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Invocation: Talking with the Muse
Poet: Tell us, muse, of Troy's dark days;
of the House of Priam's fall;
of Hector, the old king's bravest son,
killed at the Trojan wall.
Sing of his daughter, the priestess Cassandra,
Apollo's tragic seer;
sing of the fate she prophesied
that the Trojans refused to hear.
Muse: Stories told of gods and men
still echo in your ears,
ancient voices drifting down
vast corridors of years.
Poet: Sing of their brother, the shepherd Paris;
sing of the bride he stole —
Helen, wife of the Spartan king —
who yielded her heart and soul,
abandoning home and family,
all for a handsome face.
Tell us, muse, of the Greek ships launched,
avenging the king's disgrace.
Muse: Homer, Virgil, Aeschylus,
Ovid, Euripides —
listen! No one living's heard
voices as great as these.
Poet: Sing of Achilles, the fiercest warrior
to sail from the isles of Greece;
of Ithaca's shrewd Odysseus,
who fought, though he longed for peace.
Muse: Words repeated many times —
what is left to tell?
Let the heroes speak themselves;
ask the gods as well.
Poet: Tell us again of the wooden horse;
give us an ageless rhyme
of heroes and battles, of meddling gods,
and a city lost to time.
But this is evil, see! Now once again the pain of grim, true prophecy
Shivers my whirling brain in a storm of things foreseen.
— Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 480 B.C.
Cassandra's Chant
I,
Cassandra, see it all —
the horse's belly swarming with Greeks,
our city's fall
in fire and blood,
a bitter end —
before it happens,
again and again.
This hated gift — my second sight —
brings images struck with Apollo's light
unbidden to my inner eye;
my mind, the prison where I must watch
my people die
before it happens,
again and again,
in fire and blood —
a bitter end.
What good are the oracles to men? Words, more words, and the hurt comes
upon us...terror and the truth.
— Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 480 B.C.
Trojan Chant I
O daughter of Priam,
princess,
priestess,
farsighted sister of Hector,
release us
from ominous portents,
your visions of doom,
prophetess,
pythoness,
voice of the tomb!
Be silent,
Cassandra;
your prophesies grieve us.
Calamity chanter,
dark oracle —
leave us!
O daughter of Priam,
princess,
priestess,
farsighted sister of Hector,
release us
from ominous portents,
your visions of doom,
prophetess,
pythoness,
voice of the tomb!
Paris... Eloped with a young bride, seduced her, stole her,
Which opened a long war against the Trojans.
A thousand ships and every living Greek
And their allies set sail.
— Ovid, The Metamorphoses, Book XII, 8 A.D.
Aphrodite Explains Everything
Truly, I tell you, the Trojans' fall
had little to do with a wooden horse.
If my fellow Olympians hadn't conspired
with mortals to turn aside love's true course,
then true love would conquer, peace would reign,
and Troy would be standing. Let me explain:
When Paris, the handsomest man in Troy,
met Helen, the fairest woman in Greece,
they fell madly in love — what else could have happened?
Sadly, she couldn't obtain her release
from a marriage arranged by those heartless Fates;
now Helen's the woman all Greece hates!
King Menelaus, her powerful husband,
was ruler of Sparta, was a vengeful man
who called on his neighbors to help him recover
his chattel — his wife. The bloodshed began.
Helen, who'd slipped through his fingertips —
Helen, whose face launched a thousand ships
across the Aegean to high-walled Troy —
was the innocent pawn in their ten-year war.
The conspirators — Hera, Athena, Poseidon —
attacked and harassed me, because I swore
to protect the doomed lovers — what else could I do?
If not the goddess of love, then who?
It is the gods' relentlessness, the gods', that overturns these riches, tumbles Troy
from its high pinnacle.
— Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II, 19 B.C.
The Apple of Discord I
Eris (Goddess of Discord) Speaks
Lofty Olympians
like to exclude
lesser immortals
who aren't imbued
with the kind of power
they so admire.
Still, I'm a goddess,
and I require
certain courtesies,
a little care and concern,
but the gods are hardheaded;
they never learn.
