An apple arc’d toward Kleitos; whose great King
wroth & of wine did study where his sword,
sneaked away, might be . . .
with swollen lids staggered up and clung
dim to the cloth of gold. An un-Greek word
blister, to him guard,
and the trumpeter would not sound, fisted. Ha,
they hustle Clitus out; by another door,
loaded, crowds he back in
who now must, chopped, fall to the spear-ax ah
grabbed from an extra by the boy-god, sore
for weapons. For the sin:
little it is gross Henry has to say.
The King heaved. Pluckt out, the ax-end would
he jab in his sole throat.
As if an end. A baby, the guard may
squire him to his apartments. Weeping & blood
wound round his one friend.
(John Berryman)
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Based on Topics: Friendship Poems, Kings & Queens Poems, Gold Poems, Sin Poems, Wine Poems, Babies PoemsBased on Keywords: sore, cloth, sole, toward, sword, apple, wound, weeping, guard, throat, crowds