Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared,
Alcinous and Ulysses both rose, and Alcinous led the way to the
Phaecian place of assembly, which was near the ships. When they got
there they sat down side by side on a seat of polished stone, while
Minerva took the form of one of Alcinous’ servants, and went round the
town in order to help Ulysses to get home. She went up to the
citizens, man by man, and said, “Aldermen and town councillors of
the Phaeacians, come to the assembly all of you and listen to the
stranger who has just come off a long voyage to the house of King
Alcinous; he looks like an immortal god.”
  With these words she made them all want to come, and they flocked to
the assembly till seats and standing room were alike crowded. Every
one was struck with the appearance of Ulysses, for Minerva had
beautified him about the head and shoulders, making him look taller
and stouter than he really was, that he might impress the Phaecians
favourably as being a very remarkable man, and might come off well
in the many trials of skill to which they would challenge him. Then,
when they were got together, Alcinous spoke:
  “Hear me,” said he, “aldermen and town councillors of the
Phaeacians, that I may speak even as I am minded. This stranger,
whoever he may be, has found his way to my house from somewhere or
other either East or West. He wants an escort and wishes to have the
matter settled. Let us then get one ready for him, as we have done for
others before him; indeed, no one who ever yet came to my house has
been able to complain of me for not speeding on his way soon enough.
Let us draw a ship into the sea—one that has never yet made a voyage-
and man her with two and fifty of our smartest young sailors. Then
when you have made fast your oars each by his own seat, leave the ship
and come to my house to prepare a feast. I will find you in
everything. I am giving will these instructions to the young men who
will form the crew, for as regards you aldermen and town
councillors, you will join me in entertaining our guest in the
cloisters. I can take no excuses, and we will have Demodocus to sing
to us; for there is no bard like him whatever he may choose to sing
about.”
  Alcinous then led the way, and the others followed after, while a
servant went to fetch Demodocus. The fifty-two picked oarsmen went
to the sea shore as they had been told, and when they got there they
drew the ship into the water, got her mast and sails inside her, bound
the oars to the thole-pins with twisted thongs of leather, all in
due course, and spread the white sails aloft. They moored the vessel a
little way out from land, and then came on shore and went to the house
of King Alcinous. The outhouses, yards, and all the precincts were
filled with crowds of men in great multitudes both old and young;
and Alcinous killed them a dozen sheep, eight full grown pigs, and two
oxen. These they skinned and dressed so as to provide a magnificent
banquet.
  A servant presently led in the famous bard Demodocus, whom the
muse had dearly loved, but to whom she had given both good and evil,
for though she had endowed him with a divine gift of song, she had
robbed him of his eyesight. Pontonous set a seat for him among the
guests, leaning it up against a bearing-post. He hung the lyre for him
on a peg over his head, and showed him where he was to feel for it
with his hands. He also set a fair table with a basket of victuals
by his side, and a cup of wine from which he might drink whenever he
was so disposed.
  The company then laid their hands upon the good things that were
before them, but as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink,
the muse inspired Demodocus to sing the feats of heroes, and more
especially a matter that was then in the mouths of all men, to wit,
the quarrel between Ulysses and Achilles, and the fierce words that
they heaped on one another as they gat together at a banquet. But
Agamemnon was glad when he heard his chieftains quarrelling with one
another, for Apollo had foretold him this at Pytho when he crossed the
stone floor to consult the oracle. Here was the beginning of the
evil that by the will of Jove fell both Danaans and Trojans.
  Thus sang the bard, but Ulysses drew his purple mantle over his head
and covered his face, for he was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see
that he was weeping. When the bard left off singing he wiped the tears
from his eyes, uncovered his face, and, taking his cup, made a
drink-offering to the gods; but when the Phaeacians pressed
Demodocus to sing further, for they delighted in his lays, then
Ulysses again drew his mantle over his head and wept bitterly. No
one noticed his distress except Alcinous, who was sitting near him,
and heard the heavy sighs that he was heaving. So he at once said,
“Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, we have had enough
now, both of the feast, and of the minstrelsy that is its due
accompaniment; let us proceed therefore to the athletic sports, so
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as boxers, wrestlers, jumpers,
and runners.”
  With these words he led the way, and the others followed after. A
servant hung Demodocus’s lyre on its peg for him, led him out of the
cloister, and set him on the same way as that along which all the
chief men of the Phaeacians were going to see the sports; a crowd of
several thousands of people followed them, and there were many
excellent competitors for all the prizes. Acroneos, Ocyalus, Elatreus,
Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus, Eretmeus, Ponteus, Proreus, Thoon,
Anabesineus, and Amphialus son of Polyneus son of Tecton. There was
also Euryalus son of Naubolus, who was like Mars himself, and was
the best looking man among the Phaecians except Laodamas. Three sons
of Alcinous, Laodamas, Halios, and Clytoneus, competed also.
  The foot races came first. The course was set out for them from
the starting post, and they raised a dust upon the plain as they all
flew forward at the same moment. Clytoneus came in first by a long
way; he left every one else behind him by the length of the furrow
that a couple of mules can plough in a fallow field. They then
turned to the painful art of wrestling, and here Euryalus proved to be
the best man. Amphialus excelled all the others in jumping, while at
throwing the disc there was no one who could approach Elatreus.
Alcinous’s son Laodamas was the best boxer, and he it was who
presently said, when they had all been diverted with the games, “Let
us ask the stranger whether he excels in any of these sports; he seems
very powerfully built; his thighs, claves, hands, and neck are of
prodigious strength, nor is he at all old, but he has suffered much
lately, and there is nothing like the sea for making havoc with a man,
no matter how strong he is.”
  “You are quite right, Laodamas,” replied Euryalus, “go up to your
guest and speak to him about it yourself.”
  When Laodamas heard this he made his way into the middle of the
crowd and said to Ulysses, “I hope, Sir, that you will enter
yourself for some one or other of our competitions if you are
skilled in any of them—and you must have gone in for many a one
before now. There is nothing that does any one so much credit all
his life long as the showing himself a proper man with his hands and
feet. Have a try therefore at something, and banish all sorrow from
your mind. Your return home will not be long delayed, for the ship
is already drawn into the water, and the crew is found.”
  Ulysses answered, “Laodamas, why do you taunt me in this way? my
mind is set rather on cares than contests; I have been through
infinite trouble, and am come among you now as a suppliant, praying
your king and people to further me on my return home.”
  Then Euryalus reviled him outright and said, “I gather, then, that
you are unskilled in any of the many sports that men generally delight
in. I suppose you are one of those grasping traders that go about in
ships as captains or merchants, and who think of nothing but of
