Christopher Logue has died. I was never an unconditional admirer of
War Music but have always sort of seen what others like about it; and some bits of description have stuck with me:
Achilles saw his armor in that instant
And its ominous radiance flooded his heart.
Bright pads with toggles crossed behind the knees,
Bodice of fitted tungsten, pliable straps;
His shield as round and rich as moons in spring;
His sword's haft parked between sheaves of gray obsidian
From which a lucid blade stood out, leaf-shaped, adorned
With running spirals.
And for his head a welded cortex; yes,
Though it is noon, the helmet screams against the light;
Scratches the eye; so violent it can be seen
Across three thousand years.
Apparently Logue was a colorful character:
In the 1940s he even penned a pornographic novel, entitled Lust, under the nom de plume Count Palmiro Vicarion.
His poems were set to music by both jazz musicians and in ballads by Donovan and Joan Baez.
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