Love Conquers All

Achilles, it seems,

is deemed

the greatest of us all—

especially when compared with Paris.

Even Hector the valiant brother who fought

against both man and God (and having thought

he had already done so once

and vanquished the legend— what joy

that radiant evening when he retuned home),

Hector whose mind accepted that Achilles still lived

and then

whose heart confronted the truth

that he must lose—the knowledge

blossoming with every thrust and parry...

because what must it have felt like

to have your sword hit the flesh

and rebound...(did it match the beat

of his own thudding heart?)

to witness

the absence of blood...the lack of a wound…

(Achilles, the sacred virgin never to be pierced)

the story

of his foe’s plunge into the sacred river unbound?

Imagine then Hector in that final battle

swinging, knowing he was the greater swordsman,

believing his skill was surpassingly better as he fought

the Grecian Hero (after all

what did Achilles need of skill) and that

because of a mother’s love,

it would not be enough…

all the practise—the hot hours

sweating under the sun, the relentless hours

away from his beloved—meaningless

opposed to the Styx-dipped Achilles anointed by his mother, Thetis,

and then anointed again by history.

What thoughts flicked through Hector’s mind as his arm

grew ever more tired...

the steel once friend shifting into foe

and the lips of his treasured Andromache moving ever more further away.

Is that the kiss of death then?

That remembered

soft collide of lips

between the about-to-die and their beloved?

And as the killing stroke drew closer,

unbeknown

so too did his final humiliation.

Urged on by Achilles’ grief,

a grief born out of love, a grief that fed the rage

and was expressed in Hector’s ignoble chariot ride

around and around his city,

the dust rising as his carcass was dragged

like any slaughtered animal

or easily purchased bride.

And Hector’s father, Priam,

the father of Paris too but at this point not moot,

standing there on the walls…watching

the greater of the two ridiculed in death,

What thoughts did he have?

Did he think back to Hector’s birth?

Or further back to the time he saw Hecuba in the fields

the soft swell of her belly confirming

the seed planted? Or further back still,

back the to first time when she,

Unaware of his eyes

Walked, innocent then, through the city?

But in losing to Achilles

did Hector — rather than flee…

even as his mind reeled  (not a thought to yield

but always to fight on)—

conquer fear (though not death

even Achilles despite the deeming,

failed at that — we all fail at that)?

So Achilles then

the greatest of us all

yet

when the moon breaks through...

the sky cloudy... the night still after the rain…

and the moon is full,

its soft light capturing the mind

and she stands there on the bridge

a slight wind

blowing

her hair so that her right hand removes three strands

from her lips

It is Paris we think of

for she becomes our Helen

and eternal Achilles slips (As all heroes must)

into the shadows of things before

the moon

the wind

and her

standing on that bridge

removing those three strands and,

you hope,

turning to return your look.

an edit of seaside pastoral

Seaside Pastoral

(the last day of the holidays)

Jack stares at the small wooden fishing boat

secured by a weathered and salt-caked rope

(I never did have a ride in it, though I did catch

a fish off the pier with Dad one morning). Cat-like,

the little boat rubs against the sea-stained post.

Mary sings (“she sells sea-shells by the seashore”),

her footprints, like soft kisses, litter the sand, are yet to fade

beneath the waves, show signs of her meandering walk

to reach the pier. Once there, she stands, listens to the water

hitting the mussel-crusted poles with persistent liquid thumps.

The shore is littered with drying seaweed in rolled-up tresses,

discarded like hair on the floor of the local Hairdresser’s.

Above, a seagull, pirate of the sky, buffeted by wind, stays aloft.

Its feathers ruffled, its wings stretched taut, the gull’s cry,

mimics the sadness the seaside children feel in their hearts.

Mary stands at the edge of the world, her feet,

feel the earth beat as they sink into the world beneath

the sand: She is lost in sea-spray and the world’s rumble

while in the distance voices of other exploring children

explode like firecrackers, let loose fiery cries of discovery.

An early morning jogger runs along the shore

While Jack’s wet hand pats the sand into a mound

the size of a mountain. The strengthening wind sprays sand,

whispers secrets about the world. Jack sniffs salt-heavy air,

senses the rain approaching from the Antarctic south.

Mary and Jack look out to where the rain already falls,

far out beyond the largest waves, out where whales swim.

Silently they clasp hands and wonder — will minor spirits

consent, convey their flesh to a fantastic shore? Could they

fly on the wind or sail upon the waves to some undimmed land?

The spell is broken by their mother’s re-appearance

and she leads them away from the shore and into shelter.

Through the windows, Mary and Jack’s eyes are drawn back

to the horizon, while their ears still ring to the ocean’s song,

the beach they love may soon be gone but never forgotten.

Seaside Pastoral

A small wooden boat, moored, secured

by a weathered and salt-encrusted, trusted rope,

like a cat, scratches, scrapes against the sea-stained post.

The boat is moved by the waves moved by the hidden moon

forgotten by eyes but not by the water

that shifts in the vessel, the vassal we call our body.

Footprints in stages of disappearance, like soft kisses,

or voices fading into the distance, litter the sand;

show signs of the meandering walk to reach the pier.

Along the shore, drying, crying seaweed tangled

or rolled up in long tresses, discarded like hair

on the floor of the local Hairdresser’s.

A stick stuck into the damp sand shouts aloud

a single unbroken plea to connect, combine

through a thin shifting shadow, the sun with the ground.
A seagull, pirate bird of the sky, buffeted by Antarctic winds,

stays aloft, balanced by wings stretched taut, feathers ruffled,
hungry eyes glued into the deep green of fishing choices.

Mary stands at the edge of the world, her feet,

feel the earth beat, sink into the world beneath the sand:

She is lost in spray and the world’s rumble of ocean
while in the distance voices of children, explore,

explode like firecrackers on Guy Fawkes night,

let loose bright squeals and fiery cries of discovery.

To the rhythm of his happy heart, an early morning jogger

runs along the shore while Jack’s wet hand pats the sand
into a mound the size of a mountain. Grey clouds are gathered

by the strengthening wind so that sand is sprayed, the wind whispers

secrets about the world’s making and the Jack pauses, his nose

sniffs salt, he feels the rain approaching from the south.

Mary, and Jack, together, look out to where the rain falls,

far out beyond the largest waves, out where whales swim.

Silently they clasp hands and wonder — will minor spirits

consent, cart their flesh to fantastic shores?

Could the two of them fly on the wind or sail upon the waves,

find themselves on an island where Elves come out to play?

The spell is broken by their mother’s re-appearance;

she leads them away from the shore and into the shelter of the house.

Mary and Jack eat lunch, devour each grain of their sandwiches,

drink orange juice, listen to the parents talk, their eyes

drawn back to the edge of sand and water, back to the distant horizon,

back to the possibility of that fantastical land just beyond.