Aeschylus, mourning his brother

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Brother, are we known yet
by our scars?
or by the small voices we have raised to hearten
others to taste these small morsel’d words?

yes, we have been forged by the same gods
who choose us, and now we are
purged of our tender meekness,
we are surely due our conceits
leading so purely from Prometheus’ dim breath

why should we, I ask,
still fear these lesser gods who cheer us 
our each broken bitter step,
they
mock us
with their effete threats,
deny us dance and music and verse,
and of the fruit that was never meant for us

for all their piety,
they drink, perhaps, or tempt us with 
their envenomed chalice,
and sing with us
and fight with us;
are we to become their tarnished adornments
as they witness our foulest desires? 

we swallow each of our solitary breaths
and we, breathless, exclaim a certain cowardice
t’wards death.
No, I plead, not that least deed,
No, my brother, you are not that man

brother, with each considered step taken
I beg you, please awaken
now
as I stretch my limbs upon this planked stage,
to bleed, to serve our noble philosophies –
these badly displayed indignities
of heroes, of men, as common as we,
to remind them that
we are too mortal, and such tragedy befalls us by
failing
against
our common foes:
ourselves, our gods, our fate to witness  
our weary’d children watch us fail,
our swords not doused with our antagonists’ blood,
to beg great Victory
to kiss us quickly, each of us,
even in defeat as
we will timely lose to death’s fevered rages

but, brother, who will call another actor
to calm these words
to step between the worlds and
to petition the rages of the chorus?

is this us, brother,
can this be us?
What do they say of us
that we have not heard?
Our tragedy will be told
tenfold as I grow older and you do not,
the things that they say of us
that we have not already heard of us

we are celebrated in the Ancient City now,
more well-spoken than before,
the costumed ghosts speak to me deliberately they
speak to me eloquently they
speak to me and they

all wear your voice.

oh brother, Euripides has not forgotten us.
He implores me to tell more tales
but I fear there are no more.
I have left Marathon behind me
and the Furies have brought me to this place.
May murder and devastation
Never come to tear this city, I said with all my truth.
Ah, but a tired man can be forgiven in time
for his ignorance and his youth.
We both know the Eleusinians were wrong,
we have that to enjoy between us.

oh my good brother,
Gela has called my name.

brother, are we known yet
by our scars?
I have not heard from you lately
and I know we have each traveled far.

, published on 08 March 2015 under the following license: CC BY-NC-SA

Published by

Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

23 thoughts on “Aeschylus, mourning his brother”

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