The Glory That Was Greece, The Grandeur That Was Rome #3

Here is part three of what is turning into my most challenging project. If i succeed at finishing 8 or 10 more, i will use these to apply to an MFA (Masters of Fine Arts) program. God knows if i'll get in. For those who know nothing of the story of Diomedes this should help: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diomedes. Like all my poems, this one has already undergone serious revision, and will continue to until i either forget about it or die. The ends of stanzas two and three are particularly deficient. Nevertheless, i think the final two stanzas particularly poignant. As Paul Valery writes, "A poem is never finished, it is only abandoned." In all seriousness, your criticisms and or encouragements are most appreciated. The more feedback i receive, the stronger my presentation will be for the MFA committees.

Diomedes:

When i was young,
My Father sung
Me the formula for Immortality,
And i grew with its praises on my tongue.
"Serve only the gods," he sang,
"And etch for yourself a name.
Trust what just, and die, if you must
In battle, then you'll have your fame."

I am old now,
Waiting to die--
Bedding sheets and cold for company,
A pillow where once a helmet lie.
I pray you Muse. Pray against the twilighting bright
To enchant this solitary poem of mine;
Or a solitary word, or solitary me.
Was war, now paper ink begging the help of the Nine.

I remember the deep things and strong words,
How, once, i treated death coquettishly.
How i half-wished, i'd not half stepped,
But full stride teased out recklessly.
I'd not the strength of anger,
Nor the virtue of a son,
Yet i am Diomedes forever!
Toughed it through cleanly--untouched, and won.

Or are these just disconsolate dreams,
Flaky, withered legs kicking the sheets?
Have i died slow, conquered by cotton,
A man, next to none in all his feats?

And this harpist they keep sending to sooth me,
I hear only portent whispers in the tones,
Strummed omens, of visions,
Of wan bodies in drones.
Can i say that saying it never says the thing,
Say the stink off a corpse is much nearer the truth?
And all the while the harpist propped in his chair,
Singing at a dying man in need of proof.

When it comes,
When i die,
Will the high gods remember me,
What if they don't? What if? And I...?

"To glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome."--Poe

the K.H.