Menelaeus

By Daniel P. Stokes

Arriving home he found her baggage gone

And his three young children upon his hands.

Next morning his mother came, took command.

Nodding while she scolded, his heart was wan

With loneliness. So he drank to rest and

To suck the joy of sorrow from his beer

And dull himself to sleep in spite of fear.

Awake he hoped, then sought to understand

Why the tragic made him maudlin with love,

For he'd to dam a surge at each eye's turn;

Patient, he kissed his children far above

The normal. Then hate chilled like a death urn.

But part misanthrope, more the dupe of love,

He felt that ice could make a city burn.

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Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A, Canada and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.