The HyperTexts

POEM IN FOCUS

Every month in The HyperTexts, the poet, critic and our contributing editor, Martin Mc Carthy, selects and comments on a poem, old or new, that has attracted his attention.

Poem in Focus, July 2025:

After the Persian
by Louise Bogan

I

I do not wish to know
The depths of your terrible jungle:
From what nest your leopard leaps
Or what sterile lianas are at once your serpents' disguise
      and home.

I am the dweller on the temperate threshold,
The strip of corn and vine,
Where all is translucence (the light!)
Liquidity, and the sound of water.
Here the days pass under shade
And the nights have the waxing and the waning moon.
Here the moths take flight at evening;
Here at morning the dove whistles and the pigeons coo.
Here, as night comes on, the fireflies wink and snap
Close to the cool ground,
Shining in a profusion
Celestial or marine.

Here it is never wholly dark but always wholly green,
And the day stains with what seems to be more than the
      sun
What may be more than my flesh.

II

I have wept with the spring storm;
Burned with the brutal summer.
Now, hearing the wind and the twanging bow-strings,
I know what winter brings.

The hunt sweeps out upon the plain
And the garden darkens.
They will bring the trophies home
To bleed and perish
Beside the trellis and the lattices,
Beside the fountain, still flinging diamond water,
Beside the pool
(Which is eight-sided, like my heart).

III

All has been translated into treasure:
Weightless as amber,
Translucent as the currant on the branch,
Dark as the rose's thorn.

Where is the shimmer of evil?
This is the shell's iridescence
And the wild bird's wing.

IV

Ignorant, I took up my burden in the wilderness.
Wise with great wisdom, I shall lay it down upon flowers.

V

Goodbye, goodbye!
There was so much to love, I could not love it all;
I could not love it enough.

Some things I overlooked, and some I could not find.
Let the crystal clasp them
When you drink your wine, in autumn.

Commentary by Martin Mc Carthy

This fine poem by Louise Bogan explores themes of art, time, change, memory, and the poet's experience of life as a creative artist. 

In stanza II, she makes it clear that she was always conscious of time, the harsh changes that come with it, and the inevitable winter that awaits us all in the end.

I have wept with the spring storm;
Burned with the brutal summer.
Now, hearing the wind and twanging bow-strings,
I know what winter brings.

Then, in stanza IV, she suggests, rather fatalistically, that the creative artist is given specific areas of interest that he or she feels compelled to write about (at the expense of others) in order to gain the wisdom necessary to shed that burden in this lifetime.

Ignorant, I took up my burden in the wilderness.
Wise with great wisdom, I shall lay it down upon the flowers.

So, with that task achieved, there is a strong sense in the closing two stanzas that the poet is looking back on her life and work and trying to evaluate honestly how she fared. But the words and the melancholy tone of these stanzas register a feeling of regret for being unable to love this world enough because there was simply too much in it to experience it fully. So she inevitably made her choices from what she found and saw, even though she knew there was still more, overlooked and untasted in life's crystal glass.

Goodbye, goodbye!
There was so much love, I could not love it all;
I could not love it enough.

Some things I overlooked, and some I could not find.
Let the crystal clasp them
When you drink your wine, in autumn.

This poem is reflective, powerful and compelling. It is also, I might add, one of the truly great poems of the 20th century.

Louise Bogan (1897-1970) was an American poet, translator, and literary critic. She was appointed the fourth Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in 1945, and was the first woman to hold this title. She was the poetry editor of The New Yorker from 1931-1969. Bogan received numerous awards, including the Bolligen Prize from Yale University. She died in New York City, in 1970, aged 72.

Originally published in The New Stylus



Poem in Focus, June 2025:

He Lived: Excerpts from “Gilgamesh”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I.
He who visited hell, his country’s foundation,
Was well-versed in mysteries’ unseemly dark places.
He deeply explored many underworld realms
Where he learned of the Deluge and why Death erases.

II.
He built the great ramparts of Uruk-the-Sheepfold
And of holy Eanna. Then weary, alone,
He recorded his thoughts in frail scratchings called “words”:
Frail words made immortal, once chiseled in stone.

III.
These walls he erected are ever-enduring:
Vast walls where the widows of dead warriors weep.
Stand by them. O, feel their immovable presence!
For no other walls are as strong as this keep’s.

IV.
Come, climb Uruk’s tower on a starless night—
Ascend its steep stairway to escape modern error.
Cross its ancient threshold. You are close to Ishtar,
the Goddess of Ecstasy and of Terror!

V.
Find the cedar box with its hinges of bronze;
lift the lid of its secrets; remove its dark slate;
read of the travails of our friend Gilgamesh—
of his descent into hell and man’s terrible fate!

