Complete Poems (18 page)

His airy prattle concerning the false gods,

his wearisome braggadocio;

his childish fear of the theatre;

his graceless prudishness; his ridiculous beard.

O certainly they preferred the Chi,

O certainly they preferred the Kappa; a hundred times more.

In the chrysobull that Alexius Comnenus issued

to honor his mother in a most distinguished way,

the Lady Anna Dalassene, so very wise—

remarkable for her deeds, her mores—

there can be found a miscellany of praise:

among which, let us here relate

one beautiful, noble phrase,

“No one ever uttered ‘mine’ or ‘thine,’ those chilly words.”

He debased himself completely.      An erotic inclination,

very much forbidden      and held in great contempt

(innate, all the same)      was the reason why:

the society he lived in      was extremely priggish.

He had gradually lost      what little money he had;

afterwards his position,      then his reputation.

He was nearing thirty      and had never held

a job for even a year,      at least that anyone knew of.

Sometimes he would meet      his expenses by

playing go-between      in deals considered shameful.

He ended up the sort      who, if you were seen with him

often, you’d likely be      extremely compromised.

But that’s not all of it;      that wouldn’t be fair.

The memory of his beauty      deserves a great deal more.

There’s another way of looking      and, if seen that way,

he strikes you as attractive;      strikes you as the simple, true

child of desire      who, above his honor

and his reputation,      placed, without a thought,

the unsullied pleasure      of his unsullied body.

Above his reputation?      But society, which was

so extremely priggish      had such foolish values.

Since half past ten he’d waited at the café,

expecting him to appear before too long.

Midnight came and went—and still he waited.

Half past one had come and gone: the café

had emptied out entirely, almost.

He grew bored of reading the newspapers

mechanically. Of his three poor shillings

only one was left: during his long wait

he’d squandered all the rest on coffee and cognac.

He smoked all the cigarettes he had.

All the waiting was exhausting him. Because,

alone as he had been for many hours, he

began to be possessed by irksome thoughts

about the wayward life that he was living.

But when he saw his friend come in—all at once

the weariness, the boredom, the thoughts all fled.

His friend brought some unexpected news:

In the card game he’d won sixty pounds.

Their handsome faces, their exquisite youth,

the sensitive love that they shared between them,

was refreshed, revived, invigorated by

the sixty pounds from the game of cards.

All joy and potency, feeling and beauty,

they went—not to the houses of their upstanding families

(where, at any rate, they were no longer wanted):

to a certain one they knew, and rather special,

to a house of vice they went, and asked for

a bedroom, and expensive drinks, and they drank again.

And when the expensive drinks had all been drained,

and when it was close to four o’clock in the morning,

happy, they gave themselves to love.

Antioch goes boasting      about her splendid buildings,

and her lovely streets;      about the marvelous

countryside around her,      and the great number of

those who dwell inside her.      She boasts that she’s the seat

of illustrious kings;      and about the artists

and scholars that she has,      as well as hugely rich

and very canny merchants.      But most incomparable

of all, Antioch      boasts that she’s a city

that’s been Greek since ancient times;      a relative of Argos:

through Ionê, a city      founded by the Argive

colonists in honor      of the daughter of Inachus.

This was the thing about him that stood out:

that even with all of his loose living,

and such a vast experience of the sensual;

for all that it was usually the case

that his attitude was so well-fitted to his age,

there would be moments—to be sure,

extremely rare—when the impression that

he gave was one of flesh almost untouched.

The beauty of his nine-and-twenty years,

which had been assayed so much by pleasure,

reminded one at moments, strangely enough,

of a lad who—somewhat awkwardly—for

the first time gives his pure body up to love.

On the subject of our religious beliefs—

the fatuous Julian said, “I read it up, I understood it,

I looked down on it.” As if he’d wiped us out

with that “looked down” of his, ridiculous man.

But quips like that don’t hold much weight with us

Christians. “You read it up, but didn’t understand; had you understood,

you’d not have looked down on it” we straightaway replied.

Keep working however you can, brain.—

A one-sided passion is wasting him away.

He is in a maddening situation.

He kisses the beloved face each day,

his hands upon those most exquisite limbs.

Never before has he loved with such great

passion. But what’s missing is the beautiful fulfillment

of love; what’s missing is the fulfillment

which both of them must long for with the same intensity.

(They’re not equally devoted to abnormal pleasure; not both of them.

He alone is utterly possessed by it.)

And he wastes away, his nerves completely shot.

Besides, he’s out of work; that makes things worse.

With a bit of trouble he borrows some

small sums of money (which he practically

has to beg for, sometimes) and barely gets by.

He kisses the lips he worships: he takes his pleasure

upon the exquisite body—which, however,

he now feels is merely acquiescing.

And then he drinks and smokes; he drinks and smokes;

and drags himself around the cafés all day long,

wearily drags the wasting of his beauty.—

Keep working however you can, brain.

