diary livejournal fossils
When you see this, post a poem in your journal
Polyphemus at Morning Richard Threadgall
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