Classic Poem

I stand here envying Lucian, if only for one reason — —
if only because he saw this boy as Myron made him.

I envy Lucian thus,
and I also admire the man, if only for one reason — —
if only because he was anything but a dupe of the age in which he lived. His visional sense,
free from the stigma of mere belief and the blur of coeval hallucination,
was masterfully sure of its playful aim — —
even like the sportive arm upraised to hurl the dizzying disc. His mental being,
immune from the fever of panacea and the scurvy of propaganda,
was of itself dynamically virile — —
even like the spirit of the plastic form confronting him, a spirit
itself equal to intent, and making posture equal to purpose.

I admire Lucian the wit.
I envy Lucian the traveler — —
the adventuresome youth now fresh from Samosata,
and entering for the first time the Athenian square in which, still,
six hundred years from the time that Myron modeled his transcendent male,
the bronze boy stood respected, even by time. I envy Lucian his first view
of " the discusplayer bending down as if to throw,
and looking backward, " naturally, toward the hand that held the discus — —
that first and arrestive glance at the first embodiment. Lucian saw,
not what I see, not what the world has long since viewed, by mere luck, the mere copy — —
not what I gloat on gladly, if only to dream of gloating rapturously — —
but the real boy. There he was.
There was now perchance
a last contact of Hellenic superlatives. There was fancifully a last communion — —
perchance a final parting. There was at least a memorable moment — —
one such as only the gods make record of, or even remember — —
a moment possibly lost to Lucian himself, who recorded only
the fact of memorable achievement. It was a moment ignored by the ages — —
even as Lucian ignored the latter.
I envy Lucian, the favored one
who viewed the virgin bronze too often cursed by copy, saw it standing
as yet untouched by the hands that later overthrew it, or sacked it off, or destroyed it — —
even the hands of such as they who destroyed the transcribed cries of Sappho. It is likely that Lucian
saw the flesh of such destroyers raised on crosses, there to writhe in ignited pitch. If so,
for a reason other than the one I stand here envying Lucian.

But who was the bronze boy in the flesh? For there was he.
There was Timanthus.
There was Lycinus.
There was even the cow, with calf, for the bovine bronzes of the Agora — —
the latter so like the living, that live bulls bellowed for the metal mother. Hellenic fancy was as yet
the authentic imagery of the natural, an ideality unpolluted by subtle theoria. The Athenians,
and even the bulls of Athens, were possessed of normal fancy.
But the bronze boy
was not the child of mere fancy. Who was the living Discobolus?
Was he a young Athenian bull, roaming at large in the Agora?
Or, like Adonis, or Hippolytus, was he devoted to Artemis, hunting
rather to kill than to create, and succeeding? Was he a slave — —
a wild young prize from Scyros, or a Samian youth of the choicer flesh?
Or a penniless young Athenian rake who would readily strip for an obol? Or,
as likely, just a boy about the palaestra, one with uncommon contour
but common mind perchance below the average? Or was he a being embryonic
of such as Lucian or Myron? Did Myron wonder? Did Lucian care?

I love the sight of rare flesh. I envy Myron — —
and yet, were I to choose, I should say that I envy Lucian.