COUNTED OUT — OLYMPIA

The small white space roped off; the hard blue light

Burning intensely on the narrow ring,

And every muscle's movement sculpturing

Harshly, of those two naked men who fight;

Beyond, the yellow lights that seem to swing

Across abysmal darkness; and below,

Tier upon tier, all silent, row on row

The dense black-coated throng, and all a-strain

White faces, turned towards the narrow stage,

Watching intently; watching, nerves and brain,

As those two men, cut off in that blue glare

From all reality of place and age

Wherein our common being has a share,

Together isolated, watch and creep

— Sunk head, hunched shoulders, light of foot and swift,

Deadly of purpose — in that ancient game,

Which was not otherwise in forests deep

Of earth primeval: that light tread the same,

The same those watchful eyes, and those quick springs

Of a snake uncoiling; underneath the skin,

Glistening with sweat in that unearthly blaze,

The muscles run and check, like living things.

And then, the hot air tremulous with the din,

And all the great crowd surging to its feet,

Yet like a wave arrested, while the hands

Of the referee allot the moments’ beat;

The seconds, strung like greyhounds on a leash

Await the signal; and there's one who stands

Still guarding, watchful, tense, while all around

Lamp-light and darkness seem to rock and spin

In one wild clamour; and upon the ground,

Beneath the stark blue light, the beaten man!