John Nimmo

    On first looking into Fagles' Homer

Much have I dreamt, beyond the wine-dark skies, 
of radiant suns, and interstellar mists
from which our world was born, lives on, and lasts
until, the white-hot fire unquenched, it dies.
But when in dreams Homeric realms arise,
my thread of thought then snarls; its strand congests
with fibrous ancient words. The text exhausts 
my ear, until Fagles' verse unties
this knot -- as if I, barefoot, stood today
below ragged cliffs on Ithaca's strand.
Like clear-headed Armstrong, his lunar stay
at end, rocks stowed, his dream achieved as planned--
as earthbound eyes begin to turn away, 
he feels the gritty moondust on his hand.