%title As seen in Kakiphony's journal
%date 2010-03-03 00:50:41

<strong>When you see this, post a poem in your journal</strong>

Polyphemus at Morning
<em>Richard Threadgall</em>

The blind Cyclops rose, wound clotted,
To the bleating of his rams--who called
To the cloth-dyer Aurora, day, day.

He crawled in his cave, clutched Greeks;
Wine-pots splintered beneath his palms--
The blown-glass dark between Sicilian pines
Bleached, colored, and bubbled up toward blue.

And his goats, greedy for sunlight
And the white Ausonian glare, bleated
And drooped their ticked ears while he counted--

He missed the ropes; his bleeding hands
Were two mauled despots stumbling under chains.
Dry wind salts his forehead, and his flock
Stamps down through the herd-paths, unburdened.

So was that savage chastened.  Yet here am I,
Who will ever be master of you--and while I sleep
You look at the olive log, but never free me.