VI.
Surpassing all kings, heroic in stature,
Wild bull of the mountains, the Goddess his Dam
—She bedded no man; he was her sole rapture—
Who else can claim fame, as he thundered, “I AM!”

Commentary by Martin Mc Carthy

These six extracts from “Gilgamesh” are part of the prelude to this great epic poem, and are in essence an introduction to Gilgamesh himself - his world, his personality, and his past deeds that have brought him great renown. So what exactly do they tell us?

In Verse 1, we are told that Gilgamesh visited hell and was familiar with underworld realms and dark places, and that the tale of the “Deluge”, which he heard there, gave him his first real sense of man's mortality. (This is a very important detail in terms of the overall narrative of the story.)

In Verse 2, we find that he built the great city of Uruk and erected a beautiful temple to Eanna. Then he made his own deeds immortal by meticulously recording them on stone tablets.

In Verse 3, we are told that Gilgamesh's walls (his constructions) are “ever-enduring” and that no other walls can hope to match them.

In Verse 4, the poem's translator gives us an absolutely exquisite stanza that depicts the tower of Uruk on a starless night, and also mentions the goddess, Ishtar, who attracted many lovers but treated them badly.

Come, climb Uruk's tower on a starless night -
Ascend its steep stairway to escape modern error.
Cross its ancient threshold. You are close to Ishtar,
the Goddess of Ecstasy and of terror!

In Verse 5, we are told that Gilgamesh's epic tale, when it was finally written, was preserved for posterity in a cedar box with bronze hinges, and also that his “descent into hell” forms an integral part of the tale to come. Interestingly, Gilgamesh seems to be both narrator and hero of his own story, shifting between the past, the present and the future, as he writes.

In Verse 6, our hero is synopsised against the backdrop of his fame, his heroic deeds and a goddess who yearns for him, in another exquisite stanza.

Surpassing all kings, heroic in stature,
Wild bull of the mountains, the Goddess his Dam.
She bedded no man; he was her sole rapture.
Who else can claim fame, as he thundered, “I AM!”

Presumably, “I AM!” in the last line is a short way of saying “I am King” or “I am King of all I survey.” But this translation by Michael R. Burch is so sublime that he rarely misses an opportunity to suggest other meanings through the sheer power of language. In all, these six extracts from “Gilgamesh” are beyond good.

“Gilgamesh”, from which these extracts were taken and loosely translated by Michael R. Burch, is an epic poem from ancient Mesopotamia. The epic dates from c. 2150 – 1400BCE, and is considered the oldest epic in the world.

Originally published in The New Stylus



Poem in Focus, May 2025:

Lament to the Spirit of War
by Enheduanna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You hack down everything you see, War God!

Rising on fearsome wings
you rush to destroy our land:
raging like thunderstorms,
howling like hurricanes,
screaming like tempests,
thundering, raging, ranting, drumming,
whiplashing whirlwinds!

Men falter at your approaching footsteps.

Tortured dirges scream on your lyre of despair.

Like a fiery Salamander you poison the land:
growling over the earth like thunder,
vegetation collapsing before you,
blood gushing down mountainsides.

Spirit of hatred, greed and vengeance!

Dominatrix of heaven and earth!

Your ferocious fire consumes our land.

Whipping your stallion
with furious commands,
you impose our fates.

You triumph over all human rites and prayers.

Who can explain your tirade,
why you go on so?

Commentary by Martin Mc Carthy

“Lament to the Spirit of War” is the very first anti-war poem, and a very appropriate poem to publish right now, when wars are still raging all around us, and eventual victory seeming likely to go to those with the best weapons. But in this poem, it’s abundantly clear from the very first line and its strong disapproving tone that this Sumerian poet/priestess does not approve of warfare, or war gods, and all their barbaric acts of destruction:

“You hack down everything you see, War God!”

Then she goes on to describe the scene, the violence raging like a tempest, as the pawns of those in power “rush to destroy the land”. Not only does Enheduanna describe the destruction, but she directly names the very source that motivates it all:

“Spirit of hatred, greed and vengeance!
Dominatrix of heaven and earth!
Your ferocious fire consumes our land”

and how powerless right-minded people, endeavouring to enact “holy rites and prayers” feel in the light of all this violent, senseless tyranny.

Finally, she concludes her poem by asking, with Zen-like calm, what any passionate anti-war protestor, confronting the very same atrocities and horrors in Gaza and Ukraine would ask today:

“Who can explain your tirade,
why you go on so?”

What a truly remarkable poem this is! How timeless and relevant Enheduanna's words are! And how little has changed in over 4,200 years, when it comes to those who willingly serve the dark gods of warfare, who are still with us today!

Enhedaunna was the High Priestess of the goddess Ianna and the moon god Nanna. She lived in the Sumerian city-state of Ur (modern day Iraq) over 4,200 years ago, and is the earliest known poet ever recorded.

Originally published in The New Stylus.

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