Greek Chorus

(strophe I)      Stand up out of darkness:
the nectar cup, the moment
of despair, the wind over
desert, the withholding
of rain, the wine-
stain on the hand lifting
the bronze lip
into the face of dawn.
     There, horrible,
mute gouts of blood
of gods and men spilling
the horizon.   No more
than an egg broken, the ruptured
yoke of suffering light, the misery
of cyclopean sun.   That head,
tallowed on a foreign shore, stalked
by foreigners.    There,
where murder wrapped each
morning in titanic arms, we
murderers (murdering
instruments in regimental lines) disembarked
our ships.
     O Hellas, land
of Homeric candor!   We, killers, subduers
of wild, free horses; slayers of round-
eyed strangers; marched out of darkness, ‘round
the belly of a painted
stallion.
     THE
nectar cup!   THE
perfume of poison!   A perfect,
a most fatal passion.   Behold!
And her name
it is Helen.   And for her,
for this Helen,
we are dead and clear
up to here, to our throats
in slithering blood.

(antistrophe I)

Who is that screams?
Who is that screaming?
Stranded, stretched out
over the storm-
wrecked seas.   Naked, nailed
to flailing winds.   Who?
Who is that
whose eyes are clouds
of trouble.   Who is that
whose mouth, mouth is
blackened as a terror blackens
the ears that hesitate to listen?   Here
is a tale to be repeated; the senseless
drunkards senseless prattle, spun
about a mast and pierced
by awful vengeance.   Still, artfully spoken.
Horror!

(strophe II)

     Oh.   I would say to tomorrow
and the thin lipped smiles of all
who greet us: See,
the hero has returned from the grave!
How he moves
between shadows like a knot
of ruined leather.   No wine now,
soldiers.   No more tunes.   No laughter.

(antistrophe II)

Who would, you owl eyed
daughters of Achaians, let her hold her own
tender children against the stone
of her milk-wet breasts.   Who would,
let him dare, with the purpose
of a dagger, to wear this
godforsaken, contorted mask.
Or the seaman’s faded cloak, eaten
by the ravages of ancient violence.

(strophe III)

     I tell you, they are home! Returned. Horrible!
With that dread look that breeds
the monologues of tragedy tattooed
on their faceless faces.   Cracking
us like rotted fruit in the hot
breath of Mediterranean Hyperion.
And here it is, a course toward winter,
beyond September,
in the stinking grunt and wrack of rain.