Joe Dolce: ‘Helios of Rhodes’ and ‘Muse-Wrestling’

Helios of Rhodes
for Peter Schipperheyn

 

Its sculptor, Charles of Lindos,

took his own life when shown                       

a single flaw on the brow of                          

Helios of Rhodes.                                          

 

Thirty metres high it towered

much taller still it rose                                   

than the bronze Zeus at Tarentum,                

Helios of Rhodes.                              

 

A brilliant skin of brass plate shone, 

with iron bars for bone,                                 

upon white marble pedestal,                          

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

Two hundred thousand rivets joined 

iron and brass to stone,                                  

reforged of molten battle-swords,                 

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

All Greece hailed the handsome God,

bedecked with cloud and gold,                      

oculus of the haloed Sun,                               

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

Go Pyrios, go Aetheon,                                  

Phlegon, fair horses, go,                                            

let us stand and gaze awhile, sang                 

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

The Fire-darting steeds withdrew,                

the Fire Wagon rolled,                                   

and left the Horseman on the hill,                  

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

Once, Phaeton set the earth on fire,               

his Father’s Carriage stole,                            

rebellious Son turned his back on                  

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

Mere Father and Son argument,                    

still, no one could have known,                     

Earth and Heaven would soon forsake          

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

A quake cathartic clenched its teeth,             

and bit through precious Rhodes,                  

the tremors and the trembling sought

Helios of Rhodes.

 

O Sister Moon, Selene, my love,                    

O lift me to your cold!                                    

Her pale skin dissolved against                     

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

O Sister Dawn, give me your touch,              

hold me, darling Eos—

the rose-cheeked girl, too far to reach           

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

Come Pyrios, O come Aethon,                                   

fair Phlegon and Aeos—                                

his Solar Steeds, wild, would not heed          

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

Though legs were cast, out-stretched, to last, 

filled to the hips with stone,                          

the body snapped at knee and groaned,         

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

The great plates shifted, the arms fell,           

the rivets gave and broke,                              

the sore joints shattered, standing there,        

Helios of Rhodes.               

 

The fragments lay upon the isle,                    

abed with moss and mould,                           

for eight long centuries, it slept,                    

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

When Muslim wave overwhelmed Rhodes,  

scattered bronze, broken, sold,                      

nine hundred camels carried off,                   

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

All brilliant praise and victory’s day,            

of pomp and glory’s gold,                             

turned dark defeat and merchant scrap,         

Helios of Rhodes.                  

 

O laurelled Poet, there on high,                     

in Oceanus’ Grove,

take pause and contemplate the fate:             

Helios of Rhodes.

              Joe Dolce

 

Muse-Wrestling                           

Starting as a mere arm wrestle,

differences quickly escalate,

to chokeholds around a cliché,

flipping it, like a back-on-its-turtle.

 

Quickly, squared off on hands and knees,

Prose braces itself; Poetry

hunches over the diagrammed

spine; referee slaps the mat, grunt and tug

                                                                             

explodes in collar-and-elbow,

face-and-heel, and a double turn,

Prose is lifted, then a head drop,

into a pin, a kick-out frees meter.

 

Poetry, dazed from its blown spot,

has a small cut above a rhyme.

The fighters circle each other,

tired, hunting weakness, or no contest.

 

Verse, bloodied, loses its balance,

tripping on adverbs, a near-fall –

Prose throws an illegal head-lock!

THREE COUNT!—referee lifts Poetry’s hand.

              Joe Dolce