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Glosa

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Glosa

Post  mikeschultz on Thu Jan 05 2012, 11:26

Glosa

Here end the works of the sea, the works of love.
Those who one day shall live here where we end,
If ever the dark blood should rise to overflow their memory,
Let them not forget us, the strengthless souls among the asphodels.
Let them turn towards Erebus the heads of the victims.
We who had nothing shall teach them peace.
-- George Seferis Poems
“Mythistorema, XXIV”


What may one imagine of another’s words,
To come upon them unexpectedly
And find them captivating, but not know why they should work that way?
Of all the works between Heaven and Earth, why I should find this verse –
This one verse – among so many to reach out to me?
How is it I show favor above
All others to this poetic translation?
Life is the greatest work the sea has done.
War is man’s greatest work, or so it would seem when we shoot the dove.
Here end the works of the sea, the works of love.

Global warming and dilution of the seas,
The source of life grows toxic and expires,
Invalid like an old library card, lost and never renewed,
And the long way is strewn with the bodies of our many disputes.
For scores of generations back we have fought to gain
The acquired taste of a special blend
Of aggressive self-righteousness and some gall.
Many fought and bled and died for this ground
They pledged their lives body and soul to freedom and stood to defend
Those who one day shall live here where we end.

Justice and revenge, two sides of the same coin,
It’s a toss up as to which we will choose.
In spite of which side comes up in the toss we often choose to cheat.
We’re longer with our instincts than we are with civilization,
And often feel the urge the choke the life from someone,
And why we don’t is a mystery.
And the nature of our human condition –
One “Ah, shoot” wipes out all your “Atta-boy’s” –
Not to make light of such a matter, but throughout our history
If ever the dark blood should rise to overflow their memory

All the good that we have done will stand for naught.
For now is the time if ever it were
When duty’s call is answered and the wind whistles through a ribcage
That sits where he sat so long ago, walking into the mountains
In his final hours to commune with himself and God.
And three hundred Spartans, infidels
To the Persians, were underestimated –
Their slain spirits linger yet in the rocks –
Once proud warriors, whose names are lost, as each tomorrow foretells:
Let them not forget us, the strengthless souls among the asphodels.

Yet while singing, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,”
The young are too numb to protest the wars.
Wars on drugs, wars on anarchy, wars to end wars, and wars for oil,
As politicians promote their careers with the practice of war,
As with war predicated on misinformation.
What have the people but old maxims,
Tropes of honor and forthright integrity,
And a keen desire for a better life.
Yet on the field of broken dreams the poet writes into his poems,
“Let them turn towards Erebus the heads of the victims.”

We stare into the shadowed place of Hades,
Gathered there in fear and trepidation,
Accepting what we cannot change, mere chattel to the ambitions,
Avarice and greed of those who would control the world around them.
Unrest and discord, constant companions to chaos
Born of our disgrace without surcease
As our paying for wars we cannot afford,
A debt the children stand to inherit.
Unlike those who strive for kingship and would own Jason’s golden fleece,
We who had nothing shall teach them peace.


Michael Schultz © March 3, 2010 (1216)


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Re: Glosa

Post  Lucie on Thu Jan 05 2012, 11:43

wow Michael, what a way with words.
it seems we are a world still learning, and yet it is always when we have nothing that we truly see what is worth valuing.
Tis' only when we are are at the brink, that we discover humanity and evolve for the better.
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Re: Glosa

Post  mikeschultz on Tue Jan 17 2012, 14:58

Thanks for your understanding words.
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