December 14th, 2011




It was not their war, but it was a chance
to fight a war and show the race of men
what they need showing time and time again
that Amazons can pace that blood-pulsed dance

better than any. They came to the war
tall slim fair killers, trained for sixteen years.
Archers and foot and twenty charioteers
who did not care what they were fighting for.

Greek poets claim Penthesilea died
Achilles killed her, kissed her dying face
made her a warning -women keep your place.
She never fought him, and the poets lied.

Swept the field clean for one short brutal day
killed all who fought them, laughed and rode away.

Last Troy poem


The goddess came and saved him once again.
We had him and his son, knives at their balls,
down, sweating. Then a voice like struck brass calls
out of the air. Our king had killed our men

taken one generation to the wars
and killed their sons for hanging round his wife.
I wish I had been quicker with my knife.
He hanged my daughters, said that they were whores.

The island dies. No one to guide a plough
sow seeds, make pots, bake bread. We will grow old
and starve. He has not even brought home gold,
just death. That's all that Ithaca grows now.

Athena guards him. Otherwise our king
would be dead meat, not one of whom men sing.