Horner's Corner

Fast Tube by Casper

          The Shield of Achilles

         She looked over his shoulder
            For vines and olive trees,
         Marble well-governed cities
            And ships upon untamed seas,
         But there on the shining metal
            His hands had put instead
         An artificial wilderness
            And a sky like lead.

A plain without a feature, bare and brown,
   No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,
Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down,
   Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood
   An unintelligible multitude,
A million eyes, a million boots in line,
Without expression, waiting for a sign.

Out of the air a voice without a face
   Proved by statistics that some cause was just
In tones as dry and level as the place:
   No one was cheered and nothing was discussed;
   Column by column in a cloud of dust
They marched away enduring a belief
Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief.

         She looked over his shoulder
            For ritual pieties,
         White flower-garlanded heifers,
            Libation and sacrifice,
         But there on the shining metal
            Where the altar should have been,
         She saw by his flickering forge-light
            Quite another scene.

Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot
   Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)
And sentries sweated for the day was hot:
   A crowd of ordinary decent folk
   Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke
As three pale figures were led forth and bound
To three posts driven upright in the ground.

The mass and majesty of this world, all
   That carries weight and always weighs the same
Lay in the hands of others; they were small
   And could not hope for help and no help came:
   What their foes like to do was done, their shame
Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride
And died as men before their bodies died.

         She looked over his shoulder
            For athletes at their games,
         Men and women in a dance
            Moving their sweet limbs
         Quick, quick, to music,
            But there on the shining shield
         His hands had set no dancing-floor
            But a weed-choked field.

A ragged urchin, aimless and alone,
   Loitered about that vacancy; a bird
Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone:
   That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third,
   Were axioms to him, who’d never heard
Of any world where promises were kept,
Or one could weep because another wept.

         The thin-lipped armorer,
            Hephaestos, hobbled away,
         Thetis of the shining breasts
            Cried out in dismay
         At what the god had wrought
            To please her son, the strong
         Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles
            Who would not live long.

One of the great fallacies of American thinking is that human worth is constituted by a particular set of aptitudes which lead to economic advancement. This is not true at all. Two thirds of the people who can make money are mediocre; and at least one half of them are morally at a low level. As a whole, they are vastly inferior to other types who are not animated by the economic motives; I mean the artists, and teachers, and professional people who do work which they love for its own sake and earn about enough to get along on. … The mischief of elevating the type that has aptitude for economic advancement is that it denies the superior forms of aptitude which exist in quite humble people.
                                                                                                                                                 Alfred North Whitehead

See also: The Injustices of Merit