of youth,
had burst it’s banks
flooding childhood, like the Mycenae
against Troy.
Brandon Conway Aug 2018
Iliad book two
never ending list of ships
impressive, Homer
Such a long list of ships and to be able to do it ****** by memory, impressive Homer!
kk Jun 2016
As the walls of Troy
came crumbling down
I wonder where it was
that you ran

I keep a small faith
that something stole you
wrenched you onto its ship
           bedded you

I have words
which taste like venom
           or a sinner’s eulogy
the way
that I can put them together
bringing rhapsodists to their knees

            and you
have a self-conviction:
           your words
are better than mine
           my words
are merely the stink
which rises
from the suburban ******* tip

you forget that we speak
            the same language
the same words
over and
            over again

I wake up in May
there is dew on the sill of the window
from my ****** foulness

you climbed through it
             said goodbye
with a dry mouth
and a steady voice

every evening
is an odyssey for you

I was the antagonist
I wanted to flood your ship
I wanted to drown your men

you are the wise man
               the one
with the ideas
               the one
who in the end
is meant to save us all

a different you – I know it’s you
you feel the same
strength in your knees
                and same

returned to me
and to this archaic city
at the start of May

your words are different
and now
you have a kiss
like the world is ending
and I am your final prayer

we are always searching
for a way to disappear
inside each other

between the walls
of a timber stead
we have cycled
back to the beginning

                   begin again.
noah w Apr 2016
Achilles does not sleep.

Instead, he seeks the lover’s embrace and curved lips alongside which he went to war;
Those same that he did not find,
Once the dark mist had come swirling down over his eyes
And his soul went winging down to the House of Death,
with a soldier’s sigh of relief.
He had whispered in Charon’s ear, “Take me to him.”
Charon had rowed on, but held his silence.

By way of greeting, a thousand faces turned away,
And no trace of his beloved’s sweet smile as he disembarked, no warm hand to take his own.

“Patroklus,” he cries,
And goes unheard.

Thus; Achilles does not sleep.
He is Achilles; he does not wait.
He is Achilles; instead, he aches.
He is Achilles; instead, he searches.

Over the horizon, he chases Patroklus’ laugh and the turn of his wrist.
He lingers in all the shadowed corners of eternity,
Leafs through the pages of unforgiving, unyielding posterity,
Whispers “Patroklus, best of the Myrmidons” and sends his name through the winds.

The headstrong runner does not drag his feet as he scours the world,
As he chases ghosts across the face of the earth.

Restless, he is never still,
Knows that each step must carry him closer,
Knows that each ragged cry may be the one
That is finally answered,
Each rendition the wound to be finally salved.

He haunts, and is haunted.
‘I did not feel it,’ he thinks. 'It should have been as though Hektor’s pierced my side, in turn. Did they not say we were one?’
As if what he felt, when they told him, had not been enough.
(Scamander would disagree).

One day, smiling among the cypress, he will cease.
One day, the thousand faces turned away will melt to the one alone that within itself holds his heart.
One day, his greeting will be that sweet smile that he found only in the dawn.
One day, a warm hand will take his own, and the word with which his beloved left him will be the same as that which retrieves him:


Until the day when his heart pours out golden,
Achilles will not sleep.
Matthew Randell May 2015
When describing Iliad I was told
That a poem 26 books long
Could no longer be referred to
As a poem
It was a story a
novel I was told
That a poem is not a poem
That a poem is dependent on length

But this is not true
Tom McCubbin May 2015
“Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed.
You will never be lovelier than you are now.
We will never be here again.”

― Homer, The Iliad
ruby stains Jan 2015
insert iliads on how i'm b_o;ken and forgot how to b rea{t:h/e
lažna uzbuna : false alarm in bosnian form
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