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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
           instead
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
            culminated
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
                same
strength in your knees
                and same
self-conviction

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
indefinitely
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:

'Ἀχιλλέυς.’

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
Caitlin Fisher Oct 2014
How much more can these Trojan sands consume?
They have my honor, my armor ad the spear that I threw
My stricken comrades fight with bravery yet stand in their sorrow
Fearing the ashen spears will hit their mark tomorrow

The kindness of the Achaean camp is dead
And for such a crime I'll make these sands run red

My dearest comrade; my brother in arms
The sun god left me with mere memories of your charms

He ripped your own sweet life away
Like fog being dissipated by a bright shining ray

You were stripped and Hector had my blazing helm
The darkness that descended felt like it came from another realm

I spread ash on my face and defiled my hair with my hands
My clothes and hair were coated with the hated Trojan sands

Antilochus kneeled near weeping his proud heart out
Clutching my wrists for fear I would, with the iron blade, rip my throat out

My mother heard my try from the bottom of the sea
So, she came to camp to try to comfort me

She cradled my head in her hands, tears streaming down her face
I felt the skin I knew I’d never more embrace

My mother says I’m doomed to death by the brother of the one who stole your breath
Then let me die at once since it was not by fate to save my dearest comrade from his death

I could feel the anger bubbling inside me
I suppressed the urge to scream like a war torn banshee

No one could stop me from fighting; no one could persuade me now
To Hector’s greatness I soon began to disavow

I will go back to war with Hephaestus’ armor buckle to my back
I could all but hear the screams of the men I would soon attack

I will fight without the blazing armor
I will **** all those who oppose me down to the last lowly farmer

These sands give me no mercy
However there is no controversy

I will avenge your death; I must
You were the only one I could ever trust

Breathing room in war is all too brief
So I’ll make Hector’s blood stain every clover leaf

I lay my hands on your icy-cold chest
Everyone else will go unaddressed

I will not burn your honey-soft skin
Not till Hector has atoned for his sin

I try to clear your blood-clotted wounds
The thought of loosing you I could not attune

I killed Hector with my sword in his throat
But there is still more to you I could devote

A dozen Trojan sons , a snow white ox, and a lock of golden hair
This is cruel, cruel warfare

Your silver, glittering ghost spoke
I reached out to seize you but you disappeared in a whisp of smoke

I weep to these sands my ravaging tears
They are the epitome of my greatest fears
based on the Iliad and the death of Patroclus
Clarice Alvarez Jul 2014
Prideful father of two men
Even to his eldest day
Remained stiff and unbroken
While Hector was taken away
His inner strength rivaled steel
Enough to make his enemies kneel
This is an epithet we were assigned to create during English class. Also, this is to celebrate 1.1k reads on here.

I view King Priam as one of the most interesting characters of the Iliad. He has to play the part of king and father, and we can really see how much he loves and honors his children especially when he swallows his kingly pride and begs on his knees to Achilles to ransom Hector's dead body.

— The End —