There is a passage in The Odyssey,
In which the beauties of Icmalius’ chair
Are brought before our eyes;
Almost so that we, in wonderment,
Like it’s fabled footrest,
Find ourselves mortised in the frame,
Draped with a heavy fleece
And listening, as Penelope
Instructs her house help, Eurynome,
To seat the guest for story.
Imagine that fine Icmalian craft
And conjure, in your mind, the scene in which
Penelope, in her own voice, declares
‘I wish our guest to tell his story whole
And patiently to hear me out, as well,
As I’ll be full of questions, point by point.
I want him, seated in our polished chair,
To tell me of his travels, in good time.
For this stranger, who has come into our halls,
May know somewhat of Odysseus himself.’
All poetry is such an Icmalian chair:
Its music mortised into practiced frames;
Mellifluous rhyme and artful assonance
Cast over it, like Homer’s softened fleece.
Through aeons, both these crafts have been refined,
Since earlier than Gilgamesh or Ur;
And they have fitly shaped the conversation,
From Pindar’s odes to Martial’s epigrams,
Of all that we call prosody or verse -
And taught us better how to use our tongues.