Lovely poetry gentlemen, my, we are well-read warriors indeed!
Here's a favourite of mine, a classic Greek piece I hope anyone interested may also enjoy its delightful wit and humour.
It's a bit long, but worth the read! And while, Cylon no.13 was looking where Tux lay down the thread, when he went off on a mission for much needed coffee, I sneak in and cleverly say,"Look! a giant block of cheese over there, cylon"!
A-ha! sweet precious thread, mine, mine, mine!!!!
Homeric hymn to Hermes
The Stealing of Apollo’s Cattle
The maid Maia shook her head, here is
No cattle reiver, my lord Apollo, come and see;
And there was only
An empty cavern.
Wait, there was in the very plush centre
Tiny as a beam of sunlight
In a pinhole, a small
Gold cradle that rocked itself.
My son, said the maid, a true
Lovechild to Zeus;
And indeed there glowed
In the blues and saffrons of the quilts one small triumphant head,
But three days old, said the maid.
And it seemed to the God
The air was filled with the lowing of cattle.
Maiden, he said, my herds are nearby. Where?
The thief was here,
Here he stood, so recently I can hear
Heifers chew their cud and drop dung-
Maiden, said Apollo.
My lord, said the bare truth in her, only Zeus comes here.
My cattle were or are in this cavern.
Lord, is Zeus a reiver?
The God
Was starring at the infant in the cot.
Three days, he said, three days old and
Already a monster.
Wake up, my newest brother
And talk to me.
Take your choice. Speak or
I throw you downstairs into Tartarus.
I see
I do not discommode you, little thief.
He shook the cradle noting
How the child rode it, all the rough and tumble.
So, child, you too are a power. In that case,
Let us speak as equals.
A great voice filled the cavern.
My brother is too kind.
How may we speak as man to man with this
Wet dribble down my chin.
Thunder in Heaven, said Apollo, you could be Heracles
That thumper, said the babe. NO, thank you. Could he
Hide from your all-seeing eye the two cow skins I pegged outside to dry?
My cows, the God whispered, the Sacred Ones.
Who sacrificed when I was born? Said the babe.
With Zeus, terrified of his old termagant, hiding
Us here in the wilderness.
My child, my child, said Maia,
What other sacrifice would have relevance to
A major birth like mine?
What other
Shake the heavens, give us the place a new tilt?
Apollo hung over him in wide wings.
You laugh, Babe, why do you laugh at me?
NO, said the little lad, should a child
Three days old, take on the big loud spoken
Almighties? I haven’t finished my
Disquisition with reference to your kine.
The child sat up. HE
Was quite luminous, already stretched
Far beyond the body.
I thought, said he,
That heaven too should rejoice when I was born.
So I sacrificed your heifers to the Gods,
To the twelve.
Apollo said, I see you want me to state
That we Olympians number only eleven
So the twelfth smoke
Arises for a three-day old, a babe?
Ho, said the child, you shall have your cattle back at once.
My cattle, said Apollo answered, I have already.
Look into your mind, you will not find them there.
The child pondered. That’s a trick, a right one
You’ll have to teach me.
Some say, said Apollo,
With birch and ferrule. Well I’m pleased
In one way to have met you, number twelve.
Goodbye.
You’ll be back, said the babe.
The maiden Maia walked with the God, her face
Was full of wonder.
What can I say, my Lord Apollo?
Behind, in the cave, the earth had begun
To dance, Apollo turned:
A child making the music, from
A shell, a simple shell
(And that was the first string plucked)
I thought you’d be back, said the little one.
All desires pull.
And you want my shell. Here.
The music died, Apollo took the shell
Divining it,
But could not find his way into a tune.
You’ll have to teach me, said he.
Some say, said the babe,
With birch and ferrule. And one must be a God, of course.
Trees do not dance for common people.
O little cattle-robber, would you roast Apollo in the sun?
He laughed, the laughter going forth In thunders that rapped the stone heads of hills
Ad rained in the valleys.
Teach me, little brother, birch
Your sorry elder; but here’s an art I must have.
You have it, said the babe. Now
Quid pro quo, your royal herds for me.
Hey, said Apollo.
The music stopped
So, said Apollo, you can stop me
As simply as that,
While the herds are yours, the gift and the shell
Are mine.
Ah, sighed the great God.
I’ll take the shell.
But tell me, wonder-babe, what will you do with cattle,
They’re no toys, they’re not exactly cradle things, what will you do with them?
Eat them, said the little lad. And grow up, To be like Daddy.
This time however I reserve the twelve
Best portions for myself, for Hermes.
HE said modestly, the youngest and perhaps the
Fairest of the Gods.
(c.700-600 B.C)
Aperitif, anyone?