So I came, uninvited,
to the sea queen's wedding
and threw a gold apple
far out on the spreading,
goddess-strewn lawn.
Inscribed, "for the fairest,"
it caused a commotion —
weren't they embarrassed
to squabble that way?
Hera, Athena,
and vain Aphrodite,
tugging and pulling —
what high and mighty
hypocrites! They claim
I'm the foul one!
They think they can blame
my wedding surprise
for the horrors at Troy,
when they are the guilty ones —
they who destroy,
who sacrifice heroes,
Earth's glorious sons,
like bulls on an altar —
brave, innocent ones.
To their lasting shame,
they let Troy burn.
The gods are hardheaded;
they never learn.
There's something else I want you to give thought to — whether you'd like the gifts I can offer in
return for your vote. You see, Paris, if you decide on
my favor, I'll make you lord of all Asia.
— Lucian (Hera speaking in The Judgment of Paris, Dialogues of the Gods, Book XX: 10-11), 160 A.D.
The Apple of Discord II
Hera Speaks
Sunlight revealed it, a gleam in the grass,
a shimmering apple. I watched it pass
the immortal throng as it streaked my way,
swift as Apollo's fiery ray,
guided, it seemed, by his golden hand —
exactly as Eris, Night's daughter, planned.
That Aphrodite's a brazen one;
before I could reach it, she'd already swung
her foot out in front of me, halting the course
of Eris's apple, which struck with such force,
it injured her heel, and it served her right!
She wasn't, however, the least contrite,
insisting, instead, the apple was hers.
She argued with me, the Thunderer's
own wife — his queen! How could she dare?
Her insolent manner was hard to bear.
Text copyright © 2004 by Kate Hovey
The captains of the Greeks, now weak with war and beaten back by fate,
and with so many years gone by,
are able to construct, through the divine
art of Athena, a mountainous horse.
— Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II
Trojan Voices
Overheard at the Wall
What are they building?
What is that thing?
A battering ram?
Scaffolding?
Could it breach our wall?
What have they done?
Cleared the whole forest.
Look, they've begun
to lash those fresh-cut planks —
white pine —
in giant circles.
Strange design.
That dog, Odysseus —
it's his?
Of course.
That piece over there —
the head of a
horse?
A gift for the gods?
A peace offering.
What are they building?
What is that thing?
They weave its ribs with sawed-off beams of fir, pretending that it is an offering
for safe return. At least, that is their story.
— Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II
Greek Voices
Overheard Outside the Camp
What are we building?
What is this thing?
A trap, they say, for capturing —
the citadel?
It can't be done.
They'll pack us inside it?
Not me.
You'll run?
The Trojans aren't stupid.
We don't have a prayer.
They'll pack us inside it?
Pitch black.
No air.
That dog, Odysseus —
it's his?
Of course.
Who else could convince us
to build this —
horse?
They'll pack us inside it —
quit grumbling!
What are we building?
What is this thing?
Then in the dark sides of the horse they hide men chosen from the sturdiest among them;
they stuff their soldiers in its belly, deep
in the vast cavern: Greeks armed to the teeth.
— Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II
Final Instructions of Odysseus
Diomedes, raise your torch —
comrades, look inside.
Behold and marvel. Memorize
each plank. This place we hide
will bring about our victory
and seal the Trojans' doom
or cause our deaths. Mark it well;
this horse may be your tomb.
You captains — Thoas, Acamus —
take your men down first.
Pyrrhus, pass the wineskins out;
we'll need to quench our thirst.
Watch your rations; make them last
all day and through this night.
Keep helmets on, swords at hand,
in case we need to fight.
If they suspect our hiding place,
they'll flush us out with fire.
Aias — use your mighty ax
to free us, if this pyre
goes up. With luck, we'll see our homes
again. We'll hold our wives.
Goddess, in your gracious hands
we place our hopes, our lives.
Hail, Athena! We praise your gifts —
skill and discipline.
Bow your heads, men. Give her thanks
before we're shut within.
She just might save our skin.
And all of Troy is free of long lament. The gates are opened wide.
— Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II
King Priam's Messenger II
My king, the Greeks are gone.
