This blog ran for more than two years with no graphics--and it received about 50 page views. I was advised to add graphics; after seeing the huge public that followed blogs dedicated to homoerotic images, I decided to use that kind. The result was a dramatically increased number of monthly page views, and the number has remained fairly steady. Most of the images were found on the internet; although they are assumed to be in the public domain, they are identified as far as possible. They are exhibited under the Fair Use protections of United States copyright law: their function is simply to attract readers to the poems--I receive no economic benefit from them or from the blog. Nevertheless, they will be removed if they are copyrighted and the owner so desires.

Thursday, May 15, 2014


For Richard, dead these thirty years; 
and for Emory, who never knew   

Under the aegis of the Lyceum,
with its always freshly white-washed columns,
lantern, and lilac-painted clock
that shows that, apparently, time has stopped,

They come (whose great-granddaddies spurred,
whooping, their horses through the hallowed doors)
to pose beneath the trees, dusty and beautiful.
White thighs flashing on the Green expose,
to other eyes than those of love,
Olympian splendor in the grass, almost
a nude Déjeuner dans le Grove.

“Isn’t this just like living in a magazine?”
said my friend Emory one day,
from the venerable School of Law’s
high portico, and I agreed.

Into the seventeenth century
the Parthenon survived intact
until, in one of the Med’s interminable wars,
a shell fell through the air and burst
upon that most unstable of charges, black
powder, they had stockpiled there,
and the Pan-Athenaic chivalry of Greek youth     
blew everywhere. 
                                 Well, they say,
nothing is staler than last week’s news,
and even this generation will pass away.