The Myth Of Er Poem by Peter Black

Ten days I lied in the field nearly dead.
Struck by a blade, an honorable death;
Yet, no blood ran from my wound soon it healed.
Apollo, laid his light over my corpse,
Perfumes such as anointed Patrochlus,
Stilled rot preserving my soul's weak vessel;
Though uninhabited awaiting me.
The Gods held the strings to my destiny.
Burial rites were settled and granted.
My father brought me into the city.
I know not of the course I took as man.
Yes, honored the Gods, fearful of their wrath.
Of virtue, my possession I speak not.
Sober and brave in the armies I fought,
Like a trained lion squatting in the bush,
On signal towards the target I rush,
Due to guidance; I have no strong resolve;
Nor care for high honor and courtly pomp.
At home my servants and family saw
I was no ruler, not a king at all.
I desired the recluse of closed doors,
Quiet conversations alone with kin,
Not public discourses and orations,
Discussing what might, what could be the truth.
I cherished stories told of my father,
Tales of demigods and haughty swordsmen.
From youth these soldiers I modeled always;
But never was I for greatness destined
(Shaping man and the world by my actions,
As brave Achilles on Trojan plains fought;
Nations swayed by the murder his blade wrought)
Only a witness of Heaven's workings.
Perhaps I, in touch with the cosmic fields
Between the firmament of Earth and Sky,
Bellow in the demes of dark Tartarus;
My sensitivity to these aspects
Deemed me, by the Gods, perfect prophet
To foretell death and the Grace's kingdom,
Instill a fear of earthly sin in man;
For it does not stay in the body dead.
Like a strong perfume, no, odor it blends
Throughout the ether covering our souls.
Into afterlife it surely goes.
On the twelfth day I rose from the pyre
Beginning to tell of all my visions.
When my soul and body separated
With a great host I journeyed in the wind.
Uncontrolled, our movements drifted like clouds
Caught by gusts, flying together in bands.
Us stopping in a region we knew not.
Seeing four pathways two by two aligned.
Two bellow on earth, two above in sky.
Assigned each gateway a noble judge was,
Bidding the righteous up and sinful down,
Just, to the right with tokens on their neck.
Abase, left and down with marks on their backs.
Every man was seen true in his death.
Both good and bad were equally given
Times in the underworld and the heavens.
Men, ponder how heavy the body weighs
On a soul, pulling its loftiness down,
Stained by a life filled with sinful actions.
Dirty is its essence once pall removed,
Full of repressed guilt and thick residue
Built up after every injustice.
This is what man wears during his judgment.
As the Roman generals, naked came
Before the forum and crowds ill possessed
Of all the materials riches bought,
None of the tidings God Plutus, granted.
Only harsh scars of war merit grant them.
Thus man's soul, open is given ruling:
Time abundant for his dirty courses.
None but the heavenly chosen remove
To the peaceful island of the blessed.
Earth's highest souls barely escape rule
In Hades', kingdom paying pertinence.
Outside the portals souls in camps discussed
All they have seen now before they must leave;
Like wayfarers from the road take relief,
Recalling their journeys and many deeds;
Having in Hell paid or Heaven enjoyed
Long repentances or short happiness.
There I heard one ask of Ardiaeus,
A great tyrant in the most distant past.
Some said they doubt him exiting the mouth:
Calling and bellowing at unfit souls
Moving towards the lips chancing escape.
This they saw in horror before cleansing,
Or as they awaited their instructions:
(I only chosen to watch and retell)
Rising souls quelled by fiery phantoms,
Inflicting woundless pain and punishment,
Flaying the ghosts, dragging them in ditches.
These men are called incurably wicked.
Chained head, hand, and foot forever branded
As the worst men on earth and souls in hell.
All joined together in lament of wrongs,
Sung loudest by those bound to Tartarus.
Men, consider the Tyrant, his life spent
Inside Injustice's hall. His life sick
With murder, hatred and the liars trust.
Forever is he in the underworld.
The wayfarers rested for seven days
But on the eighth, rose and quit the meadow,
Journeying five days they came to a light
Rising as a pillar from earth to sky.
When Aurora through mist the sunrise brings,
Shedding her light over vapor and dew.
Men see prisms of vibrant red and blue;
Yet, that shaft all colors visible beams
Far brighter than our earthly rainbows seem.
Afar, here all points of heaven extend.
Near resembling what men call a whorl.
In which is set a second lesser size.
Third into second and fourth into third,
Four others inward laid, eight whorls combined.
From above the rims form perfect circles,
Seen from bellow only one large, round ball.
The rims were differing slightly in width:
First being largest, next the sixth and fifth,
Third was that of the fourth, close in sizes,
Seventh like the third, eighth as the second.
