A/n : This poem is part of my collection Nike Rising which can be found on a separate webpage linked from my profile. The references to other poems in the commentary are from that collection.

The Dream of Alexander

“Get yourself another kingdom, my boy – for Macedonia is not big enough for you!”
- Philip II of Macedon to his son

In Morpheus’ realm he walks;
his body lies supine
on couch Actaeon could have wrought –
made morphine-drugged by wine.

And in that realm of airy form
made solid by his art
this Macedon Prince wanders far
at the whim of his heart.

He stops stock still – a form appears
woven from out the air.
He wonders amazed at the art
that has wrought what stands there.

She is a warrior maiden,
far more fair than real,
clad in white cloth and armour bronze
with pinioned wings of steel.

With flesh as hard as marble cold
and eyes of death-grey fire
the Goddess stands before the Prince
and laughs at his desire.

That this maiden is a Goddess
is obvious and true –
yet he knows not humility
and asks her, “Who are you?”

“I AM DREAD NIKE, LITTLE MAN.”
The words ring in his ear
Victory speaks with brazen voice.
He asks, “What do you here?”

Nike smiles at the tiny thing
of flesh and blood and bone
that is to her impertinent
even so far from home.

“I COME TO OFFER YOU A CHOICE
FROM YOUR DREAD FATHER ZEUS.
AS FRUIT OF HIS LOINS YOU MAY CHOOSE
THE WAY YOUR LIMBS UNLOOSE.

YOU MAY LIVE A LONG AND FULL LIFE
BUT UNDISTINGUISHED BE.
OR DIE SOON YET LIVE FOR ALL TIME
IF YOU FALL IN WITH ME.”

He takes no time to make the choice
that is no choice at all –
can Philip’s son do anything
but answer glory’s call?

“I choose the choice of my forebear,
Achilles, Hector’s bane”
“SO BE IT, PRINCE, HIS FATE IS YOURS.
YOU’LL HAVE YOUR DEATH AND FAME.”

And as she speaks, with blood-rich lips
smiles like no living girl,
bears that young Prince up in her arms
and makes her wings unfurl.

From the dream ground she lifts them both,
flying through strange worlds more
unknown to him than realm of dreams,
alights on rocky shore.

Before them flows a river swift
in wide loops twisting round
thrice times three a grim linteled door
that leads into the ground.

The Goddess seems to know this place
and like the river looks
as maid to dam, if maids could be
the daughters of dark brooks.

“Where do I stand? Why bring me here?”
The young Prince’s harsh demands
fair Nike answers with cold voice.
“THESE ARE MY MOTHER’S LANDS.

BEYOND YOU IS THE REALM OF DEATH
WOUND NINE TIMES ROUND WITH HATE.
ACCEPT MY PLEDGE AND YOU WILL SWIFT
WALK THROUGH THAT DARK-WALLED GATE.

I’LL BATHE YOU IN THE RIVER STYX,
MY FLOWING MOTHER CHILL,
THE PLACE WHERE GODS SWEAR ALL THE OATHS
THAT TRULY KEEP THEY WILL.

IS THIS THE FATE THAT YOU WOULD CHOOSE?”
she asks with flaming voice.
“ARE YOU SURE THIS DOOM IS FOR YOU?”
“Maid, I have made my choice!”

“SO BE IT, THEN. She reaches out
and rends his ribs apart,
shoves taloned hand through his white chest
and grasps his naked heart.

Above her head she lifts him high
as blood flows down her limb
to smoking land in river foam.
In Styx she plunges him.

His body flays in boiling ice,
in freezing fire he drowns
and hears Nike laughing above
as she holds him down.

“I’VE TRICKED YOU NOW, THOU MORTAL FOOL!
MY BANNER WILL YOU SWEAR
ALLEGIANCE TO OR NEVER MORE
WILL YOUR POOR LUNGS TASTE AIR!

YOU'RE MY SERVANT NOW, MY YOUNG PRINCE –
YOU LIVE FOR VICTORY!
THOUGH YOU TAKE INSULT FROM NO MAN
YOU’LL BEND THE KNEE TO ME!”

As blood flows freely from his chest
a lesson the Prince learns –
greater than thee are Goddesses.
He listens to her terms.

