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488 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 90

There stands a wood, full of long years and bentThe opening description of the forest is wonderfully evocative, but each of the last two sentences quoted requires an endnote for the modern reader:
In sturdy age, it foliage never shorn,
Not pierced by any sun; no winter’s cold
Has shrunk it and the south wind has no power
Or northern gales that buffet from the Bear.
Below lies shrouded quiet, and an awe
That’s nameless guards the silence and a pale
Ghost of light banished gives an eerie gleam.
Nor lacks the gloom a god. Latona’s cult
Is present in the grove; her effigies
In cedar, pine and wood of every tree are hidden in the forest’s hallowed shade.
Unseen her arrows whistle through the wood,
Her hounds bay in the night when she has fled
Her uncle’s portals and resumes afresh
Her fair Diana’s face, or when the hills
Have tired her and the sun in high noon heat
Invites sweet sleep, with all her javelins
Planted around her and her head inclined
Upon her quiver, here she rests at peace.
her effigies: The daughter of Latona had three divine manifestations: as the Moon, as the huntress Diana, and as Hecate, the chthonic deity of magical arts.These allusions to myth are pretty dense in some sections of the poem – they’re almost never self contained narratives like the story of Vulcan and Venus in The Odyssey, but mere hints or pieces of stories whose full understanding requires turning to Vessey’s extensive endnotes.
her uncle’s portals: The uncle is Dis, lord of the Underworld and of the dead.
Eurytion fell more cruelly, his left eye
Gouged by a three-barbed arrow’s cunning point.
Arrow and eye together he ripped out
And charged his foe. But what can they not do,
The gods’ brave weapons? In the other eye
A twin wound clinched his darkness. Even so, by memory he kept his shocking course
Till he tripped on Idas’ prostrate form
And fell. The wretch lay writhing there amid
War’s savage slaughter, begging friend and foe
For death.
Their loud shouts echo from Ambracian shores.
The leaders and their men swam through the flood;
thirst leveled them; there was no sense of order,
no way to separate the mingled ranks.
Horses hauled chariots or dragged along
their armored riders; some were carried off;
some slipped on glistening rocks; none were ashamed
to tread on kings the current swept away
or trample drowning friends who called for aid.
The rapids roared. Far from the river’s source,
the channel that was formerly translucent—
a slow, green stream of crystal pools—now swirled
with mud stirred from its depths, with chunks of bank
and clumps of loosened grass and sod. Men drank
the silt and flowing filth, although their thirst
had ended. You would think you saw armed ranks
in righteous battle, raging in the torrent,
or conquerors consume a captured city.
A little they delayed, exchanging threats,
but doing so, grew vexed. Each stood erect,
uncovered his bare shoulders, then attacked.
The Theban’s step was faster, his reach long,
and he was fresh in years; but Tydeus had
a soul and heart as large, and greater strength
owed through his smaller body to his limbs.
They aimed quick jabs head-high, redoubling blows
around the ears and temples, flurries thick
as flights of arrows or Rhipaean hail,
then bent their knees to pummel hollow flanks.
Not otherwise than when the games recur
at Pisa, where they honor Jupiter,
and the dust burns with crude, hot sweat of men,
where youthful athletes are made violent
by squabbles in the stands, while, shut outside,
their mothers wait to hear who wins the prize,
just so, these hotheads clashed, and, quick to hate,
had no regard for praise. They sank their nails
deep in the other’s face and naked eyes.
Surely—what won’t rage do?—they would have bared
their side-borne swords, and you, young Theban, would
have fallen—and been better off, mourned by
your brother—had the king, astonished by
the strange commotion in the dark of night
and harsh cries from deep throats, not taken steps.