Selected Poems [antikvár]

THOM GUNN THE WOUND The huge wound in my head began to heal About the beginning of the seventh week. Its valleys darkened, its villages became still: For joy I did not move and dared not speak; Not doctors would cure it, but rime, its patient skill. I lay and rested as prescription said. Manoeuvred with the Greeks, or sallied out Each day with Hector. Finally my bed Became Achilles' tent, to which the lout Thersites came reporting numbers dead. I was myself: subject to no man's breath: My own commander was my enemy. And while my belt hung up, sword in the sheath, Thersites shambled in and breathlessly Cackled about my friend Patroclus' death. I called for armour, rose, and did not reel. But, when I thought, rage at his noble pain Flew to my head, and turning I could feel My wound break open wide. Over again I had to let those storm-lit valleys heal. 7 ¦I n', And constantly my mind returned to Troy. I After I sailed the seas I fought in turn On both sides, sharing even Helen's joy Of place, and growing up — to see Troy burn — As Neoptolemus, that stubborn boy. ft !