The first was spangled: a star blazing sky,
Second and fifth were yellow in color,
The third shining pale and empty above,
Fourth holding a dim shade of Ares' hue,
Sixth was second in whiteness to the third,
While the seventh excelled all in brightness,
Casting its glowing light on the eighth rim.
The outer whorl spun on necessity,
But the seven inner rims turned reverse.
Eighth the fastest, next seven, six, and fifth,
Fourth was next returning in on itself,
Followed then by the third and last second.
On each rim a siren stood emitting
One sound, one note, together comprising;
All in concord a single harmony.
Inaudible to our deaf and blind ears
Is the thundering music of the spheres.
And there were three who sat at intervals:
Lachesis and Clotho and Atropos,
On their thrones; daughters of necessity,
All singing in tune with the eight Sirens.
Clad in white vestments and filleted heads:
Lachesis, singing of things in the past,
Clotho, of happenings now unfolding,
While Atropos, sang of man's future state:
Three prophetic Goddesses called the Fates.
Clotho, clockwise turned the eighth whorl by hand.
Atropos, counter spun the inner bowls.
Lachesis, would lend a hand to them both.
Now I, the soul to watch and understand,
Then begin to explain death to humans
Saw on arrival to Lachesis, went
The whole band to her by a prophet led.
Who then betook the lots and pattern lives
Off her lap cautious of the flesh divine,
Speaking in her stead a voice more worthy
For man. Never can she cease her singing.
‘Souls living for a day now begin life
Where your birth and death are both emanate.
Once again in mortal generation,
No God shall place you in a noble path,
Nor deem you to root in the mud alone.
You all will see, choosing your destiny.'
Thus spoke the prophet tossing out their lots,
Laying out infinite amounts of lives:
(One to a soul yet myself forbidden)
Animal and human varieties,
Tyrannies lasting to natural death,
And those ended early by assassins;
Lives reputed for beauty and bodies,
Strength, prowess and noble ancestry.
Lives for men, and yes, also for woman.
Both good lives and bad lives tossed together.
‘Those last to choose have same rites as the first.
Good and bad are both laid out abundant.
Your human character once shall make choice.'
After the prophet spoke the first lot came,
Quickly choosing a tyranny for wealth,
Forgoing the speaker's advice to search,
Taking time to examine the whole life.
That soul after reviewing beat his breast
(For he was fated to eat his own kin)
And blamed the Gods morning his hasty choice.
He was in the past virtuous at times,
Living in a well ordered polity,
Next as a free soul in purest heaven,
Never having studied philosophy.
Him alike most coming down from the sky
Were caught by inexperience to pain.
Contrary those from earth were suspicious,
Being cautious from a life of heartache.
Ridiculous was the choosing of lives.
For I watched them decide by their natures.
Orpheus, selected the singing swan,
Rather an animal than woman born.
Thramyras: the life of a nightingale.
Similarly song birds became poets.
Telemonian Ajax: the lion.
Agamemnon, the soaring eagle took.
They held a loathing for the human race,
Both strong characters suffering by it.
Atlanta an athlete and Apeius:
He entered into womanly crafting.
Such were the various combinations,
Though many more from the souls did emerge.
Last Odysseus, arose with his lot.
Wisest of men matching Nestor,
Tossed away a fresh life of ambition
Searching for a simple life of hard work,
Where he would neither muddle, nor matter.
He smiled saying he had picked rightly.
When the selection of lots had ended
The souls were marshaled before Lachesis.
She sent with each a guardian genius
Whom brought them under the hand of Clotho,
Ratifying their lots and decisions,
Then went before the spinning Atropos,
Having their destinies set forever
In a web unbreakable as heaven.
Our souls passing bellow the whorl's rim and
The immortal throne of Necessity,
Were bid to journey through Oblivion:
Barren plain, boiling in whitest heat;
There not one defining line can be seen.
Before us arose the banks of Lethe.
Those souls thirsty drank until they forgot
Their past; a good measure, and fell asleep.
Awake I saw the lightning and earthquakes
Bellow, the host of souls: shooting stars, break
(Transfigured by a flash of glowing light)
Through the earthly firmaments and awake!
O, Muses, do not leave my singing now.
Clio, now your voice in my throat resounds.
The Fates, have shown me, but my breath is weak.
How I wished the Gods let me touch Lethe;
But, my purpose now to tell still remains:
Life justly lived brings quiet peace in death.
So to you men who still have long to live,
Find joy in the sky and not within man,
Holding righteousness over desire.
For sin will not burn off on the pyre.
Now farewell for the Muses blest my lips,
But for a time and soon I fear it slips.