He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: "What is it you see
From up there always? -- for I want to know."
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time: "What is it you see?"
In the story of Patroclus
no one survives, not even Achilles
who was nearly a god.
Patroclus resembled him; they wore
the same armor.
Always in these friendships
one serves the other, one is less than the other:
is always apparant, though the legends
Reason says, “ I will beguile him with the tongue.”; Love says,
“Be silent. I will beguile him with the soul.”
The soul says to the heart, “Go, do not laugh at me and yourself.
What is there that is not his, that I may beguile him
He is not sorrowful and anxious and seeking oblivion that I
may beguile him with wine and a heavy measure.
The arrow of his glance needs not a bow that I should beguile
the shaft of his gaze with a bow.
He is not prisoner of the world, fettered to this world of earth,
Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought
countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send
hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs
and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the
day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first
fell out with one another.
And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel? It was the
son of Jove and Leto; for he was angry with the king and sent a
pestilence upon the host to plague the people, because the son of
Atreus had dishonoured Chryses his priest. Now Chryses had come to the
You left me with the autumn time;
When the winter stripped the forest bare,
Then dressed it in his spotless rime;
When frosts were lurking in the air
You left me here and went away.
The winds were cold; you could not stay.
You sought a warmer clime, until
The south wind, artful maid, should break
The winter's trumpets, and should fill
i was eating breakfast
when the morning sun warmed my skin
it was then that i belatedly realised
my skin wasn't tanned anymore
it no longer glowed in the sunlight
the last after a long string of
things i have lost in the past two years
i suppose, after all it's been
a catastrophic two years
i think i understand now
you used to say
you would date
just for the companionship
and i had you back then so i didn't understand
i said i did but i really didn't
not until we drifted apart
and i struggled to find an excuse
The beautiful melody of her words
Slowly drift away while I’m lost at sea.
Sailing alone, surrounded by silence,
But even that, in time, departs from me.
Dark whispers slowly creep into my mind,
Whispers that transform into a chorus
Singing a sweet symphony of sadness,
About what could and should have been, for us.
[after Madeleine Thien]
Do not tell me we have nothing. We have dew linking lithe
dandelions at our feet, steeped lavender and sugar rising to the
sun like champagne flutes. Suckled honey rolling through ground
away from home’s watchful eyes. We have whispered tongues lifted
from linguistic baggage, treasured remnants of our intertwisted
lifelines continentally knotted. Frantic mapping, path westbound,
flights rushed to lulls with in-betweens where you teach me
how to laugh. We had heads shaken loose against gritted teeth,
Softly as she tumbles
Quietly as she treads
Through those hollow rooms
That live inside her head
Memories, they've escaped
Years she cannot feel
Stripped away from someone younger
Not remembering what is real
For some, this bears no burden
Certainly it bought some peace