“KISS MY FEET, O MORTAL MAN–
BUILD ME A TEMPLE WIDE
PAVED WITH SPILLED BLOOD AND CRUSHÉD SKULLS
AND PILLARS DOWN THE SIDE

WROUGHT OF BURNED BONES ALL FUSÉD BLACK
WITH FLAMES OF BLOODY SIEGE;
THE THIGHS OF THOSE STOOD IN YOUR WAY
WHO WOULD NOT CALL YOU LIEGE.

LAY HECATOMBS BEFORE MY THRONE,
FESTOON MY SPEAR AND SHIELD
WITH ENTRAIL GARLANDS OF YOUR FOES
‘GAINST YOU WHO WOULD NOT YIELD.

AND READ IN THEM YOUR VICTORY
AND SEE MY SMILING FACE.
TASTE THE BLOOD THAT RUNS DOWN MY TEETH –
IN KISSING FIND YOUR PLACE.

BUILD ME A HOME IN WHICH TO DWELL;
ETERNAL YEARS OF WAR.
BRING ME BLOOD IN ENOUGH TO BATHE
AND I WILL DEMAND MORE.

DO THIS FOR ME, O MORTAL MAN,
AND I WILL MAKE YOU LORD
ALL YOU SURVEY. ALL EAST OF GREECE
YOU'LL PUT TO FLAME AND SWORD.

DO THIS FOR ME, O MORTAL MAN,
AND YOU WILL NEVER DIE!
DO THIS FOR ME, O MORTAL MAN –
A GODDESS DOES NOT LIE.”

Beneath the River’s boiling chill
struggles the Prince for air.
But it’s quite futile, for she with
no effort holds him there.

“WELL?” she asks with faint impatience,
“WHAT IS IT YOU DECIDE?”
She pulls him up so his lips break waves
and still he speaks with pride.

“How do I know, thou tricksy maid,
you will this bargain keep?
Why should I think you’ll keep your part?
You’ll drown me in my sleep!”

She plunges him deep down again
and snarls at him with scorn.
“MY WORD IS GOLD! ACCEPT IT NOW
OR NEVER SEE THE DAWN!

I WILL SWEAR ON THIS RIVER STYX
AN OLYMPIAN’S OATH.
BY ZEUS’ WORD MY LIFE WILL END
IF I FORFEIT MY TROTH.

He desperate splutters in the Styx
and cries with final breath.
“Yes, Victory! To you I kneel
if for me you’ll cheat death!”

She drags him out on to dry land
and there he weeping crawls.
“I’ll never fail. I promise you
I’ll build your sacred halls.”

With victories I’ll worship you –
war will not stop for sun
or rain or sleet when I lead it
until you say I’m done.

She kneels joyful down next to him
and says in voice so cold,
“AS YOU WISH, O IMMORTAL MAN –
MY PART WILL I UPHOLD.

NOTHING CAN SLAY YOU NOW, MY CHILD,
THAT BITES THROUGH WHERE SHE’S WASHED.
MORTALITY IS BURNED AWAY;
DEATH IS FOREVER QUASHED.”

He laughs with joy. “Thank you, fair maid!
Now nothing can me harm!”
She smiles at this and then she speaks
in voice quite cold and calm.

“IMPERVIOUS? IMMORTAL FOOL –
DO NAUGHT YOU UNDERSTAND?
FEEL YOU THAT PAIN WITHIN YOUR CHEST –
YOU THINK I HELD YOUR HAND?”

(December 2003)

The Dream of Alexander
(author’s commentary)

This poem is one of my favourites in the canon - referring as it does to Alexander the Great, this is a relative given. However, there are other reasons I like this poem. Some are quite simply historical - it was written following a period of depression and represented my first foray back into writing poetry for a long while - but there are many which are more ego-related.

Certainly, this poem has attracted a number of complements from various people; including complements it was never intended to attract. The sense of creeping horror in the poem has been remarked on, a sense that the reader himself is in danger in addition to Alexander. I must admit, if such an effect exists it was unintentional - although not unwelcome.

Despite featuring two characters who appear in the personal mythology, the appearances of Alexander and Nike are as themselves rather than a metaphor for someone. This poem owes more to Legacy than it does to Mother-Daughter Relationship or Ulysses and Victory – this is essentially a retelling of a “historical” event. Historical in the sense that it is part of the ancient Classical legends, rather than actually real.

The reader will, of course, be able to see the legend it is based on – the bathing of Achilles in the Styx by his mother to burn away his mortal half. Achilles was held by his heel, and so that part of him remained mortal, vulnerable – which was where, of course, the poisoned arrow launched by Paris struck him. The other event the poem mirrors is the fact that – according to legend – Achilles was offered the choice between a long but undistinguished life and a short but glorious one. Of course, he chose the second.