their outward freights and homeward cargoes. There does not seem to be
much of the athlete about you.”
  “For shame, Sir,” answered Ulysses, fiercely, “you are an insolent
fellow—so true is it that the gods do not grace all men alike in
speech, person, and understanding. One man may be of weak presence,
but heaven has adorned this with such a good conversation that he
charms every one who sees him; his honeyed moderation carries his
hearers with him so that he is leader in all assemblies of his
fellows, and wherever he goes he is looked up to. Another may be as
handsome as a god, but his good looks are not crowned with discretion.
This is your case. No god could make a finer looking fellow than you
are, but you are a fool. Your ill-judged remarks have made me
exceedingly angry, and you are quite mistaken, for I excel in a
great many athletic exercises; indeed, so long as I had youth and
strength, I was among the first athletes of the age. Now, however, I
am worn out by labour and sorrow, for I have gone through much both on
the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea; still, in spite
of all this I will compete, for your taunts have stung me to the
quick.”
  So he hurried up without even taking his cloak off, and seized a
disc, larger, more massive and much heavier than those used by the
Phaeacians when disc-throwing among themselves. Then, swinging it
back, he threw it from his brawny hand, and it made a humming sound in
the air as he did so. The Phaeacians quailed beneath the rushing of
its flight as it sped gracefully from his hand, and flew beyond any
mark that had been made yet. Minerva, in the form of a man, came and
marked the place where it had fallen. “A blind man, Sir,” said she,
“could easily tell your mark by groping for it—it is so far ahead
of any other. You may make your mind easy about this contest, for no
Phaeacian can come near to such a throw as yours.”
  Ulysses was glad when he found he had a friend among the lookers-on,
so he began to speak more pleasantly. “Young men,” said he, “come up
to that throw if you can, and I will throw another disc as heavy or
even heavier. If anyone wants to have a bout with me let him come
on, for I am exceedingly angry; I will box, wrestle, or run, I do
not care what it is, with any man of you all except Laodamas, but
not with him because I am his guest, and one cannot compete with one’s
own personal friend. At least I do not think it a prudent or a
sensible thing for a guest to challenge his host’s family at any game,
especially when he is in a foreign country. He will cut the ground
from under his own feet if he does; but I make no exception as regards
any one else, for I want to have the matter out and know which is
the best man. I am a good hand at every kind of athletic sport known
among mankind. I am an excellent archer. In battle I am always the
first to bring a man down with my arrow, no matter how many more are
taking aim at him alongside of me. Philoctetes was the only man who
could shoot better than I could when we Achaeans were before Troy
and in practice. I far excel every one else in the whole world, of
those who still eat bread upon the face of the earth, but I should not
like to shoot against the mighty dead, such as Hercules, or Eurytus
the Cechalian-men who could shoot against the gods themselves. This in
fact was how Eurytus came prematurely by his end, for Apollo was angry
with him and killed him because he challenged him as an archer. I
can throw a dart farther than any one else can shoot an arrow. Running
is the only point in respect of which I am afraid some of the
Phaecians might beat me, for I have been brought down very low at sea;
my provisions ran short, and therefore I am still weak.”
  They all held their peace except King Alcinous, who began, “Sir,
we have had much pleasure in hearing all that you have told us, from
which I understand that you are willing to show your prowess, as
having been displeased with some insolent remarks that have been
made to you by one of our athletes, and which could never have been
uttered by any one who knows how to talk with propriety. I hope you
will apprehend my meaning, and will explain to any be one of your
chief men who may be dining with yourself and your family when you get
home, that we have an hereditary aptitude for accomplishments of all
kinds. We are not particularly remarkable for our boxing, nor yet as
wrestlers, but we are singularly fleet of foot and are excellent
sailors. We are extremely fond of good dinners, music, and dancing; we
also like frequent changes of linen, warm baths, and good beds, so
now, please, some of you who are the best dancers set about dancing,
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as sailors, runners, dancers,
minstrels. Demodocus has left his lyre at my house, so run some one or
other of you and fetch it for him.”
  On this a servant hurried off to bring the lyre from the king’s
house, and the nine men who had been chosen as stewards stood forward.
It was their business to manage everything connected with the
sports, so they made the ground smooth and marked a wide space for the
dancers. Presently the servant came back with Demodocus’s lyre, and he
took his place in the midst of them, whereon the best young dancers in
the town began to foot and trip it so nimbly that Ulysses was
delighted with the merry twinkling of their feet.
  Meanwhile the bard began to sing the loves of Mars and Venus, and
how they first began their intrigue in the house of Vulcan. Mars
made Venus many presents, and defiled King Vulcan’s marriage bed, so
the sun, who saw what they were about, told Vulcan. Vulcan was very
angry when he heard such dreadful news, so he went to his smithy
brooding mischief, got his great anvil into its place, and began to
forge some chains which none could either unloose or break, so that
they might stay there in that place. When he had finished his snare he
went into his bedroom and festooned the bed-posts all over with chains
like cobwebs; he also let many hang down from the great beam of the
ceiling. Not even a god could see them, so fine and subtle were
they. As soon as he had spread the chains all over the bed, he made as
though he were setting out for the fair state of Lemnos, which of
all places in the world was the one he was most fond of. But Mars kept
no blind look out, and as soon as he saw him start, hurried off to his
house, burning with love for Venus.
  Now Venus was just come in from a visit to her father Jove, and
was about sitting down when Mars came inside the house, an said as
he took her hand in his own, “Let us go to the couch of Vulcan: he
is not at home, but is gone off to Lemnos among the Sintians, whose
speech is barbarous.”
  She was nothing loth, so they went to the couch to take their
rest, whereon they were caught in the toils which cunning Vulcan had
spread for them, and could neither get up nor stir hand or foot, but
found too late that they were in a trap. Then Vulcan came up to
them, for he had turned back before reaching Lemnos, when his scout
the sun told him what was going on. He was in a furious passion, and
stood in the vestibule making a dreadful noise as he shouted to all
the gods.
  “Father Jove,” he cried, “and all you other blessed gods who live
for ever, come here and see the ridiculous and disgraceful sight
that I will show you. Jove’s daughter Venus is always dishonouring
me because I am lame. She is in love with Mars, who is handsome and
clean built, whereas I am a *******—but my parents are to blame for
that, not I; they ought never to have begotten me. Come and see the
pair together asleep on my bed. It makes me furious to look at them.
They are very fond of one another, but I do not think they will lie
there longer than they can help, nor do I think that they will sleep
much; there, however, they shall stay till her father has repaid me
the sum I gave him for his baggage of a daughter, who is fair but
not honest.”
  On this the gods gathered to the **

