Homer

you said you wished
you could have been back
there in the time when
art was a true trade
and songs were
for supper made
ah, yes, to feast then
when that blind bard would stand
and lift his hand over
the table spread with all its beasts
and from hexameter arise, arise,
arises heroes, gods, and mighty deeds

and how when the voice
grew soft, the song too long
spun out upon the further flights
of mythic reveries the pagan revelers
would belch and shout the poet down
to dog-like hunt humiliating scrap

oh, but how, when he comes
to tell of the true hero
the cunning word-wrangler
and his strong son fastening the doors
upon this greedy horde
and their greasy lord
and the sharp barbs flying
then how his gaze must have gleamed
bright as Ulysses' sword.