King Cleomenes didn’t know, he didn’t dare—

he didn’t how to say such a thing

to his mother: that Ptolemy was demanding,

as a guarantee for their agreement, that she too be sent

to Egypt to be held there as a hostage;

a very humiliating, unseemly affair.

He was always on the verge of speaking; and would always hesitate.

He was always about to tell; and would always stop.

But the extraordinary woman understood him

(she’d already heard some rumors about it anyway),

and encouraged him to tell her everything.

And she laughed; and said of course she’d go.

And indeed rejoiced that she could,

in her old age, be of use to Sparta still.

As for humiliation—but she was totally indifferent.

Of course a Lagid arriviste like that

was incapable of comprehending the Spartan spirit;

and so his arrogant demand could not,

in fact, humiliate an Eminent

Lady such as she: mother to a Spartan king.

He finished up the portrait      yesterday at noon. Now

he studies it in detail.      He did him in a gray

jacket, all unbuttoned,      a deep gray. Without

any vest or tie.      In a shirt of rose;

so a little of      the beauty of the chest,

the beauty of the throat,      might show through a bit.

The right side of his brow      is almost totally

covered by his hair,      by his beautiful hair

(which is combed the way      he fancies it this year).

The note is utterly      the voluptuous one

that he wanted to strike      when he did the eyes,

when he did the lips …      That mouth of his, the lips

made for the fulfillment      of a choice eroticism.

That things in the Colony aren’t going as one might wish

not the slightest doubt at all remains,

and though, despite it all, we’re getting ahead,

perhaps the time has come, as more than a few have said,

for us to bring in a Political Reformer.

Still, the obstacle, the quandary,

is that they always make a palaver

out of everything, these Reformers.

(It would be a blessing if no one ever

had need of them.) They investigate

everything, look into every corner,

and immediately dream up radical reforms,

and demand that they be enacted straightaway.

They also have a penchant for sacrifices.

You must give up that property of yours;

for you to own it is a risky business:

it’s precisely properties like this that ruin Colonies.

You must give up that source of revenue

and also this one, which is connected with it,

and this third one, too: a natural consequence.

They are substantial, but what is to be done?

the liability they create is harmful to you.

And as they proceed with their investigation,

they keep finding waste, and call for its elimination;

things, however, that are hard to do without.

And when, all being well, they complete their mission,

every detail squared away and whittled down,

and they leave, taking appropriate compensation,

let’s see if anything’s left, after

such a great display of surgical skill.—

Perhaps the time hasn’t yet arrived.

Let’s not force it: haste is dangerous.

Premature measures often bring remorse.

Certainly, regrettably, the Colony has its share of foolishness.

But what human affair is without its flaws?

And when all is said and done, we’re getting ahead.

Overall he was well liked in Alexandria,

during the ten days that he sojourned there,

Aristomenes, the son of Menelaus,

the potentate from Western Libya.

Like his name, his attire, too, quite suitably, was Greek.

He gratefully received his honors, although

he didn’t court them; he was unpretentious.

He’d spend his time shopping for Greek books,

history and philosophy especially.

Above all, however: a person of few words.

He must have been a deep thinker, it was widely said,

and for such men it’s only natural not to talk too much.

No deep thinker was he; no anything.

A commonplace, laughable sort of person.

He took a Greek name, dressed like the Greeks,

learned, more or less, to behave like the Greeks;

and in his heart he dreaded that by some chance

he’d lose the goodish impression that he’d made

by speaking a terribly barbaric Greek

and that the Alexandrians would poke fun at him,

as is their wont, horrid people.

For this reason he confined himself to a few words,

frightfully attentive to his declensions and his accent;

and grew bored to death, with all those

conversations piled up inside him.

“My end came for me      when I was content.

Hermoteles had me      for his inseparable friend.

In my final days,      for all that he pretended

that he wasn’t worried,      I could often sense that

his eyes were wet with tears.      When he thought that I

had dozed off for a while,      he fell, like one distraught,

at the side of my bed.      But we two were young men

both of the same age,      twenty-three years old.

Fate is a betrayer.      Perhaps some other passion

might have taken Hermoteles      quite away from me.

I ended my days well:      in undivided love.”

This epitaph for Marylus      son of Aristodemus,

who died a month ago      in Alexandria:

I received it as I mourned him,      I, his cousin Cimon.

The writer sent it to me,      a certain poet I know.

He sent it to me since      he knew I was a relation

of Marylus: he knew      nothing else at all.

My soul is full of pain      pain for Marylus.

We two had grown up      together, like two brothers.

I’m deep in melancholy.      His untimely death

has completely snuffed      every bit of rancor

that I bore Marylus;      every bit of rancor

even though he stole      Hermoteles’ love;

even though, if Hermoteles      wanted me back again,

it would hardly be the same.      I know my own character,

how sensitive it is.      The image of Marylus

will always come between us,      and I’ll imagine that

he’s saying to me, Look here,      now you’re satisfied.

Look, you’ve got him back,      just as you’d longed for, Cimon.

Look, you no longer have      a reason to malign me.