Cavafy

  but alongside them for old friendship

  for old love, for their deep feeling.

  “Someone else” was a fake, a proper hustler:

  one suit only did he get for him, and

  that with trouble and a thousand pleases.

  But now he doesn’t want the suits any more

  nor in any way the silk handkerchiefs

  nor twenty pounds nor twenty cents.

  Sunday, they buried him at 10:00 a.m.

  Sunday, they buried him almost a week ago.

  On his pauper’s box he put flowers,

  pretty flowers and white, how very right they were

  for his good looks and his twenty-two years.

  When he went at evening—he had a job,

  had to, for bread—to the coffe-house where

  they used to go together: it was a knife to the heart

  the dark coffee-house where they used to go together.

  Come O King of the Lacedaemonians

  Kratesikleia would not allow herself to be seen

  in grief and tears: in stillness she walked

  in majesty. Nothing of bitter torment

  did an untroubled countenance reveal.

  Even so, once for a moment she did not keep it up.

  Just before she went aboard that squalid boat

  to go to Alexandria, she took her son

  to Poseidon’s temple. And when they were alone

  she hugged him and kissed him

  he being, as Plutarch says, “in pain”

  and “profoundly distressed.”

  And yet her powerful spirit

  struggled: the admirable woman

  composed herself and said to Kleomenes,

  “Come O King of the Lacedaemonians,

  Let no one see us weep when we are out,

  no one see us do what is not worthy of Sparta.

  This was just for us. Changes of fortune apply

  as God provides.” And she went aboard

  proceeding to what God “provides.”

  In the Same Place

  What’s around: house, bars, and neighborhood

  I look at and walk in year on year,

  in joy and in grief I brought you into being

  with so much incident, with so many troubles,

  for me you have turned wholly into physical sensation.

  The Mirror

  The rich house had at the door

  a big mirror, very old,

  bought eighty years at least before.

  A beautiful boy, tailor’s helper,

  Sundays amateur athlete,

  stood with a package. He gave it

  to one of the household, who took it in

  to get a receipt. Tailor’s helper

  waited by himself.

  He went to the mirror and looked at himself

  and fixed his tie. Five minutes later

  they brought the receipt. He took it and left.

  But the old mirror that had seen and seen

  in its life of many years

  thousands of objects and faces—

  the old mirror rejoiced now

  elated at having received

  for a couple of minutes beauty whole.

  He Asked About the Quality

  Out of the office where he’d been taken on

  at a meaningless post, and poorly paid,

  (up to eight pounds—with tips)

  he came when his empty work was done,

  bent over it all afternoon,

  he came out at seven, walked slowly about

  and dawdled on the road—beautiful

  and interesting, so to show himself arrived

  at his full sensual yield:

  twenty-nine he’d turned last month.

  He dawdled on the road and on the poor

  side-streets that led to his place.

  Passing in front of a small store

  where they sold things

  fake and cheap for workers,

  he saw a face there inside, he saw a shape

  that nudged him, and he went in and asked

  of course to see the colored kerchiefs.

  He asked about the quality of the kerchiefs

  and how much they cost

  in a strangled voice

  almost extinguished with desire,

  and the answers came alike,

  distracted, voice lowered

  in subliminal consent.

  They always were saying something about the merchandise—but

  only for this: to touch hands

  over the kerchiefs, to have their faces

  close together, their lips, as though by accident,

  a momentary touch of limbs.

  Quick and secret so he doesn’t catch on,

  the owner who sat in the back.

  They Should Have Concerned Themselves

  I’m just about down to homeless and poor:

  this fatal city, Antioch,

  has eaten all my bread,

  this fatal city with its high-priced life.

  But I’m young and in the best of health

  have fantastic Greek

  know Aristotle, Plato through,

  orators, poets, any name you say,

  of military science I have a notion,

  and friendships with captains of mercenaries,

  I understand administration some

  in Alexandria I stayed 6 months last year:

  I have an acquaintance (this too is useful) with things there:

  Kakergetis’s aims, buggeries, etc.

  So I think I am to the full

  qualified to serve this land,

  my beloved fatherland, Syria.

  At whatever task they set me to, I’ll try

  to be helpful to my country. This is my aim.

  If they get in my way again with their methods—

  we know them, the hard-workers. Need we say it now?

  if they get in my way, it’s not my fault.

  I’ll apply to Zavina first

  and if this fool doesn’t value me,

  I’ll go to his opposite, Grypo,

  and if that idiot doesn’t accept me,

  I go straight to Hyrkano.