Thus did the Trojans watch. But Panic, comrade of blood-stained
Rout, had taken fast hold of the Achaeans and their princes were all
of them in despair. As when the two winds that blow from Thrace—the
north and the northwest—spring up of a sudden and rouse the fury of
the main—in a moment the dark waves uprear their heads and scatter
their sea-wrack in all directions—even thus troubled were the
hearts of the Achaeans.
  The son of Atreus in dismay bade the heralds call the people to a
council man by man, but not to cry the matter aloud; he made haste
also himself to call them, and they sat sorry at heart in their
assembly. Agamemnon shed tears as it were a running stream or cataract
on the side of some sheer cliff; and thus, with many a heavy sigh he
spoke to the Achaeans. “My friends,” said he, “princes and councillors
Of the Argives, the hand of heaven has been laid heavily upon me.
Cruel Jove gave me his solemn promise that I should sack the city of
Troy before returning, but he has played me false, and is now
bidding me go ingloriously back to Argos with the loss of much people.
Such is the will of Jove, who has laid many a proud city in the dust
as he will yet lay others, for his power is above all. Now, therefore,
let us all do as I say and sail back to our own country, for we
shall not take Troy.”
  Thus he spoke, and the sons of the Achaeans for a long while sat
sorrowful there, but they all held their peace, till at last Diomed of
the loud battle-cry made answer saying, “Son of Atreus, I will chide
your folly, as is my right in council. Be not then aggrieved that I
should do so. In the first place you attacked me before all the
Danaans and said that I was a coward and no soldier. The Argives young
and old know that you did so. But the son of scheming Saturn endowed
you by halves only. He gave you honour as the chief ruler over us, but
valour, which is the highest both right and might he did not give you.
Sir, think you that the sons of the Achaeans are indeed as unwarlike
and cowardly as you say they are? If your own mind is set upon going
home—go—the way is open to you; the many ships that followed you
from Mycene stand ranged upon the seashore; but the rest of us stay
here till we have sacked Troy. Nay though these too should turn
homeward with their ships, Sthenelus and myself will still fight on
till we reach the goal of Ilius, for for heaven was with us when we
came.”
  The sons of the Achaeans shouted applause at the words of Diomed,
and presently Nestor rose to speak. “Son of Tydeus,” said he, “in
war your prowess is beyond question, and in council you excel all
who are of your own years; no one of the Achaeans can make light of
what you say nor gainsay it, but you have not yet come to the end of
the whole matter. You are still young—you might be the youngest of my
own children—still you have spoken wisely and have counselled the
chief of the Achaeans not without discretion; nevertheless I am
older than you and I will tell you every” thing; therefore let no man,
not even King Agamemnon, disregard my saying, for he that foments
civil discord is a clanless, hearthless outlaw.
  “Now, however, let us obey the behests of night and get our suppers,
but let the sentinels every man of them camp by the trench that is
without the wall. I am giving these instructions to the young men;
when they have been attended to, do you, son of Atreus, give your
orders, for you are the most royal among us all. Prepare a feast for
your councillors; it is right and reasonable that you should do so;
there is abundance of wine in your tents, which the ships of the
Achaeans bring from Thrace daily. You have everything at your disposal
wherewith to entertain guests, and you have many subjects. When many
are got together, you can be guided by him whose counsel is wisest-
and sorely do we need shrewd and prudent counsel, for the foe has
lit his watchfires hard by our ships. Who can be other than
dismayed? This night will either be the ruin of our host, or save it.”
  Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. The sentinels
went out in their armour under command of Nestor’s son Thrasymedes,
a captain of the host, and of the bold warriors Ascalaphus and
Ialmenus: there were also Meriones, Aphareus and Deipyrus, and the son
of Creion, noble Lycomedes. There were seven captains of the
sentinels, and with each there went a hundred youths armed with long
spears: they took their places midway between the trench and the wall,
and when they had done so they lit their fires and got every man his
supper.
  The son of Atreus then bade many councillors of the Achaeans to
his quarters prepared a great feast in their honour. They laid their
hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon as they
had enough to eat and drink, old Nestor, whose counsel was ever
truest, was the first to lay his mind before them. He, therefore, with
all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus.
  “With yourself, most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon,
will I both begin my speech and end it, for you are king over much
people. Jove, moreover, has vouchsafed you to wield the sceptre and to
uphold righteousness, that you may take thought for your people
under you; therefore it behooves you above all others both to speak
and to give ear, and to out the counsel of another who shall have been
minded to speak wisely. All turns on you and on your commands,
therefore I will say what I think will be best. No man will be of a
truer mind than that which has been mine from the hour when you,
sir, angered Achilles by taking the girl Briseis from his tent against
my judgment. I urged you not to do so, but you yielded to your own
pride, and dishonoured a hero whom heaven itself had honoured—for you
still hold the prize that had been awarded to him. Now, however, let
us think how we may appease him, both with presents and fair
speeches that may conciliate him.”
  And King Agamemnon answered, “Sir, you have reproved my folly
justly. I was wrong. I own it. One whom heaven befriends is in himself
a host, and Jove has shown that he befriends this man by destroying
much people of the Achaeans. I was blinded with passion and yielded to
my worser mind; therefore I will make amends, and will give him
great gifts by way of atonement. I will tell them in the presence of
you all. I will give him seven tripods that have never yet been on the
fire, and ten talents of gold. I will give him twenty iron cauldrons
and twelve strong horses that have won races and carried off prizes.
Rich, indeed, both in land and gold is he that has as many prizes as
my horses have won me. I will give him seven excellent workwomen,
Lesbians, whom I chose for myself when he took ******—all of
surpassing beauty. I will give him these, and with them her whom I
erewhile took from him, the daughter of Briseus; and I swear a great
oath that I never went up into her couch, nor have been with her after
the manner of men and women.
  “All these things will I give him now down, and if hereafter the
gods vouchsafe me to sack the city of Priam, let him come when we
Achaeans are dividing the spoil, and load his ship with gold and
bronze to his liking; furthermore let him take twenty Trojan women,
the loveliest after Helen herself. Then, when we reach Achaean
Argos, wealthiest of all lands, he shall be my son-in-law and I will
show him like honour with my own dear son Orestes, who is being
nurtured in all abundance. I have three daughters, Chrysothemis,
Laodice, and lphianassa, let him take the one of his choice, freely
and without gifts of wooing, to the house of Peleus; I will add such
dower to boot as no man ever yet gave his daughter, and will give
him seven well established cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and Hire, where
there is grass; holy Pherae and the rich meadows of Anthea; Aepea
also, and the vine-clad slopes of Pedasus, all near the sea, and on
the borders of sandy Pylos. The men that dwell there are rich in
cattle and sheep; they will honour him with gifts as though he were
a god, and be obedient to his comfortable ordinances. All this will
