I, Claudius Poem by Joydeep Sircar
I, Claudius
Xenophon of Cos ministers to the lame
and earnest emperor. Seneca, exiled, vents
his stoic rage on the salt Corsican air.
I sit at midnight with my histories
and ponder. Messalina still keeps my bed.
The horns are on the wall, where they belong.
And Time is an artifice, sheer mousseline sense
of deja vu: my baby in little boots
pirouettes on the floor like Salome.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/27/2024 5:26:58 PM # 1.0.0.1119