I have always maintained that it seemed to me that Alexander made the choice of Achilles – “live fast, die young”. More than one poem - including The Shield of Achilles by Auden, which I pastiched - has made that point clear. But, in living fast, both Alexander and Achilles seem to have achieved escape velocity from the forgetfulness of the mundane world; they orbit in an unassailable sphere beyond mere fame and celebrity. They are legendary - Alexander's tale has been re-told a thousand-thousand times and still resonates to this night. Legacy makes that point clearly enough.

Dream of Alexander concerns itself with the imagined point of choice; Alexander making the choice of Achilles – directly referenced in the poem in the twelfth stanza – and that choice being offered by Victory, who – in return for immortality of a sort – demands allegiance.

Nike, of course, offers a swift death and immortality – which is rather confusing, to say the least. However, the immortality she offers can either be read as unending fame or as a promise that he will not die as a result of anything that “bites through where she’s washed”. In a parallel with the story of Achilles, his has a vulnerable spot – Achilles has his heel where Thetis held him, Alexander has his heart where Nike held him - where the immortalising waters of the Styx never touched. As it can be argued that Alexander died of grief and despair, this is perhaps prophetic.

Watching the Alexander legend, a picture is painted of a man no weapon could lay low (he was struck in the throat with a bolt from a siege engine and survived, his lung was pierced and he was fighting again in three days) but whom emotions ravaged cruelly. The sense is created of a dynamo burning itself out – a furnace feed with emotion whose flames restore his broken flesh.

The Hellenic references in the poem - to sacrificial religious practices, the underworld and the relationship of the river Styx and Nike - are ones which add to the atmosphere rather than being part of any complex metaphor. The mother-daughter relationship of the river and the goddess could be argued to mirror the suggested relationship of War and Nike in Mother-Daughter Relationship, but the poet certainly does not insist on it!

Perhaps mention should be made of the nature of the promise kept by Nike; she is - as Alexander accuses her - a "tricksy maid" in that she keeps the letter of her word rather than the spirit. There is a real suggestion of flirtatious mistress in the character of Nike; the elusive victory that eludes so many and - it can be argued - eluded Alexander himself. She does, certainly, act as a composite of War and Nike as portrayed in Mother-Daughter Relationship - forcing acceptance of her terms before granting her boons.

The dialogue between the two characters was - I would like to say carefully, but that would be a lie - constructed to reflect their differing personalities. Alexander is independent and arrogant, referring to the goddess as "thou" as if she is an equal (then again, given that the poem makes it clear that he is the son of a god, perhaps he is). His moment of weakness - when dying and his promises afterwards - is quickly swept away by the customary arrogance and inappropriate familiarity - who else would call a goddess who has just almost torn his heart from his chest "fair maid?"

Much of Nike's dialogue - the portion from stanza twenty-seven onwards - was written while very slightly drunk in a long, rambling crescendo of glorious images of blood-stained sacrifice and afterwards edited and tightened up for rhythm and rhyme. Nike is certainly drunk on her power at this point - exulting in the images of the war that will be made by this mortal fool in her name. Her dialogue is harsh and demotic, laying down the law - there is no room for manoeuvre in her terms. Accept them, or die.

An interesting historical footnote will be used to close this commentary - a footnote which, in my more unguarded moments, leads me to whisper to myself that the poem might just be real. After the battle on the Jhelum River - the final huge battle of Alexander's campaign before he was forced to turn back - against Porus of India, the battle in which his beloved horse Bucephalus died (an event which might have been seen as auguring his star's desertion) Alexander built a city. It is a reasonable assumption to make that this city is the furthest east of any that Alexander founded - although later cities were founded, they were founded during the Nostos. This city's name is Nikaea - a monument to the goddess herself.

The coin minted to show the victory over Porus shows the Macedonian on Bucephalus fighting the Indian on his war elephant on one side while, on the other, Alexander is crowned by Nike.

Perhaps - as Alexander promises in the poem - he built her "sacred halls" at the climax of his campaign, the point where even the blood-drenched goddess was satiated. Perhaps this city and these coins were Alexander's promise to Nike, his final prayer offered to her in return for the immortality that he knew she would grant him.

Great Alexander Lives! And Still Rules!