Spring 1955 • Vol. XVII No. 2 Poetry |

Loutsa Beach (On the Coast near Marathon)

Here, where the pillion riders with their bucks sprawl in the pineshade, and the oleanders grow red on the ruins of a house, and boys in trucks ride from the factories to swarm the beach below, the Nazis' squat pill box desperately defends the coast from nothing at all but wind and water piling blue on the sea wall. What thins the sun upon our backs is here and with us, and we brought it with us, and assume the shadow like a towel across our shoulders, peer backward in haste. The giant slept in the next room last night. This is the fear that dried upon the wind after the Persian bones were shucked in holes and sunken under tons of stone. July and banners of the blown coast wheel stormily up to dare the northeast and the night dimmed in the cities of our brain, burst in a peal of brass and bravery; but what makes the wind so bright is still that thin, that real terror that turned the Germans green and made them break a house apart to guard what no one wished to take.

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My Uncle

By Richmond Lattimore

Here, where the pillion riders with their bucks sprawl in the pineshade, and the oleanders grow red on the ruins of a house, and boys in trucks ride from the […]

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