The Elder Seer Of Olympia Poem by Joseph S. Josephides

It's not Cassandra's naked cry, “Troy is being subjugated”,
Nor is it Tiresias' howling, “alas, bad is the fate of Thebes.”

The elder seer has a secret, he foresees misfortunes,
stays speechless, his wrinkles like subterranean rivers
his body warps, his breathless chest leans into his ribs,
his fingers grab his cheeks, mourning. Trice alas…
his unchanging glance forebodes us the rumble thunder,
the unsuspected storm in the haze of lull.

The stillness of waiting ends is over, he hears rumbling:
the drama of Oenomaos, the fortune of Hippodamea,
faces the drunken evil raping the good-and-virtue,
Centaurs dashing over the fine bodies of Lapithides.
The skilful Apollo and Theseus support, anxious to see
Perithus if he saves Deimadea from the lewd Aevrition.

The earthquake jolts him, the young aside doesn’t hear,
whistles carefree and fumbles with the toes of his feet.

He foresees the decline of Olympia, tinted in blood,
swordfights, foresees the young ones to leave Greece
for a parade in Rome of Sylas, Macedonian generals
self-smudging with fragrant oils in Asia, he foresees
the fair play falling off a game, the kotinos* a windfall.

“Phoebus is searching for a hut”, his eyes mourn
pleading for a quake from above to shatter a spring
for the lost speaking water to outburst for us.


© JosephJosephides