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Vol. 36 No 3-4
Greek Poetry: New Voices and Ancient Echoes

Spring 1999

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Timotheus

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From: The Persians

Salamis


At once with the splash of neighbouring oars 
they gouged the sea, 
putting grin of lance-head round their bows, 
then buckling heads they rushed
to battle, turned and slashed 
at outstretched, pinewood arms. 

With a bench-rending blow the crew 
tumbled or the facing shoreline snapped 
the combs of shivering pine. Persians... 
binding gunwales with hemp, 
ships slipping under sea and iron 
ramming their sheen of glory. 

Thong-wrapped 
shafts of fire flew, 
drizzling, sizzling down 
mid arms and legs, 
quills whirling in air 
and a blinding toss of unfathering stone,
a hecatomb of eddying life gone 
under, and the emerald-coiffed sea, 
its green furrows reddened by rainstorm 
of ship-blood, war-cry and dirge-song, 
boats barbarian routed back 
mid the fish-garlanded lap 
of Amphitrite, her scale-glancing folds. 

But here a man from Phrygian land, 
a lord from the place of the day-long journey, 
ploughing the sodden expanse with his feet, 
drumming his hands, a bobbing mark 
for swirling waves, an islander now, 
outwrestled by wave-lash, 
spits brine and heckles godfather sea: 

'Pinch my last breath, 
Persian or Greek [ ] went pale [ ] 
ring of ships [ ] Mede-slaughtering 
[ ] plashing oar-track.' 

Then winds veered off 
to fight on elsewhere 
letting rain of no Bacchus down, 
frothy spume whirling, 
gliding down his gullet, 
back-washed brine overcoming 
surfeited lips, wheezing shrill 
and mind distraught he cursed 
and gnashed his jaws, storming 
at the sea his body's ruin: 

'Your raucous neck once wore a yoke 
of hempen chains and now my king, 
my king will stir your bottom 
with mountain pine 
and fence within his roaming troops 
your floating meadows, you, 
hysterical with sting of horsefly, 
treacherous wench of the wave-running gales.' 

He spoke, overcome with coughing, 
belching up mouthfuls of froth, 
deep-drawn, salt-wavy tumult. 

Barbarian ships rushing back 
in flight over the sea's neck, 
their mountain-stilts slip 
from oar-hands or, struck in the mouth, 
their white-gleaming brood is shaken out, 
and the star-pricked sea
swarms with the soulless bodies of men, 
coastline swollen with corpses, 
while others sit ice-naked 
on the sea-washed strand 
with breast-bashing, tear-gushing howl, 
bound in lament, again and again 
to their fatherland: 

'O tree-wreathed mountain Mysia 
take me from these carrying gales, 
else home-town will not have my body [ ] 
wish my lord [ ] 
not bridged his way to Hellas, 
that far and final roadway. 
I'd never have left Tmolos then 
nor Lydian Sardis to face Greek Ares. 
But now sweet refuge where 
from death? Troy-straits alone 
gave hope. If I could fall 
at Mountain Mother's knees, 
the black-leaved robes, 
clasping lovely arms: O Gold-crowned goddess 
mother I beg you free me, 
save my life, 
else someone skilled 
at neck-aiming steel will kill 
or shipwrecker Northwind, marching 
in columns over wave-crest
with night-whistle; the savage wave 
has shorn my body's sheath, 
a pitiful feast for flesh-eating birds.' 
And so they went on weeping. 

Then some iron-swinging Greek passed, 
seizing a peasant of fertile Celaenae, 
orphaned of his weapons, up by the hair, 
he turns, grasps Greek knees, 
weaving Asian and Greek together, 
confusing the message of his mouth, 
tracking down the Ionian tongue: 
'How you me speak and what? 
Back here no come. 
Master brung me 
this place now. 
No more, sir, 
no more come back to fight again 
but sit. 
I no come here I 
stay thither Sardis, Sousa, 
Ecbatana home. 
Artimi big my god 
watch over me 
in Ephesus.'

Translated by Avi Sharon

Page(s) 244-247

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