Complete Poems (19 page)

As Mithridates, glorious and powerful,

the lord of great cities,

master of mighty armies and fleets,

made his way to Sinope, he passed along a road

deep in the countryside, quite out of the way,

where a soothsayer had his dwelling-place.

Mithridates sent an officer of his

to inquire of the seer how much more wealth he would acquire

in the future, how many other forces.

He sent an officer of his, and afterwards

proceeded on the march to Sinope.

The soothsayer withdrew into a secret room.

After about a half an hour he came out

very much concerned, and told the officer:

“An adequate discernment I could not make.

Today is not a day that’s suitable.

I saw some shadowy things. I didn’t understand them well.—

But the king should rest content, in my opinion, with all he has.

Any more than that will bring him danger.

Remember, officer, to tell him this:

with all that he has, by god, let him rest content!

Fate keeps unexpected changes in store.

Go tell this to King Mithridates:

all too seldom one finds the noble friend

of his forebear, someone who just in time writes with his spear

upon the dust the words that saved him
Flee, Mithridates.
”

He was the son of a much put-upon, impoverished

sailor (from an island in the Aegean Sea).

He worked at a blacksmith’s. He wore threadbare clothes;

his workshoes split apart, the wretched things.

His hands were completely grimed with rust and oil.

Evenings, when he was closing up the shop,

if there was anything he was really longing for,

some tie that cost a little bit of money,

some tie that was just right for a Sunday,

or if in a shop window he’d seen and yearned for

some beautiful shirt in mauve:

one or two shillings is what he’d sell his body for.

I ask myself whether in antique times

glorious Alexandria possessed a youth more beauteous,

a lad more perfect than he—for all that he was lost:

for of course there never was a statue or portrait of him;

thrown into a blacksmith’s poor old shop,

he was quickly spoiled by the arduous work,

the common debauchery, so ruinous.

When I learned the dreadful news, that Myres was dead,

I went to his house, for all that I am loath

to go inside the homes of Christians,

above all those in mourning, or on feast-days.

I stood there in a corridor. I didn’t want

to go in any further, since I perceived

that the kinsmen of the dead man were looking at me

with evident dismay, and with displeasure.

They had him in a large room

a part of which I saw from where I stood

off to the side: all expensive carpets,

and services of silver and of gold.

I stood crying on one side of the corridor.

And I was thinking that our gatherings and outings

wouldn’t be worth much, without Myres, from now on;

and was thinking that I’d no longer see him

at our splendid and outrageous all-night revels,

enjoying himself, and laughing, and declaiming lines

with that perfect feel he had for Greek rhythm;

and was thinking that I’d lost forever more

his beauty, that I’d lost forever more

the youth whom I once worshipped to distraction.

Some old women, near me, were speaking softly

about the last day that he was alive—

the name of Christ always on his lips,

a cross that he was holding in his hands.—

Later on there came into the room

four Christian priests, and they fervently

recited prayers and orisons to Jesus,

or to Mary (I don’t know their religion very well).

We knew, of course, that Myres was a Christian.

From the very first we knew it, when

two years ago he joined our little band.

But he lived his life completely as we did.

Of all of us, the most devoted to his pleasures;

squandering lavish sums on his amusements.

Blithely untroubled by what people thought,

he threw himself eagerly into street brawls late at night,

whenever our gang chanced upon a rival gang.

Never once did he speak about his religion.

In fact, there was one time when we told him

that we were taking him with us to the Serapeum.

But he seemed to be unhappy with

this little joke of ours: I remember now.

Ah, and two other times now come to mind.

When we were making libations to Poseidon,

he pulled out of our circle, and turned his gaze elsewhere.

When one of us, in his enthusiasm,

said, May our company ever be under

the favor and protection of the great,

the all-beautiful Apollo—Myres murmured

(the others didn’t hear) “except for me.”

Their voices raised, the Christian priests

were praying for the soul of the young man.—

I stood observing with how much diligence,

and with what intense attention

to the protocols of their religion, they were preparing

everything for the Christian funeral rite.

And all of a sudden I was seized by a queer

impression. Vaguely, I had the feeling that

Myres was going far away from me;

had a feeling that he, a Christian, was being united

with his own, and that I was becoming

a stranger to him, very much a stranger; I sensed besides

a certain doubt coming over me: perhaps I had been fooled

by my passion, had always been a stranger to him.—

I flew out of their horrible house,

and quickly left before their Christianity

could get hold of, could alter, the memory of Myres.

Successful and completely satisfied,

King Alexander Jannaeus

and his wife, Queen Alexandra,

parade—with musicians in the lead,

and all manner of magnificence and luxe—

parade through the streets of Jerusalem.

They have brought to a brilliant conclusion the work

that the great Judah Maccabee had started,

along with his four illustrious brothers;

and which had continued resolutely in the midst

of many dangers and of many hardships.

By now, nothing unseemly remained.

Gone was any trace of subservience

to the arrogant rulers of Antioch. See how

King Alexander Jannaeus,

and his wife Queen Alexandra,

are the equals of the Seleucids in every respect.

