At the Temple of Ares

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Meleager, Greek Anthology VI, 163

O God of War, I blush with shame

and haste to clear your portal

of these disgusting offerings:

a mock sword, mock spear,

a shield of no more use

than a cake platter,

garlands and roses, ribbons

and stalks of wheat,

a maiden's under-

garments, trophies

of someone's

wedding night.

I am not amused,

and neither is Ares,

who fortunately sleeps

right now below horizon

or there'd be hell to pay.

The proper offerings here

are pointy spears, lances

broken in battle's fervor,

helmets shorn of plumes,

a dented shield with both

one's own and the enemy's

blood proudly unwiped.

Young man, no matter

how long you fought

the fierce virgin, and won,

don't crow about it.

The precinct of Ares

is for men of arms,

and blood on bronze.