Thursday, August 24, 2006

Off Mycale Peninsula

Gliding on forgiving green deeps,
Oars dipping in silent tattoo,
The warship to battle, it leaps
From seven to eleven knots. Crew,
Captain, and pace drum are urging—
The oarmen thunder with groaning—
Eleven knots tightens the turning—
Eleven knots from the sea foaming.
Rowers nigh dead lick salt from their lips,
The sweat and the lash lend life to their grips.
Calluses break driving water behind,
Mouths mutter curses on captain and kind.
Faster by far than death should arrive.
“Faster lads! Ramming speed! Drive!”

by Evan Wilson


Wolfgang Foxglove said...

Has a nice sort of Robert Browning feel to it, which can't hurt anything.

The Anti-Darwin said...

What's Greek for "Arrhh!"?

J said...

Evan, I don't mean to be a discouragement, but I enjoyed this one.


The Oracle said...

What have I wrought!!?

Josh said...

This must be a poem about the Highland Regiment trireme that served in the Peloponnesian War.