The Epic of Elpenor

William John Moores

Book 1

Here begins the epic of Elpenor,

who fell like graceful Adam and our Eve,

though Elpenor fell with dignity more

when he gave the then atoned world his leave

O Elpenor was like a noble skunk:

one which never fails to protect his kits

and similarly smells. O famous drunk,

if only you weren’t such an enormous twit.

It is frankly a miracle that there

remained any wine-dark sea left to sail,

if he had his way the Med would lay bare.

Odds are Elpenor has drunk from the grail:

serial cup-flipper, mighty boozer,

and damned to fall from atop the ceiling.

Putting the ale in sail, ocean-cruiser,

our Elpenor: who is now unfeeling.

Whose absence of rites almost him disgraced,

till shroud Odysseus planted his oar,

appeasing the good Gods for our high, wasted,

drunkard hero, flat-footed Elpenor.

O Elpenor you were a silly knish,

you were completely, totally doomed.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have drunk like a fish,

and so doing filled up your earthy tomb.

Poor Elpenor his goals were very vast,

almost as colossal as the wine-dark sea.

Though he was always totally aghast

that said seas were not filled with Chablis.

Book 2

And yet we must forgo our lamenting

and tell the tale of man-like Elpenor:

a tall philistine’s son, a sheparding

apprentice, who left his sweetheart for war.

Born a Philistine our Elpenor grew

in lands of stretching plains of desert sand.

Where silk clouds float above, through seas of blue,

like silver threads, pulled by the naughty hand

of some little princess, who knows but not

the value of the royal robe that she,

with child-like wonder, slowly plucks to knots.

Beyond the endless plains and sky: the sea…

just as endless as the sky above and just so

patterned with weavings of white. Ships and sails

flooded the blue coast, like a thousand crows,

they worm to harbour like hounds chase their tails.

A thousand rattling sailboats squirmed and weaved

their way to port just so, and their dogfights

painted the skyline, from morning till eve.

This is where young Elpenor began his life,

raised as a Shepard boy he dutifully manned,

through days and dark, the second highest steep

in the local, coastal, non-remote land,

and on it he cared for his father’s sheep.​

His father Graham, son of tall Graham,

was a lowly, ageing farmer who had

but one flock of sheep to his family name;

a family which thought farming a fad

and who for a hundred generations

stood on this point firm: disowning any

one who mentioned cultivation.

So, they kept sheep … though not very many.

It was a particularly hot day,

the hills seemed to melt into each other,

under the heat of the throbbing sun’s rays.

Elpenor sat lamenting his lover,

his heart ablaze with paramour’s passion,

as fiery and powerful as the sun;

he’d felt so before, but that was ashen

compared to the fire incited by ‘the one’.

Sat atop a rock with sheep all around:

the burning centre of a universe,

a flaming star that planets surround-

and so Elpenor dreamt of his lover.

The lady in question was Abigail,

daughter of Tobi, who owned the biggest

field in Philistine. Twas her he hailed​

and so wished to shower with kisses.

The most beautiful and well-tempered

girl in all the upper hills: the object

of love for two dozen flocks of shepherds,

of those at least half she’d tried to reject.

Three had already died in the pursuit.

The first of this fateful, love-lorn group

was a young labourer of gaunt physique,

with hair like straw and hollow cheeks.

The boy went mad at the sight of her face:

twas so angelic, without peer or regalia,

the poor youth lost his mind in that instance

and ran headlong off a cliff in feve’rish mania.

The next was John: a stout lad, and goat-herd

to her father, he was of great wits

and had a way with spoken word-

though of course Abigail did not care a bit.

Such was clear after one fine, sunny morn,

when from atop the highest hill he

proclaimed beauteous poetry adorned

with the most intricate, wordy finery.

Towards this elaborate, passionate plea

Abigail below gave but little mind-

sick of silly men and stupidity,

anyway fave’ring the grace of womankind.

On seven score morns did he give his speech,

sermonising from his mounted hilltop

and yet no reply did he ere receive:

twas a funny sight for locals to mock.

Thus spurned, he fell into severest sorrow

and took to roaming the sandy plains.

In dark hours, deep into the tomorrow,

loudly lamenting his lost loving pains.

With rambling oration this king of fools

would loudly traverse the desert each eve,

until one night he was eaten by wolves…

The third sorry soul whose love and life lost

was a shepherd named Josh, who, big-headed

and reckless, and with eyes that would cross,

devised brave tasks to impress his bewedded.

Before half the hills, to prove he were brave,

Josh stood firm before a tree, with a loaf

on his head. All the locals were there, save

Abi, who, fed up with the follies of her betrothed,

involved herself nought with pining fools.

