Sasha Mostafa
Commended - 2025 Tower Poetry Competition, 'Roots'
The Foundations of Western Society
An Ancient Greek course - only
an hour a week.
Friday nights in wicked
autumn, the sky as blue
as a milk top, curling around
the clouds. The alphabet is fiddly
and lacerates my teenage understanding
of proxemics. No longer
can I generalise, estimate,
think beside or in between.
We trudge through our acrid history:
slaves, battles, idle men
with their futile games
of fetch and chase.
At the end of each lesson
we win a bedtime story from myth
or tragedy - children butchered
with wit, captive women used
by whips of gold, blisters
on the bed of a king. The light
in the classroom yellows, withers,
clings to what has grown
from the cavernous evenings.
I am asked what I have gained
by taking the course.
I say that now I know
how to walk down
a street of ghosts
without fear.