The Parthenon

Where they tamed the wild Libyan
Unmarried war-goddess, goatskin-aproned;
Transmuted the owl-shrieking bugaboo
Into an image of wisdom –

A dash in a reckless and exorbitant taxi
Will get you there; then climb
Above the esurient, lively and stuffy city,
Feet slipping on loose stones.

Suddenly it stands there; like a familiar quotation
From dusty oleographs, the model
Of every second-rate “classical” building –
Church or museum –

Off-white like a sea-worn shell,
Like a bird’s skull,
Under remorseless light;
Denuded the colour and gold

Long since; the centaurs and heroes
Shanghaied to Bloomsbury.
It seems very small;
And She has departed.

So that’s all. There is nothing to do
But stand and gape like any other
Romantic tourist; and then go.

But turn your back, and stumble
Down the steep track – then suddenly
The mathematical candour,
Neither over – nor under – statement,

Owl-clawed, hooks to the heart.

John Heath-Stubbs (1959)

Este foi o TLS Poem of the Week na semana de 4 de Maio.