I love this translator and poet named Guy Davenport,
who translates a lot of Greek.
And he did this fantastic translation
of the Greek warrior poet, Archilochos,
who served in the Greek army but was also
a devout critic of the Greek government.
Which blew my mind, because it couldn't exist today
in that same way.
So I tried to sort of adapt Archilochos into this poem.
"Archilochos."
"There is a sergeant who bends the notes
to his life on a kettle drum.
What he calls love, I call kriegspiel.
Gah.
I've tasted his kind of workmanship
with the klaxons, his showmanship under klieg lights.
His name should be spelled like a criminal broke
through the wall of it.
A name like Sergeant Petraeus.
Literally, a country that can't quit pissing out kidney stones.
But don't you wish his Grossmutter was possessed
of the balls to name him something like,
here come the lions?
And she'd call out his name like his name is an x-rated splatter
film, and she'd drip-paint his name on the terra incognita.
Wherever her grandson's pink flag wasn't staked,
staked on his map of the world circa 1510.
Meanwhile, I work eight jobs.
Gah.
I have no leave, zero maternity.
It's with poetry I bring down the state.
It's me, not him, nor him, nor her,
nor him, who will make this country famous by dying here.
With my weapon, I breaded my family.
Blotto I slept with my weapon.
Weapon I out-berserked the berserkers with.
Gah.
I knelt inside your war and I chugged.
I chugged.
But I won't tar the Republic's children.
Not for all the unspent drachma in their trust funds.
Gah.
I won't confetti their graves.
Not when their children tell me their unborn head lice,
their forthcoming handfuls of dandruff,
are worth more than my spear.
Republicans are liberals too, I'm afraid.
And there's no such thing as a trust fund
kid on the battlefield.
All this country has left in common with me.
This jawbone of an ass.
Gah.
This country that lived how I lived, and it'll
die how I'll die, with my tongue in your mouth
like a buck in the swear jar.
And yes, I've heard them calling me names like ancient latrine.
I'm full of the kind of mealy, malnourished shit they
say that's unfit for labor, unless labor
means landing your name on the government watch list.
But pretty soon, forget warrior.
They'll have to start digging me up and calling me sergeant.
And dollar after dollar after dollar will you listen to me
cuss."