I do if he will now forgo his anger. Let him then yieldit is only
Hades who is utterly ruthless and unyielding—and hence he is of all
gods the one most hateful to mankind. Moreover I am older and more
royal than himself. Therefore, let him now obey me.”
  Then Nestor answered, “Most noble son of Atreus, king of men,
Agamemnon. The gifts you offer are no small ones, let us then send
chosen messengers, who may go to the tent of Achilles son of Peleus
without delay. Let those go whom I shall name. Let Phoenix, dear to
Jove, lead the way; let Ajax and Ulysses follow, and let the heralds
Odius and Eurybates go with them. Now bring water for our hands, and
bid all keep silence while we pray to Jove the son of Saturn, if so be
that he may have mercy upon us.”
  Thus did he speak, and his saying pleased them well. Men-servants
poured water over the hands of the guests, while pages filled the
mixing-bowls with wine and water, and handed it round after giving
every man his drink-offering; then, when they had made their
offerings, and had drunk each as much as he was minded, the envoys set
out from the tent of Agamemnon son of Atreus; and Nestor, looking
first to one and then to another, but most especially at Ulysses,
was instant with them that they should prevail with the noble son of
Peleus.
  They went their way by the shore of the sounding sea, and prayed
earnestly to earth-encircling Neptune that the high spirit of the
son of Aeacus might incline favourably towards them. When they reached
the ships and tents of the Myrmidons, they found Achilles playing on a
lyre, fair, of cunning workmanship, and its cross-bar was of silver.
It was part of the spoils which he had taken when he sacked the city
of Eetion, and he was now diverting himself with it and singing the
feats of heroes. He was alone with Patroclus, who sat opposite to
him and said nothing, waiting till he should cease singing. Ulysses
and Ajax now came in—Ulysses leading the way -and stood before him.
Achilles sprang from his seat with the lyre still in his hand, and
Patroclus, when he saw the strangers, rose also. Achilles then greeted
them saying, “All hail and welcome—you must come upon some great
matter, you, who for all my anger are still dearest to me of the
Achaeans.”
  With this he led them forward, and bade them sit on seats covered
with purple rugs; then he said to Patroclus who was close by him, “Son
of Menoetius, set a larger bowl upon the table, mix less water with
the wine, and give every man his cup, for these are very dear friends,
who are now under my roof.”
  Patroclus did as his comrade bade him; he set the chopping-block
in front of the fire, and on it he laid the **** of a sheep, the
**** also of a goat, and the chine of a fat hog. Automedon held the
meat while Achilles chopped it; he then sliced the pieces and put them
on spits while the son of Menoetius made the fire burn high. When
the flame had died down, he spread the embers, laid the spits on top
of them, lifting them up and setting them upon the spit-racks; and
he sprinkled them with salt. When the meat was roasted, he set it on
platters, and handed bread round the table in fair baskets, while
Achilles dealt them their portions. Then Achilles took his seat facing
Ulysses against the opposite wall, and bade his comrade Patroclus
offer sacrifice to the gods; so he cast the offerings into the fire,
and they laid their hands upon the good things that were before
them. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Ajax made a
sign to Phoenix, and when he saw this, Ulysses filled his cup with
wine and pledged Achilles.
  “Hail,” said he, “Achilles, we have had no scant of good cheer,
neither in the tent of Agamemnon, nor yet here; there has been
plenty to eat and drink, but our thought turns upon no such matter.
Sir, we are in the face of great disaster, and without your help
know not whether we shall save our fleet or lose it. The Trojans and
their allies have camped hard by our ships and by the wall; they
have lit watchfires throughout their host and deem that nothing can
now prevent them from falling on our fleet. Jove, moreover, has sent
his lightnings on their right; Hector, in all his glory, rages like
a maniac; confident that Jove is with him he fears neither god nor
man, but is gone raving mad, and prays for the approach of day. He
vows that he will hew the high sterns of our ships in pieces, set fire
to their hulls, and make havoc of the Achaeans while they are dazed
and smothered in smoke; I much fear that heaven will make good his
boasting, and it will prove our lot to perish at Troy far from our
home in Argos. Up, then, and late though it be, save the sons of the
Achaeans who faint before the fury of the Trojans. You will repent
bitterly hereafter if you do not, for when the harm is done there will
be no curing it; consider ere it be too late, and save the Danaans
from destruction.
  “My good friend, when your father Peleus sent you from Phthia to
Agamemnon, did he not charge you saying, ‘Son, Minerva and Juno will
make you strong if they choose, but check your high temper, for the
better part is in goodwill. Eschew vain quarrelling, and the
Achaeans old and young will respect you more for doing so.’ These were
his words, but you have forgotten them. Even now, however, be
appeased, and put away your anger from you. Agamemnon will make you
great amends if you will forgive him; listen, and I will tell you what
he has said in his tent that he will give you. He will give you
seven tripods that have never yet been on the fire, and ten talents of
gold; twenty iron cauldrons, and twelve strong horses that have won
races and carried off prizes. Rich indeed both in land and gold is
he who has as many prizes as these horses have won for Agamemnon.
Moreover he will give you seven excellent workwomen, Lesbians, whom he
chose for himself, when you took ******—all of surpassing beauty.
He will give you these, and with them her whom he erewhile took from
you, the daughter of Briseus, and he will swear a great oath, he has
never gone up into her couch nor been with her after the manner of men
and women. All these things will he give you now down, and if
hereafter the gods vouchsafe him to sack the city of Priam, you can
come when we Achaeans are dividing the spoil, and load your ship
with gold and bronze to your liking. You can take twenty Trojan women,
the loveliest after Helen herself. Then, when we reach Achaean
Argos, wealthiest of all lands, you shall be his son-in-law, and he
will show you like honour with his own dear son Orestes, who is
being nurtured in all abundance. Agamemnon has three daughters,
Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; you may take the one of your
choice, freely and without gifts of wooing, to the house of Peleus; he
will add such dower to boot as no man ever yet gave his daughter,
and will give you seven well-established cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and
Hire where there is grass; holy Pheras and the rich meadows of Anthea;
Aepea also, and the vine-clad slopes of Pedasus, all near the sea, and
on the borders of sandy Pylos. The men that dwell there are rich in
cattle and sheep; they will honour you with gifts as though were a
god, and be obedient to your comfortable ordinances. All this will
he do if you will now forgo your anger. Moreover, though you hate both
him and his gifts with all your heart, yet pity the rest of the
Achaeans who are being harassed in all their host; they will honour
you as a god, and you will earn great glory at their hands. You
might even **** Hector; he will come within your reach, for he is
infatuated, and declares that not a Danaan whom the ships have brought
can hold his own against him.”
  Achilles answered, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, I should give you
formal notice plainly and in all fixity of purpose that there be no
more of this cajoling, from whatsoever quarter it may come. Him do I
hate even as the gates of hell who says one thing while he hides
another in his heart; therefore I will say what I mean. I will be
appeased neither by Agamemnon son of Atreus

