Complete Poems (24 page)

Ancient tragedy, ancient tragedy

is as holy and vast as the heart of the universe.

One people gave it birth, one Greek city,

but it took wing straightaway, and set its stage

               in heaven.

In the theatre of Olympus, in its worthy dust,

Hippolytus, Ajax, Alcestis, Clytemnestra

tell the story of our terrible, cruel life

and upon the ruinous earth there falls a drop

               of divine pity.

The Athenian people saw and marveled at

tragedy in its earliest incarnation.

Tragedy grew up beneath the sapphirine

theatre of the sky. There it had an audience

of immortals. And the gods, upon great thrones

of purest adamant, would listen in ineffable

pleasure to the beautiful lines of Sophocles,

the rhythms of Euripides, the grandeur of Aeschylus,

the Attic phantasies of graceful Agathon.

The actors in these lofty plays, equally worthy,

were the Muses, Hermes, and the skilled Apollo,

beloved Dionysus, Athena and Hebe.

And the vaults of heaven were filled with poetry.

The monologues resounded, eloquent and mournful;

the choruses too, untiring founts of harmony;

and the clever dialogue with its pithy phrases.

Piously, all nature kept its silence, lest the clamor

of the storm disturb the godlike pageant.

Unmoving and pious, air, and earth, and ocean

kept watch over the quiet of the great gods.

And now and then an echo from above would come to them,

an incorporeal garland of some lines,

with the gods’ “Bravo, bravo” mingled with the trimeters.

And air to earth, and aged Lady Earth to the sea would say:

“Silence, silence; let us listen. In the heavenly

theatre they’re concluding the performance of Antigone.”

Ancient tragedy, ancient tragedy

is as holy and vast as the heart of the universe.

One people gave it birth, one Greek city,

but it took wing straightaway, and set its stage

               in heaven.

In the theatre of Olympus, in its worthy dust,

Hippolytus, Ajax, Alcestis, Clytemnestra

tell the story of our terrible, cruel life

and upon the ruinous earth there falls a drop

               of divine pity.

In the bedchamber of the hetaera Leah,

where all is style and wealth, a downy bed,

a youth, with jasmine upon his hands, is speaking.

His fingers are adorned with many gems,

and he wears a snow-white silk himation

picked out in scarlet, in the eastern fashion.

His speech is Attic of the purest strain

but a gentle stress in his pronunciation

betrays a trace of Tiber and of Latium.

The young man is avowing his adoration,

and silently she listens, the Athenian,

to her lover Horace, so mellifluent;

and stupefied, she sees new worlds of Beauty

within the passion of the great Italian.

The sea exhales a hidden voice—

               a voice that enters

into our heart and moves it,

               and gladdens it.

The sea intones a tender song for us,

a song that is composed by three great poets,

               the sun, the air and sky.

She sings it with that godlike voice of hers,

when the summer weather spreads upon her shoulders

               the calm, as if a veil.

Her melody bears messages endewed

to souls. She brings to mind lost youth,

               without bitterness or grief.

Of loves that passed she speaks quietly,

forgotten feelings once more come alive

               within the waves’ respiring so sweet.

The sea intones a tender song to us,

a song composed by three great poets,

               the sun, the air and sky.

And when you look upon its wetted plain,

when you see her sward which never ends,

               the field that is both near and very far,

full of yellow flowers that the light sows

as if it were a gardener, joy seizes you,

               intoxicates you, and exalts your heart.

And if you are young, the yearning for the sea

will course within your veins; the wave will say

a word of its love to you, and it will dip

               your love in mysterious perfume.

The sea exhales a hidden voice—

               a voice that enters

into our heart and moves it,

               and gladdens it.

A song is it, or the plaint of those who drowned?—

the tragic plaint of those who died,

               who have for shrouds the chilly foam,

and lament for their wives, and for their children,

for their parents and their empty nests,

               while the bitter ocean thrashes them,

dashes them on rocks and jagged stones,

in seaweed wraps them, drags them, hurls them out,

               and they, as if still living, hasten

with their eyes wide open, terrified,

and their hands outstretched and wild

               in their final agony.

A song is it, or the plaint of those who drowned?—

the tragic plaint of those who died

               and are yearning for a grave with Christian rites.

A tomb, where relatives will sprinkle tears,

and with flowers will adorn the hands so dear,

               and where the sun casts warm, compassionate light.

A tomb, over which th’ Immaculate Cross stands guard,

where every now and then some priest will go

               to burn some incense and to say a prayer.

The widow brings him, remembering her husband,

or a son, or sometimes, too, a mourning friend.

They commemorate the dead; and the pardoned

               soul more peacefully now slumbers.

Theatres filled, music everywhere;

here debauch and lechery, and there

contests for the athletes and philosophers.

Dionysus’s statue is embellished with a crown

unwithering. No corner of the land remains unstrewn

with offerings. The people of Tarentum have their fun.

But the Senators withdraw from all of these

and glowering say many angry things.

