One of the rules of Greek lament poetry is that it mustn't

Hear, O listeners of myth and memory, the voice of Alice Oswald, who declared: “One of the rules of Greek lament poetry is that it mustn’t mention the dead by name in case of invoking a ghost. Maybe the Iliad, crowded with names, is more than a poem. Maybe it’s a dangerous piece of the brightness of both this world and the next.” In these words she reveals a truth that trembles between reverence and fear: that names are not mere sounds, but vessels of power, and that poetry itself is not harmless song, but a force that bridges the seen and unseen.

For in the traditions of Greek lament, to name the dead was perilous. The ancients feared that to speak a name was to summon a presence, to disturb the fragile boundary between the living and the shades below. A lament without names was safe grief; a lament with names risked awakening the restless. Thus, poetry was treated not only as art but as ritual, bound by sacred laws, for words themselves were alive with spiritual consequence. The poet was both singer and conjurer, both mourner and mediator with the otherworld.

And yet the Iliad, that thunderous epic of Homer, is a poem crowded with names. From Achilles to Hector, from the long roll of soldiers remembered in catalogues, to the countless minor figures slain in battle, Homer inscribed them all. He called the names not only of heroes but of the forgotten—men whose only memory in history is a brief mention before they fall by spear or sword. Oswald suggests that in this act, Homer was doing more than writing a poem: he was raising the shades, conjuring the voices of the dead into the eternal brightness of his verse.

Indeed, the Iliad does not merely tell of war; it makes war present again. Each name is a resurrection, each line a summoning. To recite the poem is to walk among ghosts, to feel their breath, to witness their fall. This is why Oswald dares to call it “dangerous.” It is not safe art, but a passageway—an open gate between worlds. Its brightness is not gentle illumination but the fierce blaze of memory and mortality, reminding us that life and death are woven together, and that to name is to keep alive.

Consider how this power has echoed through history. When the names of the dead of wars are carved upon stone memorials, they are more than records; they are invocations. To read them aloud is to feel the presence of those lost, to stir grief and reverence in the living. In modern times, at places like the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, people trace names with their fingers and weep—not because of abstract numbers, but because of the power of the name to summon the person. Homer’s roll call of warriors is the same: it gives the fallen back their humanity, even as it risks invoking their restless spirits.

This is the dual brightness Oswald speaks of: the light of this world, where names preserve memory, and the light of the next, where names awaken spirits. Poetry, then, is not merely the craft of beauty but the handling of fire. It consoles and it endangers, it illumines and it summons. To write, to speak, to name, is to take hold of a power greater than oneself. The ancients knew this; Oswald recalls it; we must learn it again.

Therefore, O seekers, the lesson is clear: approach words with reverence. Do not treat poetry as a harmless pastime, nor the naming of the dead as an idle act. Know that language shapes reality, that names carry presence, that poetry is a bridge between the living and the dead, between this world and the next. And when you write, or read, or speak, do so with the knowledge that you are wielding a brightness that can both heal and wound.

So remember Oswald’s wisdom: the Iliad is not just a poem—it is a living flame, dangerous and eternal. To name is to summon, to sing is to awaken, to write is to stand in the fire between life and death. Handle poetry with reverence, for in it lies the brightness of two worlds.