Begin with only this: desire—desire
To do this thing that snatched away my gaze,
When young, and spun it skyward to the fire
They say is great Apollo's gift of days.
I raise my arms, but there is none to see
A man, too old for games, who lofts the bronze
Against the pale Corinthian sky when he
Is all alone, the hour before day dawns.
Ah, how I loved the discus when a lad!
The man as still as marble Herakles,
As though no limb, no muscle, ever had
An end but one: to strike the very skies.
A stirring, then, as if the stone would waken!
The hips begin to twist, the foot advance.
In motions men since games at Troy have taken,
He surges in the spinning, sacred dance!
The gods love men who win the agones.
I felt Nemea's call but did not go.
To train like that a boy so poor agrees
To wager life upon a single throw.
For me, Apollo's dawn is just as bright
Today, the discus smooth upon my skin,
The breeze upon my nakedness as light
As if the gods were murmuring: Begin!
Now, all I am must flow into these hands.
I gaze as from some inner eye and see
Not cliffs, nor waves below, nor salt-white sands,
But just that moment when the disc flies free.
Perhaps one day this discus could be hurled
From those great cliffs that rise above the beach,
And fly the ceaseless winds that whip the world
To seas and shores that I will never reach.
Though none recall the man, the deed, the time,
A boy, just glancing up in future days,
To read the hour in the sun's slow climb,
May see my discus, flashing in its rays.
Copyright ©
Walter Donway, all rights reserved