Good Jews, pure Jews, pious Jews: this above all.

But, inasmuch as circumstances require,

conversant, too, in the Greek tongue;

and acquainted, too, with both Greek and Hellenizing

rulers—but as equals, let there be no mistake.

Truly, they have brought to a brilliant conclusion,

have brought to a spectacular conclusion

the work that the great Judah Maccabee had started

along with his four illustrious brothers.

He went into the café      where they used to go together.

Here his friend had said      just three months ago:

“We haven’t got a cent.      We two are so poor

that we’ve come to this—      the cheapest spots in town.

I’ll put it to you straight:      I can’t keep going out

with you. Someone else—      
listen
—wants me now.”

That someone else had promised      him two suits and some

silken handkerchiefs.—      To get him back again

his friend made quite a fuss,      and came up with twenty pounds.

He came back to him      for the twenty pounds.

But not just only that:      for their old affection,

and for their old love,      and for their old feelings.

That “someone” was a liar,      a real low character.

He’d had only one      suit made for him and

that, begrudgingly:      he had to plead a thousand times.

But he no longer wants      any suits at all

nor indeed wants any      silken handkerchiefs,

neither twenty pounds,      not even twenty pence.

They buried him on Sunday,      at ten o’clock in the morning.

They buried him on Sunday:      scarcely a week ago.

On his shabby coffin      he laid some flowers,

beautiful, white flowers      as they went so well

with his beauty and      his two-and-twenty years.

When at night he went—      he happened to have some business,

something absolutely vital—      into the café where

they used to go together:      a dagger in his heart,

that dismal black café,      where they used to go together.

Cratesicleia did not condescend to let

the people see her crying and lamenting;

magnificent she went about, and silent.

Never did her imperturbable mien reveal

her dejection or her torment.

But even so, for a moment she could not hold back:

and before she went aboard the ship to go to Alexandria,

she took her son to the temple of Poseidon,

and when they found themselves alone she clasped him to her bosom

and kept kissing her son, who was “tormented,” says

Plutarch, “and in a state of very great distress.”

Still, her strong character prevailed:

pulling herself together, the remarkable woman

said to Cleomenes “Come now, O king

of the Lacedaemonians, and when we go forth

from here, let no one see us weeping

nor doing anything that is unworthy of

Sparta. This alone is ours to do;

our fortunes go howsoever the god provides.”

And onto the ship she went, making her way to that “provides.”

House, coffeehouses, neighborhood: setting

that I see and where I walk; year after year.

I crafted you amid joy and amid sorrows:

out of so much that happened, out of so many things.

And you’ve been wholly
remade into feeling;
for me.

In the entrance hallway of that sumptuous home

there was an enormous mirror, very old;

acquired at least eighty years ago.

A strikingly beautiful boy, a tailor’s assistant,

(on Sunday afternoons, an amateur athlete),

was standing with a package. He handed it

to one of the household, who then went back inside

to fetch a receipt. The tailor’s assistant

remained alone, and waited.

He drew near the mirror, and stood gazing at himself,

and straightening his tie. Five minutes later

they brought him the receipt. He took it and left.

But the ancient mirror, which had seen and seen again,

throughout its lifetime of so many years,

thousands of objects and faces—

but the ancient mirror now became elated,

inflated with pride, because it had received upon itself

perfect beauty, for a few minutes.

From within the office where he’d been taken on

to fill an insignificant, ill-paid position

(eight pounds a month at best: bonuses included)

he emerged, when he’d finished the solitary task

at which he’d been stooped the entire afternoon.

He left at seven, and then strolled slowly along,

and dawdled in the street.— Handsome;

interesting, too: in a way that showed he’d realized

a maximal yield from his senses.

He’d just turned twenty-nine, the month before.

He dawdled in the street, and in the shabby

alleyways that led to where he lived.

As he passed before a little store

where the goods that were for sale were

shoddy, low-priced things for laborers,

he saw a face within, he saw a shape;

they urged him on and he went in, as if keen

on seeing colored handkerchiefs.

He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs,

and what they cost; in a voice that was choked,

almost stifled by his yearning.

So, too, the answers that came back:

distracted, in a voice kept very low,

secretly concealing consent.

Now and then they’d talk about the merchandise—but

their sole aim: for their hands to touch

atop the handkerchiefs; for their faces to

draw near, and their lips, as if by chance.

Some momentary contact of their limbs.

Quickly and secretly, so the proprietor

wouldn’t notice, sitting there in back.

It’s gotten so I’m practically homeless and broke.

This deadly city, Antioch,

has devoured all my money:

deadly, with its ruinous way of life.

But I’m young and in the best of health.

With an astounding mastery of Greek

(I know—by heart—Aristotle, Plato:

any orator, any poet, anyone you say.)

I know a thing or two about the army,

and have connections among the mercenary leaders.

I’m on pretty good terms with the High Command as well.

I stayed six months in Alexandria, last year;

am fairly well acquainted (and this is useful) with what goes on there:

the “Malefactor”’s schemes, the dirty deals, and so forth.