The Reading Club

    Is dead serious about this one， having rehearsed it for two weeks

    They bring it right into the Old Fellows Meeting Hall.

    Riding the backs of the Trojan Women，

    In Euripides' great wake they are swept up，

    But the women of the chorus， in black stockings and kerchiefs，

    Stand up bravely to it， shawled arms thrash

    In a foam of hysterical voices shrieking，

    Seaweed on the wet flanks of a whale，

    For each town has its Cassandra who is a little crazy，

    Wed to some mystery or other and therefore painfully sensitive，

    Wiser than anyone but no one listens to her， these days the terror

    Reaches its red claws into back ward and living room alike，

    For each town has its Andromache who is too young，

    With snub nose and children just out of school

    Even she cannot escape it， from the bombed city she is led out

    Weeping among the ambulances，

    And each community has its tart， its magical false Helen

    Or at least someone who looks like her， in all the makeup she can muster，

    The gorgeous mask of whatever quick-witted lie will keep her alive

    At least a little longer， on the crest of the bloody wave，

    That dolorous mountain of wooden ships and water

    In whose memory the women bring us this huge gift horse，

    This raging animal of a play no one dares to look in the eye

    For fear of what's hidden there：

    Small ragdoll figures toppling over and over

    From every skyscraper and battlement hurtling

    Men and women both， mere gristle in the teeth of fate.

    Out over the sea of the audience our numb faces

    Are stunned as Andromache's， locked up there on the platform

    Inside Euripides' machine the women sway and struggle

    One foot at a time， up the surging ladder

    Of grief piled on grief， strophe on antistrophe，

    In every century the same， the master tightens the screws，

    Heightens the gloss of each bitter scene

    And strikes every key， each word rings out

    Over our terrified heads like a brass trumpet，

    For this gift is an accordion， the biggest and mightiest of all，

    As the glittering lacquered box heaves in and out，

    Sigh upon sigh， at the topmost pitch a child

    Falls through midnight in his frantically pink skin.

    As the anguished queen protests， the citizens in the chorus wail

    Louder and louder， the warriors depart

    Without a glance backwards， these captains of the world's death

    Enslaved as they are enslavers， in a rain of willess atoms

    Anonymity takes over utterly： as the flaming city falls

    On this bare beach， in the drab pinewood hall

    The Reading Club packs up to go； scripts， coffee cups， black stockings

    Husbands and wives pile into the waiting cars

    Just as we expect， life picks up and goes on

    But not art： crouched back there like a stalled stallion

    Stuffed in its gorgeous music box is the one gift

    That will not disappear but waits， but bides its time and waits

    For the next time we open it， that magical false structure

    Inside whose artifice is the lesson， buried alive，

    Of the grim machinations of the beautiful that always lead us

    To these eternally real lamentations， real sufferings， real cries.