The Catalogue

The light cutter is not usually counted,

The diplomat’s runner, the drape of the raptor,

The shrill of the raptors in diplomats’ rooms.

Seaworthy with her puffed mockery,

Worthy only of green sea, then, but so worthy.


The patroness watched that merchantwoman skip,

And hummed with curled lip about silk bales and mist

Of her power that could propel them.


The first of the kings’ ships is very knowing.

She knows every flaw and beats them all up,

But still doesn’t know what to do

Except lie and laugh on familiar sand

Between spear-carrying jokes…


They view singers with suspicion there, but love them.


That Salamonian ship will, if bound for Troy

For the learning and burning, return via Cyprus,

Then maybe out north, out west, out and crying.

God, they fight as they cry there,

They cry as they dance, shedding what they glug.


Paler sails, darker ropes, and blooded rigging shadow them,

The tearsongs clang on shields of Myrmidons.


Slighter figure, seems much taller, eyes that draw and fillet dolphins,

Smaller number, seems much sharper, voice of murderous melody,

When the Myrmidons are marching, or afloat upon the sea,

See the vanquisher the bearer, see the purer, fairest sins.


See that eye survey the landing – see it see its colleagues slack –

There a king of rapid pity, there giants’ lewd sorority –

See the lip curl on the wine-glee, as hands draw the casket back –

Achilleus, she’ll have none of warming charity.

And the arms of Thetis’ bairn can caress and can convince

And the smile of Thetis’ child congeals as an appeal dies.


True, the train is newly started, and will be unravelled,

In a fit of starts, a route of delays, a slew of necessary songs,

And there will yet come Diomed, and that grey opera-star,

Idomeneo, and Ulysses, she will be quite overbooked,

Small red, long black, Ithaca, London, here

We stay and stay the distance.