Athena
Pallas shutters at the spear’s end,
Stricken by a calloused lover,
Instant grief, Athena’s dear friend,
Anguish hovers.
Blacksmith god with hobbled trotter,
Cannot console lest his heart’s known,
Desolate loss, “Triton’s daughter”,
Goddess alone.
Carved in wood with sharpened cleaver,
Aegis worn though not for hubris,
Shield from fear, a destined griever,
Vacant justice.
These are times of men archaic,
Hearts of women ignored and shunned,
Complications made prosaic,
Truths are darkened.
I wrote this poem about a tragic moment in Athena’s life, of which there were many. It is in the form of a Horatian ode, written in quatrains of alternating rhyme composed of three lines in Trochaic tetrameter followed by a line in dimeter. The goddess’ heart is far more complicated than surficial readings of Classical mythology reveals. But the subtext—as with all matters—is where truths hide.
