goatsong

The Seven watch over us even now. Let the Maiden grant us vision. For the way ahead is blessed. Let the Warrior lend us his sword that we do not falter in our resolve. And the Smith...let the Smith bless us with his strength. The Crone lights our way. Ours is the path of righteousness. The Mother gives her comfort. The Father, his protection. And the Stranger...the Stranger offers us rest.

I

Hot through Troy’s ruin Menelaus broke To Priam’s palace, sword in hand, to sate On that adulterous whore a ten years’ hate And a king’s honour. Through red death, and smoke, And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode, Till the still innermost chamber fronted him. He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim Luxurious bower, flaming like a god.

High sat white Helen, lonely and serene. He had not remembered that she was so fair, And that her neck curved down in such a way; And he felt tired. He hung the sword away, And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there, The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen.

II

So far the poet. How should he behold That journey home, the long connubial years? He does not tell you how white Helen bears Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold, Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys ‘Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old.

Often he wonders why on earth he went Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came. Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent; Her dry shanks twitch at Paris’ mumbled name. So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried; And Paris slept on by Scamander side.