  One of the three in any case will want me.

  And my conscience is easy

  on the coolness of my selection:

  all three hurt Syria the same.

  But I’m busted. It’s not my fault.

  I’m down, looking to be stitched up.

  The mighty gods should have concerned themselves

  to create a good fourth.

  Happily I would have gone with him.

  By Prescriptions of Greco-Syrian Magicians of Old

  “What distillation might there be of sorcery’s

  flora?” a sensualist asked,

  “of Greco-Syrian magicians of old

  that for one day (if longer

  its power did not avail) or for just a little time

  bring age twenty-three back again

  to me. My friend aged twenty-two

  bring back to me again—his beauty, his love.”

  “What distillation might there be by prescriptions made

  of Greco-Syrian magicians of old

  that in accordance with the backward run

  might also bring our little bedroom back again?”

  200 BCE

  “Alexander, son of Philip, and the Greeks,

  except for the Lacedaemonians.”

  We can imagine very well

  how utterly indifferent they were at Sparta

  to this notation, “except the Lacedaemonians.”

  But of course they were not the Spartans

  just to be led and ordered like high-priced staff.

  Besides , a pan-Hellenic expedition

  and no Spartan king for commander-in-chief

  would not seem to them an absolute summit.

  “Yes, of course without the Spartans.” It’s a positi
on.

  Agreed. That way with no Lacedaemonians at Granicus

  and after at the Issus and at the last battle,

  where they swept away the awesome army

  amassed by the Persians at Arvila.

  (that started from Arvila and was swept away)

  and out of that wonderful pan-Hellenic expedition

  triumphant, coruscating, talk of the world

  glorified as no other has ever been

  we came out incontestable. We emerged

  a new Hellenic world, great.

  We of Alexandria, Antioch, Seleucia,

  and the numerous rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria

  and in Media and Persia and all the rest

  with our extended dominions

  with the shifting execution

  of thoughtful assimilations

  and the Common Greek Language

  we took to Bactria, to India

  Shall we now indeed

  talk about Lacedaemonians?

  Days of 1908

  That year, he had no work

  so he lived off cards

  backgammon and loans.

  A place, three pounds a month, in a small

  card shop, he had offered him,

  but he said no without a pause:

  it wouldn’t do; it was not the pay for him,

  young, well-educated, and twenty-five years old.

  Two, three shillings a day he made, didn’t make;

  from cards and backgammon what was the kid going to make

  in cafes of his class, blue-collar,

  however cleverly he played, however foolish the men he chose?

  Loans—they were what they were:

  he rarely made a nickel, half that more often;

  sometimes he dropped to a shilling.

  Some weeks, sometimes more often,

  when he would escape the awful all-nighter

  he freshened himself at the baths with a morning swim.

  His clothes were a complete disaster:

  one same thing he always wore,

  a badly discolored cinnamon colored suit

  Ah, you summer days of nineteen hundred and eight,

  the badly-discolored cinnamon colored suit

  has gone from my beautiful vision of you.

  My vision of you has kept him as he was

  when he took them off and threw them aside,

  the worthless clothes and mended underwear.

  And he stayed naked, irreproachably beautiful, a marvel,

  uncombed, hair on end, limbs a little tanned

  from mornings naked at the baths, and by the sea.

  In the Suburbs of Antioch

  We were bewildered in Antioch when we learned

  of Julian’s new doings.

  Apollo himself at Dafni had spoken:

  he would not give oracles (imagine how much we cared)

  would not speak as prophet until

  his precinct at Dafni was purified:

  the neighboring dead, he said, offended him.

  At Dafni there are many graves:

  one of those buried there

  was the wonder, the glory of our church,

  the saint, triumphant martyr, Vavylas.

  To him he alluded; him, did the false god fear,

  sensing him nearby he did not dare

  to bring out his oracles: not a whisper.

  They fear our witnesses, the false gods.

  The impious Julian rolled up his sleeves,

  worked himself up and shouted, “Get him up. Cart him off.

  Take this Vavylas out now.

  You hear? Apollo is offended.

  Get him up. Grab him now.

  Unbury him. Take him where you like.

  Get him out. Throw him out. Am I kidding now?

  Apollo said to purify his precinct.”

  We picked it up, we took it, the holy relic, elsewhere.

  We picked it up, we took it in love and in honor.

  And in fact the precinct developed beautifully.

  Not much time had passed when fire

  broke into a great blaze, a horrific fire,

  and precinct and Apollo burned.

  The idol is ashes: sweep it out with the garbage.

