Hylas
‘The first ship,
its first voyage:
on its quest for the Golden Fleece
the Argo arrowed
between the dread Clashing Rocks
and landed in distant Mysia.
Off for water went
the handsome young hero Hylas,
the innocent virgin Hylas.
He finally found a rare spring,
a spring with a nymph –
beautiful Erato,
as amorous and voluptuous
as she was beautiful.
While he gazed in wonder at the spring,
she gazed at him,
meltingly,
from under wine-dark eyelids.
Shading the spring
and gentling the breeze
were trees, heavy with
sweet-scented queene-apples,
trees from whose glancing leaves
trance came shimmering down.
All around the pool
a swoon of colour:
vermilion orchids
and silvery lilies
and roses of purple and gold,
stirring silkily, whispering mystery.
Through the pellucid water he stared at
the bed far below, starred with
sard and sardonyx,
jacinth and jasper,
beryl and chrysoberyl –
gems to daze and maze the mind.
Out from the trees stepped
Erato,
murmuring:
“So heavenly, so adorable,
you must be a god.
Are you Eros?
Are you Apollo?
Whoever you are,
be my lovely lover,
let me taste
the flame of your lips.”
Hylas blushed.
He didn’t know what love was.
He didn’t want to know.
A scowl, a shout:
“Get away from me!
Get right away!
Either you leave this place
or I will.”
She left.
Hylas relaxed,
and forgot his task.
He lingered languorous,
plucking coquettish petals,
caressed by their heady, hazy perfume,
and admiring his smiling reflection,
seduced by the spectre
produced by the pool.
Finally he leaned over it
on one shoulder
and lowered his bronze pitcher.
The crystal-cool water
gurgled and giggled inside it.
Erato is back.
Eels an arm around his neck.
Pulls.
And Hylas falls,
a shooting star
flaming from sky to sea.
Eyes -
wide with shock,
slits of desire.
She circles and circles,
grazing his breast,
brushing his thighs,
and attacks,
clutching,
kissing,
inserting,
thrusting.
Hylas surprised by pleasure,
arrested by ecstasy,
god-like,
a god.
His spirit ingested and merged.
drifting, drifting,
shifting shape.
A sudden swan,
it splinters the spring,
soars skyward,
expands and
explodes into starshine
as the constellation Cycnus.’
‘Right. Professor Hall, do you admit that you wrote the poem which we have just heard?’
‘Er, yes I did. Why am I here, please?’
‘Why did you write it?’
‘Well, the Culture Minister said he wanted to foster a literary renaissance and finally provide a venue for British writers in this brave new world of ours, so he was starting up a magazine and calling for submissions to it. I thought that was a great idea, and that poem was my contribution.’
‘That explains why you submitted it, not why you wrote it. Explain to this tribunal what your purpose was in writing that piece.’
‘Well, I was trying to revive a little-known ancient myth and give it novel expression. And bring some colour and brightness, magic and marvel into our drab world of smog, heat and dust. Please tell me why I’m here.’
‘Professor Hall, what you have written is clearly in contravention of Regulation 15 in the Intellectualism Code of 2084.’
‘What regulation? I’ve never even heard of this Code.’
‘Regulation 15. Which expressly forbids the undermining of public morale.’
‘Oh. But how have I done that?’
‘By highlighting coolness, clear water, trees and flowers.’
‘What? Oh come on! Anyway, the, er, the minister encouraged us to write whatever we liked and submit it with total freedom. His exact words.’
‘That was simply a way of enticing subversives such as you into exposing themselves.’
‘But I’m not a subversive. Really.’
‘A patriotic writer would celebrate the beauties of brown and grey. What you have written, Hall, is manifestly intended to arouse discontent and foment an uprising.’
‘No, I –‘
‘Your poem is treasonable. There are some who ignore all our environmental pledges and claim that His Majesty’s Government bears responsibility for the New Normal, and you are clearly aligned with those reactionary forces, and tried to provide support for them with this inflammatory piece of writing. You will yield up your contacts.’
‘But this is absurd. Paranoid. I’ve done nothing wrong, I was just trying to –‘
‘Silence! You are hereby found guilty of producing propaganda against the system.’
‘What? This is outrageous. Completely unfair. You can’t just –‘
‘Silence! His Majesty’s Government will not tolerate terrorists attempting to subvert good order. You will be detained at His Majesty’s pleasure for re-education.’
‘Hey, what happened to a proper trial? Not some kangaroo court?’
‘Sergeant, take that man down…Next case.’
by Paul Murgatroyd
Comments
Post a Comment