I’ve come hobbled to the holy mountain,
laughable as a limping Hephaestus,
a cripple amusing to gods and tourists
but I came here to you, Euterpe,
who have come to me, sometimes,
seldom and welcomely.

They ski the slopes here now,
where once Mnemosyne’s daughters
sang and danced in the middle of the world.
The Omphalos (location approximate)
still stands, more or less, where it stood,
at the centre of things,
and I have limped like a classical fool
to meet you half way, here Euterpe.

Calliope contemns my history,
Clio says I’m too small for a hero,
Erato knows I know nothing of love,
Malpomene knows I know no tragedy,
Polyhymnia knows I know no religion,
Terpsichore knows cripples can’t dance,
Thalia thinks I’m too serious,
and Urania knows I fear my stars.
Only you, Euterpe, have been kind,
so I came to visit you here, you who
have come to me, sometimes, unbidden and surprisingly.

The Japanese, as always, are everywhere.
Tour buses burn diesel by the holy stream.
I have limped, ridiculous as I seem,
To stand where you live, Euterpe,
who have been kind to me, sometimes,
seldom and welcomely.

A better poet and a better man,
and a man less impecunious would remain
here at the centre of his whole world.
A man not crippled in the back and ankle
and not poisoned and stripped of breath by nervous tobacco
would climb the heights to be with you, Euterpe,
But I’m not that man.
I’m crippled and poisoned and poor in more things than poetry.

Devoted as I may be, I belong
on the bus back in Athens and, ultimately,
to my crude Canadian hills and common jack pine.
But I came to you, Euterpe,
this once, the laughable cripple,
with a heart too stupid to be untrue,
to stand where you live, who have come to me
so seldom, but always so welcomely,
Euterpe.