The Catalog of Helens οἶνοψ πόντος I. Homer never spoke of the wine-dark sea. At least, not literally. Looking out upon Poseidon’s horsey space, The blind bard sang instead of ocean’s wine-like face. Homer may not have ever looked at a wine-faced sea. At least, not literally. II. He was blind, after all, whether he’d displeased a lord, Or been born eyes closed, mouth open, to fill a word-hoard. It’s said color is only the object’s outermost visible shell, Which is just as well. We needn’t see to know that ferment is trouble and storm, That an ocean of war should be wine in metaphorical form. III. This is a song of wandering eyes, of unseeing deeds under blinded skies. Penteconters have faces and painted eyes, Each could be Helen in gaudy disguise. The men inside them thrust and stroke each oar, O sing for the sons of Atreus, who wage war for a whore. IV. Keep your weather eye on the eye of the sea, Each ship sees more than Homer ever did, or me. Homer never looked at the wine-faced sea. At least, not literally. He had no face, after all, no visage or beak of which to speak. He the bard who made one from a hundred races, He the scóp that launched a thousand faces.
The Catalog of Helens
The Catalog of Helens
The Catalog of Helens
The Catalog of Helens οἶνοψ πόντος I. Homer never spoke of the wine-dark sea. At least, not literally. Looking out upon Poseidon’s horsey space, The blind bard sang instead of ocean’s wine-like face. Homer may not have ever looked at a wine-faced sea. At least, not literally. II. He was blind, after all, whether he’d displeased a lord, Or been born eyes closed, mouth open, to fill a word-hoard. It’s said color is only the object’s outermost visible shell, Which is just as well. We needn’t see to know that ferment is trouble and storm, That an ocean of war should be wine in metaphorical form. III. This is a song of wandering eyes, of unseeing deeds under blinded skies. Penteconters have faces and painted eyes, Each could be Helen in gaudy disguise. The men inside them thrust and stroke each oar, O sing for the sons of Atreus, who wage war for a whore. IV. Keep your weather eye on the eye of the sea, Each ship sees more than Homer ever did, or me. Homer never looked at the wine-faced sea. At least, not literally. He had no face, after all, no visage or beak of which to speak. He the bard who made one from a hundred races, He the scóp that launched a thousand faces.