Poetry_for_People3.6.html, The Prometheid

Poetry for People, Dragons
&
Other Unusual Creatures
by Mel West

The Prometheid
(1972)

Part VI

Spiteful Timon

Home for Sale: with pillars, pool & view, by Maravot 9/97

Perched above rolling waves on a lonely rock
Sat a bitter man who sat there only to mock
All of humanity. Aye! Though still young,
He despised all men, wishing them only all that is illl;
He preferred solitude, and most certainly despised Good Will.
Such was Spiteful Timon of Athens, a man of bitter tongue.

So spiteful he was, he owned in Athens a fig tree
(On whose limbs suicides occurred frequently)
But Timon thought to cut it down: a dove-cote he would build;
And advertised with ample warning this deed he did,
So to accommodate the planned suicides their last bid!
And this is the epitaph over his own grave, as he willed:

"Here am I laid, my life of misery done.
Ask not my name, I curse you every one."

So Timon became as he wished, all alone,
Sitting upon his perch, the commorant's rocky throne,
Having lonely thoughts in a tossing sea,
Praying not for money nor fame, only peace
(To be left alone by his ancient Greece),
Where he reviled nothing but his own misery!

To say the least, Spiteful Timon was very surprised
To hear below his salty height what he most despised:
The low wailing sound of a human cry
Filter over the breakers' thundering wave.
"My God, is there no peace in this grave?"
Cried Timon, "Oh, God, I pray, let him die!"

Alas, peace did not come, and Eli moaned for days,
Lying on the beach in a feverish daze,
Whilst the sun baked upon his painful, broken skin,
Drying the seeping ooze from each boil and crack.
And he would still be there today, lying on his back,
Were it not for Spiteful Timon's short tempered chagrin!

For poor Timon suffered nearly thirteen weeks,
Hearing the relentless wailing and occasional shrieks
Of pain from dying Eli. "God please help!"
Begged Timon over and over again,
Whilst he slowly went mad from the shore's daily din
And tried to strangle himself with strands of lapping kelp.

Fortunately for Eli, Spiteful Timon failed–
The Kelp he chose was weak. So Timon then impaled
Himself (or nearly so) on a sharp narwhal tooth;
But even then he only worsened his own distress,
Wounding himself only enough to make a ruddy mess,
Dripping blood all over his greenish-gray booth.

So poor Timon, having no other choice,
Was forced to find Eli and figure out how to squelch his voice.
Now Timon was scornful, but not so vile
As to take a man's life (whether the man is in pain or not);
And Eli's wailing put him in an unsavory spot;
He did think about throttling Eli over his sheltering driftwood pile.

But Timon, as I said, could not kill the wretched soul
(Though he'd have applauded your doing the whole),
And he truly could not wait for the man to die.
So what to do? He pondered and he himself now weeping
Discovered the solution: his heart and soul now leaping:
The solution was obvious: Timon must help the poor guy.

Timon looked around, searching the entire bleak coast,
To make sure no one would witness him playing host
And nurse to the wretched Eli. He fed and he bathed
Eli for days, nearly a week, until health came
To the patient, and to the nurse his shame,
Leaving one now diseased and the other unscathed!

And it came to pass that Eli parted
With thanks to his nurse and set off again for the uncharted
Realms in search of an ally; though he had been strangely aided,
Boosting his soul into the limitless, spiritual bounds,
Thinking he could fly over the Lotus-eater's dried up grounds
He went on to his next adventure, his own pessimism now abated.

Spiteful Timon returned to his perch
To resume his misery and besmirch
Humanity at every hour of the day, following his cynical manner,
While praying to God and then all the gods for final repose.
Well, dear reader, this is the record of Timon's unsung crisis
Begging for peace whilst reproaching the gods from Jove and Isis,
The wretch, shamed and broken, still protesting God only knows.