it's quiet hard to find a welcoming book, i can cite two read in one sitting, thus spoke Zarathusrta (the original intent) and the soft machine by burroughs... all others came with many composed sittings... but none of the repeated encounters can be spoken of so favourably as Bertrand Russell's history of western philosophy, with that book came the kindest summer - in that i find historians the prefects of philosophy, the Republic guardians, leave the poets to do their sing-along, and furthered abstracts of symbols (should they wish, and ought), give presence to historians like Russell and Tatarkiewicz (surname derived as descended from Tartar auxiliary at the battle of Tannenberg with two naked swords dipped into ****** soil awaiting blood by a Lithuanian king married to a Polish gal).

sometimes poems can be more memorable than entire
books, there memorableness technique used in
epics gets lost most of the time,
writers' custard narrative awaiting a memorable
spontaneity is always missing, a memorable quote
needs to be bookmarked, it's hardly remembered,
all that talk of etiquette, esp. 19th century is always
the fog in novel, Mr. Darcy and his twin
Mr. Rochester, both haunted -
the former by social structures (prejudice;
his wife to be by lower caste governed by pride)
while the latter by a madwoman in the attic -
there's nothing memorable about these novels
in mono assertions, unless you have a book-club or
a cinematic script and a movie... poems are more
memorable, naturally, even if you're unable to recite
them because you rather recite the list of ingredients
for a bonkers curry, someone else will recite you a
poem, no problem. i guess that's because memorising
poetry is afforded by rhymes, the crude musicology
if given an instrument, would be to pluck
two same notes, ugly with a guitar, beautiful with
the tongue.
no, novels are not memorable, ask blind Samson about
the pillars he absorbed with his strength and pulled
down... ask him...
or... or i can tell you a little secret, it's a secret concerning
Sylvia Plath's *bell jar... page 119 in my edition (Faber & Faber),
slight digression: a page later she's complaining in
a "fictive" personality about the ineffectiveness of sleeping
pills... she has been apparently given max'      imum
strength pills... dear Sylvia,
                                        against your doctor's orders,
          against all pharmaceutical orthodoxy,
sleeping pills are best effective with alcohol,
even though the tagline is to avoid mixing the two...
i can't specify the quantity of alcohol in milligrams
akin to the dosage of the pills, dear Sylvia, they're only
effective with the liquid sedative, and perhaps a painkiller
like paracetamol...
nonetheless on page 119 she's citing a book you will
probably not read, and neither did she (explanation
a bit later)... she cites the first page of J. Joyce's
Finnegans Wake...
                 riverrun past Eve and Adam's...
and that ONE-HUNDRED LETTERED word:

