Monday, October 15, 2007


I'm working on a Cornelius Eady painting for you, but I doubt I'll finish it before I am cruelly murdered by anesthesia tomorrow morning. Your hopes, do not get them up!


Whimsy said...

Do not go gentle into that deep sleep. At least kick the anesthesiologist in the balls when you're back in the chair. You know, like it was a mistake.

Anonymous said...


[Any reading of the Kypria shows how it prepares for events in THE ILIAD in order to refer back to them, such as the kitting out of Achilles with Briseis and Agamemnon with Chryseis. (Bethe, Eric, HOMER: DICHTUNG SAGE II: ODYSEE, KYKLOS, ZEITBESTIMMUNG, 1922)]

Street drunks, the toothless, crippled
And blind, and their adolescent
Acolytes, slackers united, suckers
For oblique jokes and sly, cowardly wisdom,
Gathered in unwashed, uncombed droves
To hear their sightless leader tickle the gusle,
A skeletal cello or broomstick with a string
Culled from a stallion’s intestines,
Sometimes the hair of a mare, stroked with a bow
Bent to shoot arrows, wailing, feigning

Magisterial sincerity, on the topic
Of Achilles’ rage, while embedded
In all this like a yellow topaz
In quartz was the captive woman Briseis,
A plundered widow and a grass one, slave
Princess and Trojan blonde who smelled
So strongly of fresh bread Achilles
Kept her nine years as a foot warmer,
But slept for sex with Patroclus,
And as Agamemnon said,

“It was a mistake. I never touched her.
Here, take her back!” a rejected goose,
An unused shuttle in the loom of destiny.
And the toothless bared their gums,
The drunkards blinked, the street kids, cripples
And the blind smiling with their noses
In the air to hear better, to sniff,
And as if sensing the whole scope
Of the woman’s discontent–-a big girl,
Horsey, her true name Hippodameia,

Briseis her patronym–-which they’d know
Exactly how to end, and bring peace
Between the nations and the men,
Slapped their filthy hands
On their bony thighs, roaring
And suddenly sighing as their master
Made his gusle tremble, whine
An inarticulate truth, which would
Conclude with an inhuman cry.

Tricia said...

Done and done, Whimsy! No, if I am to be honest, I believe I actually stroked his face when I awoke to thank him.

Oh, Anonymous, you mock me in my infirmity. Toothless and crippled! It's true, I haven't been able to feel my left hand for a full 24 hours now.

Anonymous said...


You mistake my hope that mention
Of those antique A-type captains
“Kitting themselves out”
With captive maidens,
Or the bitter absurdity
Of the subway crowd
Solving the plight of Briseis caught
Between an indifferent rock
And an aloof hard place
Would help uncurl your claws

As readily as a kick to the balls
Of that sad man from Afghanistan
Administering your poppies.
Mockery is a lasso which falls
On a rose without horns,
A cow without thorns,
Empty as zero, empty as destiny’s
Stolen poetry. My dear,
If it suits you to blame,
I am purple with shame.

Tricia said...

Why, do I have claws? If so, consider them uncurled already. My spirit kitten is highly catnipped these days, after all. She could not swipe if she wanted to.

Anonymous said...


I glued an amethyst crystal
Into the fork of a plum tree,
Having groomed it to look like poodle
For all of the good it has done me.

So no more turn aside and brood
On who will pierce your tapestry.
Meteors wander and fall in the wood
Ruled by the gods of anonymity.

And the purple rock of cruelty
Stays lodged in a barren tree, a dog
With three heads at a misted dock,
A quotidian anomaly.

Tricia said...

You mindreader! How did you know that my next interpretation would involve plums?