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The Wind's Lament (an extract)

Horace's dictum  'bis repetita  placent' of the repetition of things,

Rings true in Rome,Athens or Port of Spain. Amnesia.

They say it's amnesia,and that the slave trade caused it.

Shards of epic memory now reconstructed

With  sublimity as images in the poet's mind,

But still the ancient light reflected from Achilles' s shield

Illuminates the pages of Omeros.The world

Is probably stuck with Greek mythology forever.

 

The sea has retained  its mystique,

Its peculiar odours,

And the sea grapes have soured.A frigate bird

Flies overhead on Homer's seamless sea,

As now a Grecian pantheon groans under the weight of its own myth,

For invariably their gods have faded,

But still I can see in the distance,

Odysseus without his spear,

Sailing on some perilous journey back  to  a past mythology.

 

Often,have I thought

To pen an elegy of the wind's lament,

Of  what the wind heard  in its journeys

And its wandering around a brown-stained earth

And its mournful cry looking at man's doings,

And his many and varied myths.

 

As casual as a glance,

Or perhaps as a cloak

 

Carelessly flung over slim shoulders,

Fleeting time passes,

 

As I sit  in my chamber of lonliness

In the brooding silence of my memory,

But yet managing to listen,

To the marvellous exhiliration of the wind,

Exigent only to hear the melody of the elevated orb,

The chorusing of seraphs in their elation,

The pealing of bells at vespers,

The screech of gulls over placid harbours

With white yachts at tranquility in their sweet communion,

In Caribbean chromed waters.

 

Here, a revivified wind

Stirs the brown leaves

And the penultimate pages of history

As time and end-time in a dingy backroom,

Marry in hasty rendezvous,

 

For old Atlas

Has grown visibly fatigued

Of all the world and its myths.

 

Only yesterday I saw old Atlas grow tired  of the immense toil

Of carrying this gargantuan world

And all the Greek mythology on his talented shoulder,

The intensity fading fast from his irises.Atlas,

Tired of man's philandering spirit

And of toting Argamemnon's rage at Troy.

 

Forever consigned to the burning pyre,

A history whose pages ignited

With the angst of an Aegean king,

To singe in its very intensity the chronicled parchment,

 

Making Troy into a smoking citadel(in our diaspora,

Toussaint became king for a day,

And since then,Haiti has only wallowed

In its own ruinous brew).

 

Atlas,who perhaps wanted desperately

To chew-up all the Greek mythology

And spit it out

Into a wine-dark Aegean,and

 

Ever growing so much increasingly weary

Of all those ponderous  hexameters and pentameters,

And peering ever so disconsolately

At a despairing Homer,

Now radically diminished,

As a post-modernist sea ravenously

Swallows his seamless Aegean.

 

In the sepulchral caves of Ogygia,Calypso caught him,

And played 'ole mas' with him after which,

From that sultry nymphomaniac he fled

On a raft of freshly cut trees

On a dull Ash Wednesday.

 

After all the bacchanal,so sailing beneath his night sky of freedom

He viewed the Pleiads,the Bootes,

And also the Wain,

 

Reflecting on the Calypso tempo

Of the sweet-voiced nymph

With the braided locks.

 

Now hear the song of Circe,

The bewitching wail of that siren

Which fuses with the chords

Of my memory,

 

For ever so often

Her scintillating melody

Reverberates in my head.

 

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The Wind's Lament

This is just an extract from my 40 page long poem which I am hoping to publish soon.I hope you enjoy reading it.