  ba'ba'ba'dal'gharagh'takamminanarronk'onn'bronntonner'r­onn'tuonn'thunn'trovarr'houna'wnska'wntooh'oohoo'rdenen'thurnuk!­

i tried the syllable scalpel to my best ability for breath,
this grand anti-onomatopoeia, cut for brief pause...
but she didn't read any further like Delmore Schwartz
trying to sell this **** Grææ tongue...
she didn't read on, because there's another century in this
book:

(i left a bookmark on the page (no. 23) - a painting by
Diego Velázquez, the toilet of Venus 122.5 by 177 centimetres)

with loss of breath and entry of the centipede as follows

perkodhuskurunbarggruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhur­thrumathunnaradidillifaititillibumullunukkunun!

but i must i don't have the ratio, since i didn't bother counting
either words, but Sylvia did, and if she counted the first word
as a century, this second word must also be a century -
yet on suspicion should i believe she read further, or didn't?
they claimed the book to be a Babylonian Tower
readying for dispersions of the people, yet with historical
events it's a joke, given that there are no diacritical marks
in the book to provide stresses of accents:
e.g. fumatul poate să ucidă (romanian for: do not smoke
cigarettes, yes, there's a black market for cigarettes,
THANK GOD!) - and with saying that, it is not a book
with a Babylonian Tower attached to it, it's a tower for sure,
but a Globalisation Tower, how english became the
Lingua Levant once more, when the Franks had their
puppet king of Jerusalem at the time of Saladin.

Sunset a territorial red
They cried their faith into the ground
This be the blessed end
A symphony of death echoes around
Shells glide through tearing skin
Like a bow against a violin
The orchestra performs the percussion
Deafened by the snare drums
The sound is seen not heard
In the ricochets and trembling of the skins
Lured with horrifying compulsion
Fascinated at the destruction
Such is the production mankind has conducted
The end may be blessed
The end may it come
And look favourably upon the suffering man

We have St Magnus here, Viking Earl, martyred for his faith,
to watch over this archipelago, listen to our prayers, asking his intervention, his word in the ear of God. God who looks favourably on his saints, those in heaven, and those still on their way.

31 sleeps until Christmas.
He's got six weeks a sullen doctor says
Is this the scale for our lives I wonder? The years the weeks and the days.

You remember where you were when the call came in
Blissfully unaware and then it changed everything

How could you know what they were going to say?
"You've got the job" or "it's the hospital, it's going to be today"

These things they divide the eras of our lives. They aren't measured in ticks and tocks
It's always "after little Ben came along" or "since the towers dropped"

Drill down further and you'll hit the epochs of our very existence.
"When I worked for Tesco", "when I retired", "when I went up to infants".

Funny how folk say school days are the best of your lives
Now school was ok, I can see why they'd say
But chances are it's based on lies.

See, you look back at things favourably. Overlooking the negative parts.
The dreary hours in detention or the time you split your trousers in class.

The embarrassment that lasted weeks is now an anecdote for reunions
And if you went, I'm sure, school days weren't nearly half as fun as your uni ones.

So the ticks keep tocking and the clocks ain't stopping and the hours will always make days
We can work then sleep like good little sheep then the days will only make greys.

Or in my case, nothing.

Time gains it's substance from when you look back at it.
24 hours can be a day or, all those hours can flit

Chances are you work and each work day echoes the next.
Emails and phone calls. A pit stop for lunch. Having relationships over text.

Look back over the last 5 years and rejoice that memory that sticks
I got a fiver that says it ain't the 9 hours straight that you spent alone on Netflix.

See, you might not keep a diary but your brain does and you might not know.
Have you ever looked back in the evening and felt that morning was days ago?

The time was full of wonderful things to keep the brain alert and engaged
Nothing slipped by unnoticed and the diary was full on that page.

Take a look at the 27 club.
Hendrix, Winehouse, Cobain
Chances are there's more pages in your diary but most of those are plain

All of us organic. Decaying as time slides by.
The most we can ask is a fair amount of time so come death, we won't ask why.

Our pages full of joy and tales
Of how it feels when the wind fills our sails
It's said that time flies, but I find often it stops and sits
The world may not remember us but we can always remember it.

How it's amazed with its sights
Its days and its nights
Oh, the ways it delights
I digress...

I guess I should go. Check my watch and I know it's only 18000 sleeps until death.

Celebrations! Baby girl arriving
A piece of heaven descending
Upon ecstatic parents who are waiting
Cooing, smiling and her eyes shining
How euphoric and rewarding !

In parental tenderness, blooming beautifully
Inherent virtues, flourishing favourably
Buoyantly vibrant teenager, metamorphosing magically
Lithe, lively lady moulding, unfolding gracefully
How breathlessly beautiful, this transition so suddenly !

Deft, determined lady emerging on life's canvas
Out of the shadows of parental caress
Catalysing to compellingly desirable mistress
Celebrating wins, witty and voluptuous
How stunningly sensuous !

Years go by sketching contours of the middle aged
Living through love, sorrow, fear and hope
Journey of ups and downs sculpting her
Experienced, sobered, matured portrait realised
How mysteriously ageless !

Time fleets introducing a frail grandmotherly figure
Her reticent, sentimental and feeble ways
Carving her into a contemplative, pious matriarch
Toothless, silver-haired and wierdly wrinkled
How stupendous a masterpiece !

© Preeti Pathak

it had changed. thinner.

less volume.

we thought.



no, she said it had been cut out. you see,

if you multiply this and that you will find.

the mass.



it stands steady, decommisioned, favourably

viewed by some.



not by others.



it can be a reflection, it is situated

by the lake.



the texture changed with age, as did the colour.



sbm.

Home at midnight
lights out at one
today wasn't too bad
but I'm glad that it's gone.