And each barbarian toga as it leaves

seems to be a storm-cloud, threatening.

Zeus’s heart is full of agony.

Patroclus has laid Sarpedon low.

The God has reverenced the will of Destiny.

But the father grieves for his misfortune.

The invincible son of Menoeteus,

and the Achaeans, bellowing like lions,

are trying to seize the corpse, and toss it

to the crows and dogs to dine upon.

But Zeus will not condone this degradation.

He will not let them insult the body of

his well-beloved and highly-honored son.

Behold, Phoebus descends from his chariot

to the earth, by command divine.

His hands sublime make safe the corpse

of Sarpedon, and to the river

carry it and lave it piously.

The dust and blood, congealed, are washed away

and the features of the just and courageous hero are revealed.

Upon the carcase Phoebus lavishly

pours the perfumes of ambrosia

and covers it up with Olympian,

immortal garments. He closes up

the gaping wound in his chest. He sets

the limbs in a peaceful and winsome array.

His skin glistens. A gleaming comb

combs his locks, abundant locks

and black, which not a single white

hair has sullied yet.

                         He looks like a young athlete

in repose—like a young lover

dreaming of pleasure and of cupids

with azure wings and celestial

bows—like a young and blessed bridegroom,

fortunate among all his agemates,

who, without groom-gifts, has won a lovely bride.

Having brought his mission to an end the God

calls Sleep and Death, the brothers, and commands them

to bear Sarpedon back to wide-spreading Lycia.

So in their fatherly and tender arms

they took him, Sleep and Death,

with sorrow and love and with care

lest the grave tranquility of the corpse’s face

be disturbed, lest the splendor of

the manly body suffer any harm.

The Lycians profoundly reverenced

the Gods in their dreadful indifference,

and they collected their goodly lord,

dead in spirit, but radiant in form,

vigorous, and fragrant, and at peace.

They reared for him a monument of marble,

and upon its base in an inscription

skilled sculptors told the story of the victories

of the hero, and of his many campaigns.

I love you.… but if you are a humble fisher’s lass,

are your eyes bright, for that, a whit the less,

is your hand not whiter still than milk is white,

is your body with amorous graces not replete?

Lineage, name, I utterly forget them all,

a slave before you I, the prince’s son, do fall!

I love you.… and when I see you on the bloomy lea

dancing with the village lads vivaciously

I envy them, and o’er my harsh fate keen,

that I your slave forever cannot be.

Betwixt us fate has placed a bar abhorred:

relentless generations of dragomans and lords!

This vision is true, the mirror does not lie:

there is no other on earth as fair as I.

My eyes possess the brilliancy of gems,

close to coral’s hue my lips do come,

with double rows of pearls my mouth is graced.

My body has great charm, my foot they praise,

and snowy hands and throat, my silken hair.…

               but what does it avail?

Since in this hateful harem I am immured

who can see my beauty, in all the world?

The jealous foe who casts her poisoned look

at me, or vile eunuchs; and the blood

freezes in my veins when my contemned

husband draws near. Prophet, Master mine,

forgive my heart that cries aloud in pain,

               If only I were Christian!

Had I been born a Christian I should be free

to show myself to all, both night and day;

the men in wonder, women jealously

would behold my beauty and agree,—

Nature won’t again produce my like.

When I set out in my calèche to ride

the crowds would fill up Stamboul’s streets

               that each might look on me.

When, my friends, I was in love—

’twas many years ago—

I dwelt not in the world that other

mortal men called home.

Poetic was the fantasy

I had; if it deceived,

it yet wrought a felicity

ardent and alive.

Whatsoe’er my eye would see

offered a rich sight;

my lover’s nest appeared to be

a palace in my eyes.

She’d wear a dress of calico,

oh it was very cheap;

to me, at first, I swear to you,

of silk it seemed to be.

On her hands two bracelets poor

served for ornament;

to me they seemed a grand parure

of lordly provenance.

About her head she wore a mass

of blossoms from the hills;

what garland ever was there that,

for me, adorned as well?

The walks where we together went

always gentle were:

they either had no brambles then,

or they were hid by earth.

Today the genius moves me not

of orators and sages

as much as just a single nod

of hers in bygone days.

When, my friends, I was in love—

’twas many years ago—

I dwelt not in the world that other

mortal men called home.

Stranger, when you see a town where nature smiles

and where a girl as lovely as a rose is hidden near

every plane tree—you must stop there. Stranger,

               you have reached Nichori.

And if, when evening comes, you go outside to stroll

and find before you walnut trees—do not proceed

any further on your way. Where else could you seek

               a place more lovely than Nichori?

Nowhere else on earth are springs as fresh as these,

mountains elsewhere do not have our hills’ nobility,

and you will be inebriated by earth’s perfume alone

               if you stay a while in Nichori.

Do not hope to find, elsewhere, the greenery

that you will see there. From the hilltop look and see

the plains below and say you could not love

               this, our little Nichori.