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Son of Telamon.

Son of Telamon

   Sick with fear by the blood hole,
   I saw fighters dragging 'round
   their gory combat gear, each one
   craving recognition, sympathy,
   so many of them still amazed,
   going through the dark.

   Here came one, an old friend, slowly,
   whispering now in a voice I used to know,
   coming to plead that I set up his oar
   atop a cairn along the beach,
   in memory of a simple man and the good work
   he used to do in the waves.

   Then my mother came, my mother
   remote among the houseless dead, those ghosts
   that hung about in silence by the blood.
   I cried for her--the futility
   of my embrace down where all was only
   the negative image of what used to be.

   Then the Rock Thrower came, Son of Telamon,
   standing apart, bemired and bemused.
   Even here, though I called to him by name,
   Alas would not speak to me and turned away
   and went back deeper into Erebos.
   Who would ever call him by his name again?
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Article Details
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Author:Foy, John
Publication:New Criterion
Article Type:Poem
Date:Feb 1, 2007
Words:170
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