I'm in that interstate of
neither being asleep
or of being awake and
It's a crowded place

Feeling jaded and heading towards
the dreams which I believe are
my just rewards.

If
when I open my eyes
the day lies before me,
looks on me favourably
I'll finish work at three
and be home for my tea
which
in an ideal world
is how it should be.

i couldn't learn Russ even if i wanted to...
not because i can't speak favourably of
the people: a most hospitable folk...
although: as a ****** in Moscow...
dating a Russian girl... things had to be on
a: hush-hush... i had to "pretend"
to be English...
which wasn't hard since... i have a generic
accent: if an accent at that...
only in Essex could it be know:
by an inquisitive 14 year old girl...
in the middle of the night having left a ******
party looking for a friend... instead
finding me first... walking out of the darkness
of a park to inquire: where, was, i.... from?
we sat near a roundabout...
i rolled her a cigarette...
a black cat came towards me...
picked it up, stroked it... blah blah...
all of a sudden i was a warlock while
the girl did runners... to and fro...
50 metres ahead... 50 metres back...
like she was trying to shake me off but couldn't:
since i promised her that we would
find her friend... which we did...
lying face-down at a bus stop...
i took off my hoodie attired the poor shivering
thing and... we walked to a designated
pick-up spot so one of the girl's father
could pick them up... which he did...
of course... we had to take a group selfie
before all of that...
- a strange hallucination:
i sometimes feel i have a spider crawling around
behind my right ear...
petty architect of... beside the cobweb...
for a 14 year old: i'm stabbing in the dark
she might have been older...
it's not like i didn't think about her
*******, which were: of course... pronounced
while i rolled the tobacco and asked:
my spit... or yours?
so i gave her the roll-up so she could
lick it herself...
          the things that happen in the night:
it's no wonder i find the formalities of
day so... pedestrian...
oh but you can get away with being English
in Russian... they love these people
over there...
not so much the Polacks...
       - again... to reiterate... i would never learn
that language: perhaps i'm just fonder
of the Greek writing script than i am of
the Cyrillic...
(no... that sensation of a spider behind my
right ear was not a hallucination...
a happy home is a home filled with spiders...
some... ancient proverb or... something...
caught the little ****** crawling on my arm...
dangled him on his string and placed
him on the windowsill)...
- i really have bigger things to worry about
than a discrepancy in Cyrillic that
i simply can't ignore: it has been burning
in my mind since yesterday...
- ******... oh sure i'll complain...
the cat thinks he can own the night and prowl
and prance all he likes:
that's the problem with cats...
they teach you the unattainable bewilderment of:
they have free will:
while you too, have, free will...
but it's only illusionary...
or worse... it's more than an illusion...
it's a bad... b'ah b'ahah joke...
a little h.m.v. (his master's voice) moment
in the calmness of the night:
quorus! quorus!
quo... where is russian?
i can't take credit for the name...
the breeders conjured it up...
i would be more inclined to: qua-rus...
i.e. as being: russian...
maine ****... ginger... it could have
worked... so i'm writing this to calm myself...
could this 10kg little Colossus take
on a fox? well... he is a house-pet...
not a wild animal...
its legs are more flexible... it too can bite...
but... little pockets of anxiety and
the debacle of... KBAC...
i.e. KVAS... a popular drink in Russia...
sort of: a better version of root-beer...
malty... & sweet... carbonated...
perfect for eating fast-food pancakes... with...
orange caviar...
- i sometimes walk through the garden
and a single cobweb thread covers my eyes...
i must be dreaming when awake:
sometimes... eh... most of the time
since i'm so dream-starved...
Freud couldn't make a shilling out of me:
what is there to interpret when
all you dream about it a great big...
black yawn of a void?!
i guess this brings me to the schematic:

                                   north
                                  północ
                  ­                    Ц

    east                                  ­                        west
  wschód                            ­                       zachód
      Ш                                                   ­          Щ

                                    south
                    ­             południe
                                       Ч

a "lesson" in etymology: shrapnel...
pół: half... noc: night... i.e. half is night...
i'm guessing: of the year...
but why isn't south: half is day?
po: after... -łu- is sharpnel...
dnie: days...  dzień: day...
   it's still one and the same however much
the word morphed... half-day for south
half-night for north...
  wschód (rise... an all-encompassing
reference to: sunrise) - east...
likewise with: west:
sunset: zachód...
                 etymologically?
eh... chłód: a coldness... an eerie coldness...
zombie-esque...

hell... i didn't sit down to write this...
i came for the Cyrillic letters that bother me...
i.e.
    why isn't Ц: Ч
     and vice versa - why ins't Ч: Ц?
when...
     Ц looks like... the better half of: Щ?

i mean: it seem logical, or phonetically authentic
that half of Щ
                                             Ц
would encapsulate half of the sound
most associated with my Slavic terms:
szczeka: (it) barks...
szczerość: honesty...
oh i can hide the "confusing" Z and bring out
the English H... one surd for another...
SHCH:
        sharp is szkic...
cheap as: czerń...
          i could go one step further and employ
Czech orthography: style...
the aesthetic of writing: encoding sounds...
and hide both the Z and the H
in a caron: a crown hovering above the letters C & S...
but then... it would appear congested
with a word like honesty:

       ščerość...                    no? too much baggage:
from on high...
but it's not like the English language
has any concerns for this...
even Charles Dickens dared to summon
the term: orthography to a sound encoding "system"
that didn't employ... summon...
any diacritical distinctions...
one ought to be intuitive about the excesses of:
tatters... one ought to remember THat: THought...

it doesn't matter: i'm asking the Russians...
if half of Щ (šč)
    is Ц... it looks that way!
then why doesn't Ц denote: č-chequers?!

hell... have your: Ш... i'll be... haha... "brave"
and say... it deserves to almost resemble a
crown hovering above a serpent... š...
how a Y (igrek) might behave if
asked to be treated for geometric purposes!
instead of crafting rivers!

i'm not "confused": i'm just *******!
Ц ought to denote entombed in Ч
and... vice versa... at worst!
Ц is one ******* half of Щ!

