Summer 1959 • Vol. XXI No. 3 Poetry |

Andritsaina Revisited

The bus driver from Megalopolis had washed his arms in wine, Karytaina castle dropped from sight behind his elbow, and we saw Arcadia, eager to set up as new the picture village of the mind from my forty-mile-a-day young-manhood, a place of arbors and window-boxes. But between times, andartes and Nazis had played their games with it. There's something in a bony hill town sucking on the blood of its past that holds the inwards of you like a cold hand. We then, lords of our little dollars, dried in the mouth over the goat chops, best these people could skin off the stones of their slopes; and the pretty inn was gone somewhere unmentionable. At what was left we slept, and grumbled. Next day was given to Apollo's house on the Bassai of the gray hillside, since not one tourist ever went to Andritsaina for Andritsaina. It's the antiques. And George, the drunken guide with the flower over his ear, told us returning how, where we walked, resisters had stood the prodottes

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My Uncle

By Richmond Lattimore

The bus driver from Megalopolis had washed his arms in wine, Karytaina castle dropped from sight behind his elbow, and we saw Arcadia, eager to set up as new the […]

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