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.
Causes enoch john Supports
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