For Josh this was no matter: she’d hear all…

so stood bold against the firing, wood wall.

Josh’s brother stepped up, with bowstring pulled,

he coolly shot a bolt aimed at the bread,

but preceded to miss the loaf and hit Josh’s head.

The curious thing, as he slumped down dull,

was that the loaf stayed atop…so big was his skull.

So Elpenor vowed to join this fateful crew,

As he sat atop a rock, a constellation

unto himself, head-strong and light, he knew

to win Abi he must go further than

any other had gone before: to Greece!

That’s where they’d failed, they’d stayed too local,

he’d travel furthest, to barbarian beaches,

to win foreign riches, to more enoble

his house, and his fineries and his name…

It would only take a year, and he could

if needed: of the truth slightly reframe-

if his deeds didn’t win her his stories would.

Thus Elpenor exclaimed ‘O sweet Abi

I pledge my crook to thee, to sail cross all the seas.

I engrave our unspoke vow deep on my soul,

I shan’t return to love till I’ve stole the globe.

Book 3

So Elpenor in a frenzied, lost haze

did, in secret, leave the charge of his sheep

unto a brother, son of graham. Day

was turned to eve, as he ran down the steep

which still remained the second highest slope,

in all the Uppers. So, our hero Elpenor,

with all his ducks now neatly rowed,

plunged into the throng of town, to take up oars-

through the hustle and bustle of wily

trades and crooked sellers. Dodging shaking

caravans and docile camels, as holy

men weaselled past with pots full of takings.

Ragged, blanketed beggars lined the walls

of sun-dried homes, that behind loom rich.

In the square lay a dozen market stalls,

with broken scales which were thoughtfully fixed.

Arguing rough, rabbles of tradesmen

filled the gaps, where they could be found,

betwixt stalls, carpets, dogs, camels, women

and kids, the stuffy heat, and stuffed streets. Town

was a stifling, jammed, oppressive affair.

A suffocating mix of heat, flesh, sweat

and dirt. Where the air seemed scant and where

the risk of theft was a near-constant threat.

So Elpenor surfaced from this rowdy,

market mob and proceeded to the port.

The bay area was far less crowded,

still, haggling rang through this stateless court:

‘Fish’, ‘newly caught’, ‘foreign pots’ and ‘crop’s…

all this our man-like Elpenor ignored

and found a crew suitably unmanned, which stopped

at Troy, then Greece, then Egypt... So aboard

this broad, un-oared, broadless galley, which though

large, sailed and womanless, cruised foreign shores

so Elpenor, son of Graham, followed

and worried not, for his true love Abigail

awaited him on those dusty/sandy slope tops,

the cherry atop his plunder’d gold hill

the jewel in the crown of some Shah he’d rob.

Book 4

Our brave Elpenor passed most days aboard

in mournful love-lorn lamenting sighs

few did note him, nor his slack report

for the captain had hired two-hundred guys.

This crazed over-hire was an admin thing​

and inaction increased when on day two

the wind died down; the galley stopped moving.

And with it the busy, brain work stopped too.

To compound this the seas were as lively

as a brick, and the constant sight of blue

stretching every direction, was driving

most crazy. Gradually the ship’s crew,

one by one, lost their minds to monotony,

and began launching themselves off the ship-

in a vain attempt to begot of it,

every day one more would take a dip:

springing gleefully into the waters dark

hoping storms would spirit them to Asia…

anywhere- not blue. Or that a kind shark

would arrive to grant loving euthanasia.

Slowly but surely the crew moved to waters

in hope of a better, more varied life,

and after a month the staff size had quartered…

and the few that remained bore the strife

Though Elpenor was safe, unlike the crew

Since, happly for him, he had no mind to lose.

After four years pinballing round the Med

the skeleton crew- now well under-fed,

looking like some undead, godless sea terror

and having sustained major damages-

reached Troy: through a mix of trial and error,

lucky winds and the law of averages.

Unluckily, for our brave Elpenor,

Sacker of drinks cabinets and son of graham,

He’d come a holidaying during war,

Specifically, the Trojan one. Mayhem

reigned as senseless war raged. A thousand

swords clashed, chariots crashed, throats slashed… and all

for a face, for their Helen of Troy, and

her captor. Just so did the mayhem rule:

for the face that sunk a thousand ships

and that buried a hundredfold men.

When Elpenor reached Troy’s seas he was met

with sight of a coming naval battle,

and he looked, full of awe, from the ship’s deck

at the unholy site: his whole self rattled.

