30 lines
968 B
Markdown
30 lines
968 B
Markdown
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%title As seen in Kakiphony's journal
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%date 2010-03-03 00:50:41
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:diary:livejournal:fossils:
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<strong>When you see this, post a poem in your journal</strong>
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Polyphemus at Morning
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<em>Richard Threadgall</em>
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The blind Cyclops rose, wound clotted,
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To the bleating of his rams--who called
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To the cloth-dyer Aurora, day, day.
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He crawled in his cave, clutched Greeks;
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Wine-pots splintered beneath his palms--
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The blown-glass dark between Sicilian pines
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Bleached, colored, and bubbled up toward blue.
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And his goats, greedy for sunlight
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And the white Ausonian glare, bleated
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And drooped their ticked ears while he counted--
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He missed the ropes; his bleeding hands
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Were two mauled despots stumbling under chains.
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Dry wind salts his forehead, and his flock
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Stamps down through the herd-paths, unburdened.
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So was that savage chastened. Yet here am I,
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Who will ever be master of you--and while I sleep
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You look at the olive log, but never free me.
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