written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label Apollo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Apollo. Show all posts

Tuesday, 24 June 2014

Stardate: -716000

Would it make too much mess if I picked apart a sentence?  The theme this week is 'space' and I can't think the word without it being pestered by its fellows, ':' and 'the final frontier'. 

It's quite economic, as sentences go.  And it's a metaphor.  It reminds me of the way Sir David Attenborough describes locations in his voiceovers: The Sahara: a vast swathe of scorching earth.  Or Antarctica: the planet's ice box.  Something like that.  But the Star Trek quote is more evocative than that.

Being an American TV series which started in 1966, Star Trek was riding on the tailcoats of the great Westerns.  Bonanza was the top rating TV series that year, and had been for the two years before.  It was also the year that The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly was released in US cinemas. 

The American Frontier, that push westwards, since the 17th century, of Americans as they spread across the continent, was still fresh in the imagination.  New territories, ie farmland as yet unclaimed, became almost impossible to find after the 1890s.  By the 1960s the Americans were reminiscing fondly about the days of outlaws, goldrushes and, before the truth of the Trail of Tears was widely known, their dominance over the American Indians.

In 1966, the US space programme was also at the forefront of imaginations.  They had yet to walk on the moon, but the Project Gemini took astronauts into space for longer and longer periods and Project Apollo was costing the modern equivalent of $205billion with the aim of putting the first men on the moon.  Three years later, it would succeed.

Roddenberry's intentions behind the TV series are crystal clear in those first four words.  He saw space as the new Wild West and Americans as THE human race.  In the future, he imagined, John Wayne would ride through the stars, an outlaw captain writing the rules and disobeying authority, finding love on every planet and outsmarting every menace. 

This concludes my examination of that short metaphor.  And it goes to show just how much cultural punch you can pack into a few carefully chosen words.  Poetry: cultured concentrated.

Captain James T Kirk

John Wayne

Thursday, 8 March 2012

Mars: Bringer of Tor

Aphrodite sat on the concrete steps, dangling her neatly arched feet into the milky spume from whence she came. Beneath the ubiquitous brine, Uranus lingered still - salty with a trace of zinc. This is where she came to revitalise. Infidelity had its charms but one too many Mona Lisa smiles had left the first traces of corvid footprints around her eyes. The goddess's fountain of youth wasn't what it used to be. If you listened carefully to the waves they'd tell you they felt a bit sick. The tide would pull down its lower eyelid and point to the dirty flesh, asking if it looked pale. Aprhodite weighed her right tit critically in her hand. Strictly speaking, it shouldn't rest on her palm like that. It certainly shouldn't spill over the edge. It might be time to head back to Paphos soon. The all-pervasive grey which dominated this landscape seemed to be sapping her colour, draining it from her body and feeding it into the brash glass structures which shut out the stars.

Hot, wet breath on the back of her neck alerted Aphrodite to the arrival of Setanta, the loping Irish wolfhound. The beast lapped at her shoulder briefly before sitting beside her. Ares whistled provocatively from the top of the steps but both goddess and dog ignored him, forcing the god of war to make his way down the steps. He continued to whistle to himself as he stood behind Aprhodite who smiled as Ares nestled his legs against her back so that she could feel his excitement against the back of her head. Aprhodite lifted her arms up to each side of her head and Ares pulled her up to her feet, spinning her round to face him and pulling her close so that he could taste the primal essence of his ancestor on her lips.

Minutes later the couple were between the sheets in the grotesque architectural anomaly known to locals as 'The Palace'. Here Hephaestus dwelt with Aprhodite in a doubtful arrangement which was part marriage, part transaction. Jove, Zeus, Jupiter. Whatever you called him, Aprhodite had daddy issues. The issue being that she'd rather he didn't see her as a convenient way of saying thank you:

Daughter or thank you card? Daughter or thank you card? Oh, go on - have my daughter. You earned her.

No.

Aphrodite, being a sensible goddess, reacted to this indignity in the most appropriate manner. She screwed Ares, god of war, at every available opportunity. She did so in Hephaestus' bed, beneath his own roof, just in case there was any confusion about her allegiance. She bore Ares 5 children. Or was it 6? After the third birth she'd stopped keeping track. Offspring also seemed to attract the footsteps of the corvidae.

Aprhodite giggled breathlessly beneath the excitable Ares as they attempted to recreate the dance of a pair of sparring swans. Even infidelity requires an injection of spice occasionally. Just as Ares was attempting his masterpiece move, which involved arching backwards to touch his toes so that he resembled a horny doughnut, a thin layer of incredibly fine fabric fell upon the couple, trapping them in their exotic embrace. Hephaestus pulled the magical net in tight around the couple and declared that he was taking them to the Winter Gardens where their shame would be revealed before the clan.


Ares tried to reason with the cuckolded Hephaestus but the miffed god was having none of it. Aphrodite was his play thing. Zeus said so. She was supposed to play with him whenever he liked and he didn't want to share. The crafty artisan dragged the sweaty pair through the town centre and into the Winter Gardens. He ignored the cheery greeting from Hermes on the door and stomped into the Olympia Exhibition Hall where Zeus was presiding over a busy antique market. Hephaestus dragged his cargo passed a table where Athena was haggling with a strident elderly lady over a bronze buckle. He ignored the indecent comment from Apollo who leaned back in a plastic chair, surrounded by over-priced lyres and tuneless guitars. Zeus was enjoying a brew and a Garibaldi at the back of the hall. A bubbly nereid was offering to top him up when Hephaestus dumped the net containing Aprhodite and Ares on the floor in front of him and demanded that the pair be punished for their disgraceful behaviour.

A giddy bout of laughter moved around the hall as gods and goddesses caught on to the situation. Thighs were slapped and eyes were dabbed and none laughed harder than Zeus himself. Hermes wandered in for a chuckle and Apollo shouted over, "Hermes! How much would you pay me to tie you up in a net with Aprhodite for half an hour?" Another ripple of laughter spread around the hall and even the stingy old woman chuckled. Meanwhile, Ares and Aphrodite were growing a little bored of their role in this comedy and Ares looked to his mate, Poseidon for assistance. The old earth shaker had a quiet word in Hephaestus' shell-like. Told him to set the pair free before anyone got upset. Promised to 'make it right'. He pulled rank. Hephaestus released the nude deities with no small amount of grumbling.

The lusty lovers retreated to their respective temples for a little pampering and adulation. Aprhodite simmered in a hot bubble bath. Grace A was putting the kettle on while Grace B picked out something snazzy for the evening. Grace C hummed to herself while applying a conditioning treatment to the ends of Aphrodite's hair. The goddess' perfect toes turned the hot tap back on as she relaxed. With a single malt whisky in one hand and a holiday brochure in the other, Aprhodite laughed.



Image from: http://www.amounderness.co.uk/blackpool_winter_gardens_entrance_church_street.html