Hermocopis

“In the midst of these preparations all the stone Hermae in the city of Athens, that is to say the customary square figures so common in the doorways of private houses and sanctuaries, had in one night been mutilated. No one knew who had done it, and it was voted that anyone who knew of any other act of impiety having been committed should come and give information without fear of consequences, whether he were citizen, foreigner, or slave. The matter was taken up the more seriously, as it was thought to be ominous for the expedition, and part of a conspiracy to bring about a revolution and to upset the democracy.” – Thucydides.6.27

No one had suspected her for a moment.
Well, why would they?
She was a half-disfigured slave, after all.
And a girl.
The consistent beating meant she never quite recovered,
Raw flesh sometimes exposed,
Skin usually black and blue,
Eyes unfailingly red.
Her numerous miscarriages,
(A relief to her master and
perhaps more so his wife)
Made her reputedly “weak”.

No one had suspected her,
Though it was she who crept out of the house,
In the dead of night, the downpour of rain
muffling her uneven footsteps.
(Was this how Antigone felt?)
Armed with the heaviest
Pan from the kitchen,
the one she burnt the soup in one time,
and the master had her beaten with it.
She limped stealthily down
the streets, dark but familiar
From her daily trips to the agora.
It was the night before the expedition
And the Athenians were all in their homes
avoiding the storm: asleep, or praying.

This time, she was the one
To bring down the pan,
The shattering of the stone so satisfying.
Funny, really, how easily the member
Broke off. So much more fragile than she,
With her resilient flesh, her skin which tried
And tried again to heal. Her eyes which
Flooded and dried, day after day, like the sea-shore.
How laughably breakable in comparison,
was this protruding symbol of male power,
which had so often assaulted her.

No one had suspected her for a moment,
But her master (being a member of
One of those elite circles) was called
Up immediately. All the Herms in Athens!
On the night before the fleet set sail to Sicily!
A sure attack on the democracy!

Athens, Spring of 415 BCE

Li An Tan (2022, Literae Humaniores)

The Woods on My Skin

When I was younger,
I understood the way my veins spread across my chest as wings
Unfurling to my shoulder blades

Older, now,
As a network of roots and branches:
Like here, at my left wrist,
Truncating into three
Each finger like a leaf reaching towards some light –

The woods on my skin
An amalgamation of the woods where I roamed and grew,
Made of veins filled with blood and creek water and mud

A map of paths with no names
Bar the ones we gave –
An insider’s knowledge of avenues and ways –
Of landscape scars
(Done in my ancestors’ hands)

A History of place and person
Under my skin,
My roots in the woods on my skin

My heart beats them alive,
Says: Carry this with you,
The woods on our skin –
But can’t you hear them tipping off my tongue? Slipping from my slang?
Can’t you see them there on my skin? In my face and its mirror?

Carry this with you –
Carry this with you.

I do

I do.

Cara Nicholl’s (2025, History)

Martlet’s Song

Along the cloudy promenade
I saw Nature’s Skywalkers, strutting,
Puffing their chests out proudly
Stretching their wings wide, as if to say
“Crucify me if you will”
Singing with laughter in their beaks
At first sight, they seemed to glide with grace
But their wings told another story.
Held out for crucifixion, they warmly embraced
The onslaught of blustering spring wind
Firmly, stubbornly, certainly
Gliding not graciously, but gloriously
Not because of the wind, but in spite of it
Those wings, I want them too.
May we have the oars to sail on
Despite the storm and its thunder
May we have the legs to walk further
Despite the depressions and steepness of the land
May we continue to live, in spite of life
Never perching our will at death’s door

Stephen Shodeinde

A Year in the Meadows

And so it begins again,
Spring showers, Cherwell surge, meadow flood.
Daffs bloom, Eights strain, Tourist throng.
Leaves drop, geese flock, students trash.
Frost covers, squirrels bury, bells toll.

Murray Palmer