- and what is Ч: the western slavic C: it's not an aesthetic
substitute for either K or S (there's no... cedilla
attached, last time i checked...)
or for that matter... Q...
CKQ... no?
                           i clearly don't quiet, belong among
these people:
with their mundaneness practiced so well:
they dream! oh god they dream!
i'm the one dream-starved while they
dream-out their little-by-little: belittling fetishes
of power-gambling the toppling
of peaceful hierarchies...

i'm the antithesis of the celebrated Barbarians
of the American counter-revolution...
sure... i'm banging at the gates...
screaming: let me out! let me out!
i don't want to be in this custard mess
when it truly: properly... falls to ****!
i'll leave with my feet stinking from sweat...
even though i wouldn't have ran a mile!
let me out! let me out!
for man's ruin and for anything even remotely
god-as-man... give me air!
give me cognitive air! i can't breathe:
let alone think!

- i'm growing tired... more and more tired...
of plotting: nicety... along the vein
of thought of the English...
i'm just more and more salt grain
from teasing at the wound of:
perhaps i'm here as a pet project:
for "my" people...
to get the feelings associated when
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth
was carved upon...
or a lesson in how the Roman Empire
imploded... so too..
how Britain buckled...
how Britain buckled...
fell on its drunken-face wishing it was:
"somehow"... Victorian: sensible...
sober... augur-prone...
well... it's too late for all of "that"...

it's happening: and i don't have a stop button:
quick & easy to solve the problem...
i like to drink gin
as a solo project: on the ice...
the fascist in me: is always
the fascist in everyone, anyone...
i'm digging trenches with my writing:
conjure up a better imagery:
i bet you won't...
but am i... "somehow"... this...
easy... "walkover"... prized asset of cuck?
sure... the women are rampant...
i don't mind... i'd rather ****
a ***** than a nun any other day
than... today...

we're having a debate about how
russians have encoded: poorly...
well... confusingly...
it just doesn't make sense... what i already stated...
i'm no longer looking towards America...
it's a dead... a dead & wasted land...
it's a predictable land...
it's a horrid little: my why we never might:
reach it...
culture-wise...
   some... "oops": didn't jazz die so soon?
i thought so too...
i'm looking for the peacock feathers atop
the armour of the Teutonic Knights...
the failures of the 3rd Crusade...
broken pride... escapade to an "elsewhere",
no?

sorrow, me... how i'm tattooed with
history... i can only imagine the fate of the
modern... western... secular... man...
freed from both history and religion...
i almost admire him...
i admire him: in that i speak his tongue...
i admire him...
but then i see his bewilderment...
and i think to myself...
"my" people: being so reclusive probably
have it right...
we have no colonial heritage to...
we didn't have the expediency of the sea
before us...
why do i... or my brethren get to luggage...
these jumbo-afro queries?!
i once had a key-chain that read:
the only way to tell someone to *******:
is to... tell them to *******:
in such a way... as they might be...
awaiting the: ******* transit...
so they might await the trip...
women sold us... women sold us into
this *******...
i kid you not...
            
i will not sell my heritage upon
a post-colonial bend-over past...
i'll sooner side with the Russians as i insult them!
i'll grind my teeth on stone
and spit out a *******: well-rounded pebble
than side with these... fakeries of freedom!
give me freedom! give me the supposed
bread! the songs! the... what's it called?
diabetes?!
          fat *****...

i'm one with the Kabul patrol...
i'm mad enough to try not being gesticulated at:
as being fake...
like i might cry that this canvas is not made
available to me...
ergo... you're going to turn off my water-supply...
my electricity-supply?
you're going to cancel my...
like i want to care about a dying culture
where only the bogusly: blatant rich
are... left?!

such weakness in a dying kind....
i cannot not... drawn parallels within the confines
of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
i can't!
   jeg kan ikke!

if "their" history breathes through them!
    så gør mínë...
all is "European":
              ******* cotton-muffin... afro
riddled... tarts... ****-boy-ohs...
ha!

who's not... Caesar?!
            bread wins the: paint?!
what's more cooking
than what's more... *******...
drying?!
oh sure... my shoelaces definitely stink
of bacon... but...
n'ah... n'ah... you're on your
own with that pseudo-king-Solomon..
sort of crap...
me... kind Davie...
surah riddled... psalm bashing...
sort of "crap"... i need a woman like...
i a need an anecdote...
oh god...
          so 'ere one comes....
no... it's not funny...
how.. unexpected... the opposite ***
tends to... behave... without having....
white boy... insurance policies...
oh... wow!
           *******... *******.
now the bread winner: brown- boyo...
better be... the... bread--- basher!... ah... ha...
ha... his alias: also: no.

Hello Poetry has become
an agony column for whom
I perceive are American air
heads with no sense of poetic
prowess. Day after day we
are faced with parody poems
about people wanting to be
left alone, yet they pollute
pristine paper with their drivel.

What's worse are those who
read and comment favourably,
thus encouraging those idiotic
composers to continue with
diatribes of delusional diction
which is basically graffiti that
gets mentally erased after it
has been read.

This is not a forum for farcical
fantasies, nor is it a writing
school were left handed dyslexics
are taught to write palindromic
sentences for schizophrenics
with amnesia. HP needs a garbage
detector to censor the verbal
diarrhoea that some of you write.

I love this book.
Journey to the End of the Night
by Louis Ferdinand Celine.
I will never reread it.
It was enough to read once.
I have tried rereading it.
I could not.
It is too tiresome.
I feel this way about so many people.
I think fondly of them,
But will not miss them,
Perhaps they think of me sometimes
And maybe remember me somewhat favourably,
But they will not miss me.
Oddly, I find this comforting,
Perhaps it’d be better if we forget each other,
So somewhere we can meet for the first time again.
I long to read Journey to the End of the Night for the first time again.