  Julian blew up. He spread it about—

  what else would he do?—that the fire was set

  by us Christians. Let him talk.

  It hasn’t been proved. Let him talk.

  The real thing is he blew up.

  At the Theater

  I was bored with looking at the stage.

  I glanced up to the loges

  and saw you there in a box

  your odd beauty and corrupted youth.

  I remembered suddenly everything they said

  that afternoon about you

  and my flesh and my mind were roused

  while I watched bewitched

  your wearied beauty, your wearied youth

  your choosy attire.

  I imagined you and I pictured you

  just as they told me about you that afternoon.

  The Bandaged Shoulder

  Ran into a wall, he said,

  fell down, he said

  but something else would

  I think, have caused

  the wound, the bandaged shoulder.

  He moved a little too quickly

  to take from a shelf

  some photos to look at up close

  and the bandage came loose

  and a little blood ran.

  I bound it up again and in binding

  I somehow took my time.

  It wasn’t hurting him

  and I liked seeing the blood

  a thing of my love that blood.

  When he left I found

  in front of his chair

  a bloodied rag from the compress

  a rag straight for the garbage

  that I took to my lips

  that I held a long time

  against my lips the blood of my love.

  Bank of the Future

  My hard life, in order to insure it, I

  Will take from foreign currencies very little

  In the Bank of the Future in the sky.

  I doubt it has much capital:

  At first crisis—I begin to fear—

  The Bank will suddenly be in arrears.

  Attires

  In a chest, in a dresser made of precious ebony wood, I’ll place and keep my life’s attires:

  the blue clothes; then the red, these the most beautiful of all. And after them, the yellow. And last, the blue again, but a lot more faded these last than the first.

  I’ll keep them with piety and with great sorrow.

  When I shall be wearing black clothes and when I shall be living in a black house, in a dark room, sometimes I’ll open the dresser with joy, with yearning, and with despair.

  I shall look at the clothes and remember the great feast—which by then will be all over for good. All over for good. Pieces of furniture scattered everywhere in the rooms. Plates and glasses, broken on the ground. All the candles burnt to the end. All the wine drunk up. All the guests gone. Some who got tired will be sitting all by themselves, like me, in their dark houses. Others more tired still will have gone to sleep.

  The Death of the Emperor Tacitus

  He is sick, the Emperor Tacitus:

  his deep old age could not

  withstand the toils of war.

  At a hateful encampment bound to bed

  at wretched Tyana—so far away—

  he remembers his dear Campania

  his garden, his villa, the morning

  walk—his life six months ago—

  and in his pain he curses

  the Senate, the malevolent Senate.

  Half Hour

  Neither did I possess you nor shall I possess you

  ever, I know. A few words, a nearness

  like the day before yesterday in the bar. And nothing el
se.

  It is grief, I don’t say it’s not. But we who belong to Art

  sometimes fashion pleasure

  that almost seems the real thing,

  by intense concentration,

  and just for a little time to be sure,

  Like in the bar, two days ago, I,

  admittedly helped a lot

  by compassionate alcohol,

  had half an hour of love complete.

  And you picked it up, I think,

  and stayed on purpose a little longer.

  There was great need there, because

  with all the fantasy and the magic alcohol

  I also had to see your lips.

  Your body had to be nearby.

  People of Poseidonia

  “It happened to the people of Poseidonia, who lived on the Tyrrhenian Gulf and were originally Greek, that they became barbarians: Etruscans, and they changed their language and the rest of their ways, but they continue even now to observe one certain Greek celebration. They come together and recollect the old words and institutions, and they make lamentations to one another, and weep and depart.”

  Athenaeus 14.862

  The Poseidoniates forgot their Greek

  after mixing for so many hundreds of years

  with Etruscans and Latins and other strangers.

  From their forefathers’ time they had just

  one Greek festival with its beautiful rites

  lyres and flutes, contests and wreaths.

  And they were accustomed toward the end of the feast

  to tell as narrative their old ways

  and pronounce the Greek words again

  that barely a few understood any more .

  They would always end their feast in sorrow

  because they remembered they were Greek

  of Magna Graecia themselves for a season.

  Now how far they’d fallen, what they’d become

  living and speaking as barbarians—

  shut out—what a disaster!—from Hellenism.

  Return from Greece

  So, Hermippos, we are almost there,

  day after tomorrow, I think.

  The captain said so.

  Anyhow we’re sailing on our sea now

  waters of Cyprus, Syria, Egypt

  well-loved waters of our native lands.

  Why so quiet? Ask yourself—heart’s honor—