Greek Gods

When they tell you it's only a myth,

don't believe them.

When they say, oh yes, it does exist,

but as a relatively late settlement,

some vulgar Hellenistic town

shallowly buried in rough ground,

an unmade bed under a coverlet,

don't suppose it's all.

Schliemann came to this hill

in order to show that his boyhood

and Homeric Troy had both been real.

His proof of the child was identified

with knife blades of silver, spear tips of bronze

(their shafts had reverted to earth),

with soft gold calmly insisting

on feathery diadems like owls.

Ironically, the hoard was preheroic.

Missing Homer's tough city,

Schliemann found and founded his own.

Death, the tall duchess patiently waiting at Naples,

seemed trivial once he'd seen

that briskly successful businessman

becoming a mere negation, a husk,

concealing a robust boy.

Troy turned out to be many-layered,

a lavish birthday cake.

That level where Schliemann stood face to face

with himself at last had been burnt,

its rich crunchy texture containing

charcoal, blackened bricks, bones.

Each Troy is always liable to fall.

But don't suppose this is all.

You'll have to plunge deeper,

descend even steeper paths

past dark blue strata, millennia,

and forget that sleekness of weapons,

those conveniences of wealth.

You'll want to plummet gently

but unerringly like amber in water

down to the first Troy, a slow

forgotten village where people

kept goats and gathered green walnuts

and nothing much ever happened,

get back to before the beginning, transcend

eras of flaming cities

or stupid adulthood.

I am Circe,

turn my profile only,

feather and beak,

eye like this island

marking the middle

of round brilliant seas.

Mistress of disguises,

I play any games

but prefer my own.

No son will succeed me

and strong must be that woman

who practises my art.

I take lovers, teach them

what they most need

and least want, then release them.

My father is Helios,

his fire in my veins.

Mortals move like children.

Catch me if you can,

I'm a kestrel,

rise in bright spirals.

Accept that the dead

have covered their faces,

lost their clear voices,

yet wield powerful

influence, a current

which the skipper fears.

Daughter of daytime,

I've also learnt dark

lore, how descent

becomes a ladder needed

in order to ascend.

The lost ships take you home.

Surrounded by blueness

this cliff is my queendom

where shadows die at noon.

I'm Circe the Knower,

glide in shining circles

to survey my world

It was her parents, she said.

She felt sorry for them:

they were so dead.

The double vision,

visor and razor,

white and gilded mask

or severed head

floating where land

and water touch.

He shouted 'Eurydice! Eurydice!'

down green tunnels in spring.

There have been kings like gold masks,

impassive and bearded.

I always watch them sinking,

out of sight.

Loving brushwork