Advent of the Argonauts
Ben Hickman · Portland Oregon, 2025 · Free Verse
Why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things…
— —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Lotos-Eaters
I. As a type of tax,
scattered scions return upstream
to the town of their fathers,
drifting toward the banquet
of the lotus eaters.
scattered scions return upstream
to the town of their fathers,
drifting toward the banquet
of the lotus eaters.
II. Magi and the pudding king
wrap tight the hog tongue
with brandy and cinnamon,
set to cure—
wrap tight the hog tongue
with brandy and cinnamon,
set to cure—
III. as careful nursemaids,
through slow-dropping smoke,
nurture the thinnest skin
of labor-worn, deep-minded ocean.
through slow-dropping smoke,
nurture the thinnest skin
of labor-worn, deep-minded ocean.
IV. Strike the suet crust,
pierce the slumberous thrice-boiled
roast orange foam,
to plump the currents—
pierce the slumberous thrice-boiled
roast orange foam,
to plump the currents—
V. set the long-cured fruit upon my tongue;
my wandering is sweetened,
and I will voyage no more.
my wandering is sweetened,
and I will voyage no more.
Note
I wrote this poem while sitting with my wife and children, wandering through a late-night YouTube spiral of strange Victorian Christmas customs—ornate puddings, ceremonial feasts, rituals carried out with almost mythic seriousness. At the same time, I was remembering winter breaks home from college, when my hometown felt briefly enchanted and faintly diminished, suspended between who I had been and who I was becoming. That mixture of pageantry and drift brought to mind The Lotos-Eaters.