Homer’s Iliad: The Poetics of Death

‘Man, supposing you and I, escaping this battle, Would be able to live on forever, ageless, immortal, So neither would I myself go on fighting in the foremost Nor would I urge you into the fighting where men win glory. But now, seeing that the spirits of death stand close about us In their thousands, no man can turn aside nor escape them, Let us go and win glory for ourselves, or yield it to others.’ 12.322-328

kleos: fame; literally: “that which is heard;” sought by warriors and bestowed by poetry; kleos aphthiton: unwithering fame;

Now they came beside the shelters and ships of the Myrmidons And they found Achilles delighting his heart in a lyre … Singing of men’s fame. 9.185-189

Sing, Goddess, Achilles’ rage, Black and murderous; that cost the Greeks Incalculable pain, pitched countless souls Of heroes into Hades’ dark, And left their bodies to rot as feasts For dogs and birds, as Zeus’ will was done. 1.1-6

Sing, Goddess, Achilles’ rage, Black and murderous; that cost the Greeks Incalculable pain, pitched countless souls Of heroes into Hades’ dark, And left their bodies to rot as feasts For dogs and birds, as Zeus’ will was done. 1.1-6

Then the lame god turned serving boy, siphoning nectar From the mixing bowl and pouring the sweet liquor For all the gods, who couldn’t stop laughing At the sight of Hephaestus hustling through the halls. 1.629-632

Longinus, On the Sublime, 9.7 Homer seems to me, in recording the wounds of the gods, their conflicts, deeds of vengeance, tears, and bindings, all sorts of mixed passions, to have as much as possible made the men of the Iliad gods, and the gods men. Longinus, On the Sublime, 9.7

All this time Achilles, the son of Peleus in the line of Zeus, Nursed his anger, the great runner idle by his fleet’s fast hulls. He was not to be seen in council, that arena for glory, Nor in combat. He sat tight in camp consumed with grief, His great heart yearning for the battle cry and war. 1.516-520

He spoke, and the black cloud of sorrow closed on Achilles. In both hands he caught up the grimy dust, and poured it Over his head and face, and fouled his handsome countenance, And the black ashes were scattered over his immortal tunic. And he himself, mightily in his might, in the dust lay At length, and took and tore at his hair with his hands, and defiled it. 18.22-27

But heaven-descended Achilles left his spear there on the bank Leaning against the tamarisks, and leapt in like some immortal, With only his sword, but his heart was bent upon evil actions, And he struck in a circle around him. The shameful sound of their groaning Rose as they were struck with the sword, and the water was reddened With blood.

As before a huge-gaping dolphin the other fish Escaping cram the corners of a deepwater harbor In fear, for he avidly eats up any he can catch; So the Trojans along the course of the river shrank under the bluffs. He, when his hands grew tired with killing, Chose out and took twelve young men alive from the river To be vengeance for the death of Patroclus … And gave them to his companions to lead away to the hollow ships, Then himself whirled back, still in a fury to kill men. 21.17-33

His mind opened to the clear space before him, And he was off toward the town, moving Like a thoroughbred stretching it out Over the plain for the final sprint home. Achilles, lifting his knees as he lengthened his stride. 22.26-30

As when a hawk in the mountains who moves lightest of things flying Makes his effortless swoop for a trembling dove, but she slips away From beneath and flies and he shrill screaming close after her Plunges for her again and again, heart furious to take her; So Achilles went straight for him in fury, but Hector Fled away under the Trojan wall and moved his knees rapidly. 22.139-144 (Lattimore translation)

‘I beg you, Achilles, by your own soul And by your parents, do not Allow the dogs to mutilate my body By the Greek ships. Accept the gold and bronze Ransom my father and mother will give you And send my body back home to be buried In honor by the Trojans and their wives.’ And Achilles, fixing him with a stare: ‘Don’t whine to me about my parents, You dog! I wish my stomach would let me Cut off your flesh in strips and eat it raw For what you have done to me.’ 22.375-386

An orphan has no friends. He hangs his head, his cheeks are wet with tears. He has to beg from his dead father’s friends, Tugging on one man’s cloak, another’s tunic, And if they pity him he gets to sip From someone’s cup, just enough to moisten His lips but not enough to quench his thirst. Or a child with both parents still alive Will push him away from a feast, taunting him, ‘Go away, your father doesn’t eat with us.’ 22.544-553

‘I have borne what no man Who has walked this earth has yet ever borne. I have kissed the hand of the man who killed my son.’ He spoke, and sorrow for his own father Welled up in Achilles. He took Priam’s hand And gently pushed the old man away. The two of them remembered. Priam, Huddled in grief at Achilles’ feet, cried And moaned softly for his man-slaying Hector. And Achilles cried for his father and For Patroclus. The sound filled the room. 24.541-551