The fleets collided like two crashing

planets: as each force tore through each other,

both splintered at the sheer force, and as they smashed,

some men were impaled on palatial stakes, others

seemed to scramble to safety. Then, somewhere,

this piling heap of matchsticks came alight,

and so in hounding wind, this scrappy dog fight

caught fire and enflamed the horizon with twisting flares…

Fire filled the distant air as the fleets scorched

second sunsets onto the sinking sky,

they burnt like dying stars at the farthest

edge of the cosmos, before melting tidily

away, consumed by the endless, crimson sea.

All this lay before Elpenor’s galley. 

Book 5

Meanwhile up atop Mount Olympus the Gods…

they teetered: unable to untatter

the mess that was Troy. They bet on Greek odds

and backed their Trojan horses; matter-

of-factly rolling life’s dice, fore roulette

‘Russian style’ they’d oft forfeit a poor bet.

And such was Mount Olympus, its own

Monte Carlo, where Gods played sport with man,

through this hectic scene a lesser god weaved

the god’s name was Koalemos and he’d

arrived with vital news: ‘Lord of mayhem,

beloved by the clods, man-like, flat-footed,

sacker off drinks cabinets, son of graham,

son of graham: Elpenor! Who routed

to Troy many moons ago, he has reached

Ilion today!’ This fiery decree,

impassioned as it was, was met with steep

uninterest, and extreme apathy.

A general cry rang through the stateless court,

of ‘Who?’, ‘Who is that?’ and ‘Who gives a toss?’

Thus, fully embarrassed and firmly taught

Koalemos parked the point- and ran off.

Book 6

Elpenor, having at long last reached Troy,

left his ship, eager to win glory for

his ever-loyal Abigail, thus employed,

and sufficiently buoyed, our Elpenor

sashayed with boyish bounce t’wards the scenes

of some almighty scrap ‘twixt some sweaty

loudmouths and their respective teams-

as they boldly monologued about petty

things, ‘cross battlefields with such woof and pomp

one would think it were Battersea, though A:

the site was lesser and B: the scenes were comp

levels- on this mufti, Crufts-esque day.

These great men of mystery barked back and forth

over some city in France, at least this

was what our Elpenor thought. So they fought

and he thought and all were confused and amiss.

So things continued for five years, through which

time our Elpenor served in both Greek

and Trojan forces, he’d constantly switch

unable to choose, and oft swapped each week.

Though the odd thing, as he picked his preferred,

was that each time he switched, said swap concurred

with a clear shift in battle dynamics

against his side, a problem he’d always fix

with a change of loyalty and an outfit switch.

Thus, ever hopping like a frog betwixt

two banks, Elpenor passed most of the war.

Until one day when on the Troy side, for

about two days earlier they’d started

doing better, Elpenor had found his

way onto a Trojan wall, now parted

from the ground force, he saw ‘fore him Paris.

Shining Paris growled at him and regaled

something about his beau; our brave hero

lit up, and spoke love-lorn of Abigail

Paris responded by grabbing a bow

and thumping it repeatedly against

Elpenor’s head. This made it very clear

to all who could see: what exactly he’d meant.

Our hero was so struck by this sincere

display that he lost his vision for four

days: missing Paris’ hit on Achilles’ back

heel, so preoccupied was Elpenor

with Paris’ previous bow attack.

Book 7

Elpenor’s whereabouts were unknown, then,

for the four days, when he lost his whole sight,

It is possible he joined Aeneas’ men,

as they escaped burning Troy’s fiery night.

How ever he entertained himself and

managed to survive whilst completely blind,

and born dumb, no man will ‘ere understand.

And just so, it came to pass that in time

Elpenor, in the frenzied haze of port,

embarked on shrewd Odysseus’ ship.

After many years of hardship and distraught

he was eager to put that behind him

and figured the trip would be relaxing.

Elpenor was wrong, as is often the way,

as the trip was extremely taxing,

and ultimately took his life away…

All know the tale of Odysseus’ fleet…

Here, Elpenor served loyally throughout their sailing.

perhaps with the exception of Circe’s

isle, where he got smashed and fell off the ceiling.

All was going well before that if you

ignore all the death…though in honest truth

he ‘nere recovered from whence he threw

himself drunk and headfirst off of a roof.

And so, our hero lost his life: hammered

as a nail, though with many screws loose,

a lover who ‘nere lost sight, enamoured

forever, blind with love and to the truth-

and also physically for about a month.

As plastered as a new wall, with about

as much sense, he smelt like a bad nose: once

steward of the second-steepest sheep mound

in Philistine, our hero: Elpenor!

who’s ever doomed to lie beneath an oar.