Also the Mortals Ran

by Tom Hirons

The heroes and their golden arcs

of triumph and laughter

cannot come in here.

Their shoulders are too wide;

their embarrassment of riches

too substantial;

their epic songs too loud

to be heard here.

Welcome to the underworld;

the heroes are not invited,

nor possible,

nor heroic.

Here, there are only

the wounded,

the unwise

and the unwieldy.

Those who have been crushed,

been broken by tasks too great,

who failed themselves

and all their people;

Those who aimed at the sun,

but fell to Earth, then deeper still;

Those who were caught out,

got their hand trapped in the door,

missed the vital clue

and slipped on the beanstalk,

the banana skin

or the serpents' poisoned blood.

Those who didn't know the answer,

for all the riddle's clues;

Those who were seduced by fairies

and did not wake up;

Those who did not tie themselves

to the mast,

or were tied, by uncunning hands

and clumsy knots

and fell, cursing, into the sea.

Here we have all the names

that are not heard in songs;

Here we have all the forgotten sons

and daughters,

who did not return and

from whom word was never heard.

The streets were not paved with gold;

there was no golden fleece;

the unicorn was not there;

the giant truly was too large

and too much to handle.

The rooms of this place

are stacked with broken swords

and crushed skulls,

ankles twisted at wrong moments,

fingers snagged on clothing

and second–rate shields

split by the first–rate weapons

of too many foes.

Luck was not on their side,

and not enough back–up

arrived too late

to help them.

It was just another day

for their enemies.

The weary and the crippled;

the lost and the unloved;

the unshining, undazzling,

the almost–adequate

and the woefully inept

(though not those whose lack

is legendary and have sneaked

into fame through infamy.)

Those whose feet slipped,

stepping from boat to shore;

Those whose sword–hand

wilted with fear,

whose determination

was lost in a bottle

or a bed,

whose allies were

badly–chosen

and left them to burn

in the dragon's cave,

divided up the gold

and all the fame

themselves.

Here we don't have

Hercules,

Odysseus

or Gilgamesh;

Here we have

those who thought that

Icarus was a good

role–model for success,

those who thought that

dragons were smaller,

gorgons more susceptible

to flattery,

giants clumsier

and fire not quite

as hot

as the stories tell. . .

Their songs were not tuneful;

their stories were artless

and badly told;

their battles were messy,

simply skirmishes in the war;

their love–affairs were quick

gropes in the dark and

dissatisfaction and a stain

here and there;

no demigods were born

of their unions.

Their great declarations

were made whilst drunk

and quickly forgotten,

or never heard,

for the din of the bar

around them.

Their names are not written.

Their deaths are recorded in lists

and tally charts;

Their monuments are empty spaces,

the thread of grief in another

unrecorded life;

They are the food of Death,

not glory.

Distracting fate with their blundering,

their tasks were immaculately served.

Without them,

the heroes would not stand

a chance.