Their camp's unoccupied;
their hollow ships, withdrawn,
unnoticed, on the tide.
I tell you, sire, it's done —
Greek ships have all withdrawn!
A shout rang out at dawn;
the gates are opened wide.
My king, the Greeks are gone —
come see — our people don
bright robes and roam outside.
Greek ships have all withdrawn —
I tell you, sire, we've won!
This joy is justified,
my king. The Greeks are gone,
their hollow ships withdrawn!
Gladly we go to see the [Greek] camp, deserted places, the abandoned sands...
here fierce Achilles once had pitched his tent;
and here their ships were anchored, here they fought.
— Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II
King Priam
Ten years ago I stood upon
this barren shore beside
my wife and watched my wayward son
returning with his bride.
The evils Paris brought with him
can never be undone.
Our silver beach ran black with blood.
No potent shaft of sun
can bleach it clean; no blast of wind
can banish it; no rain
or cleansing lash of tidal wave
can wash away the stain.
Twenty years ago my sons
hurled rocks into the sea
and charged the surf, imploring me
to join their revelry.
I watched them play from this same spot,
a memory I cherish.
Back then, I never thought I'd reach
this age; I knew I'd perish
long before those sturdy boys.
Then came the Greek attack.
Now nothing gods or men can do
will bring my children back.
Two months ago I stood right here,
inside the tent of one
I hated; on my knees, I kissed
the hand that killed my son,
my Hector, shining light of Troy.
I begged to be allowed
to bring his battered body home.
They wrapped him in a shroud.
Brutal Achilles lifted him
above the wagon's wheel
and set him on its wooden bed,
then offered me a meal.
He talked in halting, quiet tones,
of life and death. We wept,
remembering the ones we'd lost,
before we finally slept.
We never spoke another word;
I left before the dawn.
Within a week Achilles died.
Today Greek tents are gone
and Troy rejoices. Still, I can't
forget his stricken face,
the way he held my lifeless son,
the horror of this place.
Some wonder at the deadly gift... marveling at the horse's bulk.
Thymoetes was the first of us to urge
that it be brought within the walls and set
inside the citadel.
— Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II
A Trojan's Plea
What are we waiting for?
Haul the horse in —
what do we care
of its origin?
It's ours to claim;
the Greeks have gone,
scuttling home
to their scheming spawn.
Wind it with garlands
our women plait;
parade through the city —
celebrate!
So many years —
at last, we win.
What are we waiting for?
Haul the horse in!
Those with sounder judgment counsel us to cast the Greek device into the sea,
or to set fire to this suspicious gift.
The lead is taken by Laocoön.
He hurries from the citadel's high point
excitedly; and with a mob around him
from far off he calls out....
— Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II
Laocoön, Priest of Poseidon, Speaks
Trojans, have you lost your minds?
What wild insanity,
to drag this horse inside our walls —
you'd trust our enemy?
What makes you all so certain
the Greeks are gone for good?
I promise you, there's treachery
shut within this wood.
Ask yourselves, is this the way
that fiend Odysseus acts?
Take his gift; you'll pay the price,
but when his crew attacks,
don't say I didn't warn you.
Don't look for Laocoön
to help you when Greek soldiers torch
your houses — I'll be gone.
And as [Laocoön]...spoke he hurled his massive shaft with heavy force against the side, against
the rounded, jointed belly of the beast.
It quivered when it struck the hollow cavern,
which groaned and echoed.
— Virgil, The Aeneid, Book II
Inside the Wooden Horse
A netted fish
my water gone
must suck what little air's
remaining drenched
in sweat and darkness
formulating prayers
inside my head
no god can hear
no power from on high
will reach inside
this stinking hole
lift me to the sky
god lift me sky god
let me breathe
hold me in the light
lift me hold me
help me please
make it through this night
please make it stop
this din of death
clanging in my ear
inside my head
this din of death
I don't want to hear
please make it stop
don't let me feel
what echoes in my brain
pulsing to each swallowed moan
wet murmurings of pain
god help me sky god —
can't you hear?
Stop this awful flood!
The warmth I feel
beneath my heart, please,
let it not be blood.
Text copyright © 2004 by Kate Hovey
