Milo of Croton

Milo of Croton

The Wrestler, Milo of Croton in Grecian Woods

Milo was walking through the shadowy woods.
Broken beams of late afternoon sunlight
Pierced the leafy canopy, and deer,
Spooked by the sound of his footsteps, took off
As he approached their dense, clandestine coverts.
But home, not venison, held Milo's heart.
Yet an ancient olive trunk, split, wedged,
Gaping in a long, moist wound exposing
Fragrant heartwood still green and tightly grained,
Caught his eye and set his limbs a trembling.
The wedges, rusted, glinted in bright sparks
Of metal shining through a clot of blood-
Red rust that formed in some lost yesteryear
Of solitary, peirastic summoning,
A call that Milo, crowned with victory,
Could not fail to heed, could not refuse.
Milo walked over to the wounded olive,
Inspected the long cut, and flexed his muscles.
Above him a thick swarm of honeybees
Made a wheel with their queen at the dark center.
The air was permeated by the thick
Perfume of their gold pollen, and the music
Of their low bass caressed the murmuring
Branches and the whispering leaf clusters.
Milo turned his palms outward, gripped the sides
Of the bright gash, and drew a long, deep breath.
His arms and shoulders strained. The old wood groaned.
The veins of his forehead swelled with thick blood.
The wedges quivered, dropped as the cut widened,
Then slammed hard onto Milo's straining hands,
And held him fast in an unyielding vise.
He pushed against the wounded wood and tried
To break his adversary's mighty grip.
The day wore on. The tree sucked up his strength,
And as twilight enveloped him, he saw
Bright eyes in the blue dark, and heard low gurgling
Carried on advancing waves of darkness.
The air grew turbulent with angry raindrops,
And the wolves moved toward him. He smelled their mouths
And strained in the bone crushing grip of old,
Unyielding wood. A wolf lurched. Milo kicked
And broke its neck. Another closed its jaws
Around his shoulder. Milo shook. Sharp drops
Of rain began to pelt them. The black heavens
Let out a roar. The other wolves moved in
For the kill. Ozone filled the air. The olive
Exploded in a fiery crash, and man,
Wolves and twisted olive wood were seared
By the swift fire that fell from Heaven's hand.
The raindrops drizzled lightly and the scene
Cooled overnight. Shortly after dawn,
When the pink light of daybreak lit the woods,
Some shepherds came upon the scene. At first
Fear froze them in their tracks, but soon they moved
The wolves aside, and worked at prying loose
The corpse of Milo, whom they recognized,
And who they knew was chosen by Lord Zeus.
They gathered stones and built a simple cairn
Where the god's holy fire had scorched the earth,
And they took Milo to be burned to ash.
The olive tree, sacred to the god,
Had honored Milo seven times before
He died in its embrace. It bore young leaf
And tender fruit, and the bee swarm that witnessed
Milo's passion, made its home high up
In the tree's cleft, and gathered the soft pollen
From long rebirths of fragrant olive blossoms.

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Milo: except perhaps for Pherenikos, the great stallion of Hieron of Syracuse, Milo of Croton, a great wrestler, was the most celebrated athlete of ancient Greece. Pausanias tells us that he took the crown in six Olympic contests, while Simonides says that at Olympia Milo was victorious seven times, including once as a boy.

Yet an ancient olive trunk, split, wedged,
Gaping in a long, moist wound exposing
Fragrant heartwood still green and tightly grained,
Caught his eye and set his limbs a trembling.
The ancient accounts, to the best of my recollection, do not name the tree. Identifying it as an olive is my addition to the tale. At Olympia Milo was crowned seven times with olive wreaths sacred to Zeus. In my telling of the story Milo's attempt to overpower the sacred olive is an act of hubris.

The wedges quivered, dropped as the cut widened,
Then slammed hard onto Milo's straining hands,
And held him fast in an unyielding vise.
Milo of Croton was famous both for his long reign at the Greek athletic games, but also for his many feats of strength. It was a final demonstration of strength that brought his long career to an end. When he saw the old tree wedged open, he decided to tear it completely open. But the champion who had defeated so many opponents in his legendary grip, met his downfall in a hold he couldn't break.

And as twilight enveloped him, he saw
Bright eyes in the blue dark, and heard low gurgling
Carried on advancing waves of darkness.
There are two accounts of Milo's death. In one he is torn apart by wolves. In the other he is killed by a lion.

The corpse of Milo, whom they recognized,
And who they knew was chosen by Lord Zeus.
They gathered stones and built a simple cairn
Where the god's holy fire had scorched the earth,
And they took Milo to be burned to ash.
Among the ancient Greeks the site of a lightning strike became sacred ground, and victims of such events were considered to have been touched by the gods. Compare The Bacchae of Euripides when Dionysus praises Cadmus for honoring the site of Semele's destruction in the fire of Zeus. Small reliquaries or altars were erected at the scenes of lightning strikes. Cairns to honor great men are part of a tradition so old that it is attested in the Vedas.

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This poem was published in The Hypertexts.