The first two brief monologues from Prometheus Bound — my “improvisation” — not a translation. I didn’t take it from the Greek but from David Greene’s translation in his and Lattimore’s Complete Greek Tragedies, Aeschylus II.
Last night, I was sitting outside after the first rain in months. The air was very clean. I was tired. It felt as though my mind was refusing to function, but I decided to simply accept the limitations I experienced. There was only a very slight chill. I began reading David Greene’s translation of Prometheus Bound aloud. As I read, I began to change the text to fit the way I wanted to hear it, reading through it several times aloud. Then I wrote down what I was reciting, with modifications as I wrote. So that’s all this is, just something for enjoyment. And, yes, I’m aware that I do great violence and much harm to the currently approved style of poetry and translation (not to mention what I’ve done to Aeschylus). But I’m bored with the currently accepted style (but not, most assuredly not, bored with Aeschylus).
(Version 0.2)
Power:
We’ve hit the world’s limit.
These are Scythian mountains, never climbed.
Haephustus! You must obey
The Father’s will laid upon you to nail
This miscreant to these craggy peaks
With shackles of unbreakable diamond chain.
After all, it was your adornment,
Blazing fire, the pantechnocrat, that he snatched
And passed on to dying men.
For this crime he shall pay dues to the Gods
That he may learn to submit and enjoy
The limitless supremacy of Zeus
And quit his pathetic philanthropic addiction.
Hephaestus:
In you His commands are perfectly executed,
Power and Violence, with zero impedance.
But my heart balks at slamming and chaining
A God to this snowy bluff.
He’s close family.
But I’m forced to take heart for it —
Slighting the Father leads to precarious situations.
Great Engineer, Son of Themis the Honest One,
You don’t want this. Neither do I.
Yet I’ll shackle you with weatherproof bronze
On this wilderness outcrop.
You won’t hear a mortal voice.
You won’t see a mortal’s body.
The sun will drill into your flesh
And cancer the glow of your skin.
When night intervenes
With her cape full of stars
You will bless her,
But at dawn the sun will
Burn ice from your frost-bitten limbs.
At each moment you will feel torture,
Varied for maximum effect,
Grind you down.
The one who will end it
Isn’t even sperm in his father’s testicles.
That’s your reward for philanthropic slumming.
You, a God, not afraid
Of the anger of Gods,
Perverted justice
And honored the low.
So now you keep watch
On this ugly cliff, always
Standing, knees unbending, sleepless.
Oh, you will cry, you will moan, you will pray,
But it won’t do any good.
Zeus has a titanium mind, prayer is soft,
And every new ruler is harsh.
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