The Argo, by Konstantinos Volanakis (1837–1907).

Mad and meandering mindlessly, I
Sleep now beneath her hull;
Despoiled, disintegrating,
Sinking into sand.

Share with me your bread,
Your fish.  A little wine?
In return for tales of Argo in her glory:
To Colchis and away she bore me
With my companions.

They laugh and jeer;
This is not she – nor are you he!
But tell us, once again, old man
Of Calais and of Zetes
Or of lion-robed Herakles.
A story!  While we mend our nets.

Mad and meandering mindlessly, I
Tell – nowhere now to travel, but into wandering dream –
Of Atalanta, of Hypsipyle,
Of Medea, before she became a bitch;
Of what was
Or of what might have been.

Peleus and Atalanta wrestling, black-figured hydria, c. 550 BC
Medea about to murder her children
  Ferdinand Victor Eugène Delacroix (1798 -1863)   Medea















Johann Christian Reinhart
Hypsipyle and Opheltes-Archemoros

Author: Uisce úr

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

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