Magnificent Niké alights upon a plinth of stones
her huge wings of blue
the wrapped mantle of fine linen around her legs
hemmed in blue
fight the sea storm of wind
the deck of a warship prow riding high
on surging waves of victory.
I visit the Louvre in mid-September
the tourist season is over
the museum is quiet
I have no expectations of the massive monument’s placement
at the top of the main staircase
rising more than 19 feet above me
a trihemiolia warship in the harbor
the monument is not an altar requiring reverence
or a vault in the stillness of a national cemetery
yet her glory stuns me to solemn silence
the draped figure of the marble Goddess moves
alive from the battle she memorializes
military pride the West replicates
in a thousand civic plazas
Yet her aesthetic grandeur hides the horror
in the sea behind the victory she announces.
hundreds of warriors float bloody
dismembered, drowning, or dead
ripped to bits by the ferocity of battle
their cries muffled by explosions of noise
ships tear asunder wood hulls with submerged rams of iron,
marines leap from deck to deck,
fireballs ignite
wooden ships become flaming crematoria
What happens to those bodies floating in the seabodie
s of defeat and bodies of victory?
Water blood red and bony debris are they
consumed by feasting fish and cackling birds avaricious?
Do they linger after warships leave
listless riding waves up and down
tides eventually draw them to shore
foot here, head there
slashed torsos wash up on beaches
defy identification.
Are these human detritus collected by families of the losers
and burned to the choruses of wailing sorrow.
What is the end of victors who survive?
How many wounded struggle in the salt stinging sea
to breathe choking smoke of wood
gag on the stench of charred flesh
or bloody are carried to anxious families at the docks
where they supply politicians and rulers with stories
to inspire patriotism in citizens
to console widows and children
and praise gods for glorious victory.
Warriors killed in battle are not defeated
no matter how labelled friend or foe
for they are spared further agony
granted the mercy of death
victors live only to fight again, and perhaps then
to die welcoming death.
There is no victory in victory.
The dismemberment of history
in broken art shields us,
we, rising on the steps of her sanctuary,
thousands of years later
thousands of battles later,
from the horrors victors celebrate,
could not otherwise be awestruck
looking up into this eternal moment.
Ron Tobey grew up in north New Hampshire, USA, and attended the University of New Hampshire, Durham. He farms in West Virginia. He writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. As an imagist poet, he expresses experiences and moods in concrete descriptions in haiku, lyrical poetry storytelling, audio poetry, and in filmic interpretation. Ron has published widely in poetry journals. He was a finalist in Cleaver Magazine 40th Anniversary Flash Fiction Contest. Ron is active on X @Turin54024117