Excerpts from all day permanent red: the first battle scenes of
homer's Iliad, rewritten.
(from the opening section)
Go back an hour.
See what the Mousegod saw.
Double the width of Troy
Divided by a strip
30 yards wide.
The gentler, longer slope,
Via its ridge onto the Trojan plain,
Is occupied by 50,000 Greeks
Silent behind their masks, yearning to fight
But not until:
Hector emerges and commits
the Ilian host
Their coffin-topped rhinoceros and oxhyide shields
Packing the counterslope
And presently the Skean
Gate is closed.
To the sigh of the string,
see Pandar's shot float off;
To the slap of the string on the stave, float on
Over the strip for a beat; and then
Carry a tunnel the width of a lipstick through Quist's neck.
The Skean Gate swings up.
Nothing will happen until
There is a touch of thunder
in the west.
Odysseus: "Thank God."
Idomeneo: "And about
And, save for the edgers-on
along the strip,
Prince Hector's thousands turn;
Then genuflect; then whisper:
And now the Lord of Light
filled Hector's voice
Him moving on, on, forwards, down, towards the strip
And descant to his thousands:
That full, clear voice rose like an arrow through the air:
"Are you ready to
"Are you happy to kill?"
"Are you willing to
"Then bind to me! I
am your Prince!
In my command you will win fame!
The victory is God's!"
See an East African lion
Nose tip to tail tuft ten,
Slouching towards you
Swaying its head from side
Doubling its pace, its gold-black
That stretches down its
belly to its groin
Catching the sunlight as
Twice its own length a beat,
Great forepaws high great
The scarlet insides of its
Parting a roar as loud as
And lands, slam-scattering
"That is how Hector
came on us."
That is the moment when you understand
that there is nothing in between
You and the enemy.
You may be lying, one life less, seeing the past,
Or standing over someone you have known
Since childhood (or never known) beseeching you
To finish them,
Or on the run,
Or one of those who blindfolded those who run,
Or one of those who learn to love it all.
Bread trucks have begun
across the vast plateau,
fair skies, high cumulus cloud
the birds are in full throat
as the sun lights up the east.
Who is it sees
Set in the north Aegean sea, their coasts
Nosegays of seaweed toasting Ida's snow,
The Isles of Imbros and of Samothrace?
And over theregrapes
ghosts and vocal grottoes
Greece. Above it, Macedon,
Its wooded folds declining till they meet
Those of Carpathia at the Kagan Gorge,
Through which, fed by a hundred tributaries since
It crossed the northern instep of the Alps,
The Danube reappears.
Eyes onto Italy
(Where squirrels go from coast to coast and never touch the ground)
Then up, over her cyclorama peaks
Whose snow became before the fire before the wheel, the Rhine,
Below whose estuaries beneath an endless sky,
Sand bars and sabre grass, salt flats and travelling dunes
Lead west, until, green in their shallow sea
That falls away into the Atlantic deeps
He sees the Islands of the West.
He who? Why God, of course.
Who sighs before He looks
Back to the ridge that is, save for a million footprints,