by Michael Shindler (July 2025)
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Odysseus—on the sea, at the shore
In heaven’s historical reverie,
With his silvered words still working at war
Over every west-waving century:
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He holds forth at a pain upon the page
Across ancient poesy’s waterlogged mind,
Each of his words earning its little wage
For poets who cannot bear to be blind.
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Forever he sails the wine-dark water,
This generous comrade of versifiers:
He—our hero of romantic slaughter
And the most handsome king of helpless liars.
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Table of Contents
Michael Shindler is a writer living in Washington, DC. His work has appeared in publications including The American Conservative, The American Spectator, National Review Online, New English Review, University Bookman, and Providence. His new book is Fret Not and is available here. Follow him on Twitter @MichaelShindler.
Follow NER on Twitter @NERIconoclast
