the sensual love they had between them
freshened, gained life and force
from the sixty pounds at cards.
And all joy and strength, sensuality and beauty
they went—not home to their respectable people
(who besides did not want them anymore)
to a known and particular
house of debauchery they went and sought
a bedroom and costly drinks and drank again,
and when they were through the costly drinks
and when it was finally four o’clock
they surrendered, happy, to love.
Greek from Old
Antioch is very proud of her splendid buildings,
pleasant streets, and all around her
wonderful countryside and the great numbers
resident there; she is proud to be the seat
of glorious kings; proud she has artists
and wise men and the deeply rich
and prudent merchants, but far beyond compare
with these Antioch is proud to be a city
that is Greek from of old, related to Argos
from Ione founded by Argive
colonists in honor of Inachos’ daughter.
Days of 1901
This is what set him apart
that in all his dissolution
and a lot of experience in love
for all that he customarily
acted what seemed his age
moments came up—very rarely
to be sure—when he gave the impression
of almost untouched flesh.
The beauty of his 29 years
tested so by pleasure—
at moments one recalled
against all expectation
an ephebe who somehow awkwardly
his first time in love
surrenders his body pure.
You Do Not Comprehend
As for our doctrines—
idle Julian said,
“I have read. I comprehend.
I condemn.” As though
his “I condemn”
annihilated us.
Ludicrous.
But such bright sayings
have no currency with us,
the Christians.
“You read,
but you do not comprehend.
For if you do comprehend
you would not have condemned,”
We answered straight.
A Young Man, for His Art—24 Years Old
Go to work, my wit, the best you can—
a half-delight is wasting him:
he is in a state of madness.
Every day he kisses the face he loves
his hands on those gorgeous limbs.
Never has he loved with so much passion
but the beautiful fulfillment of love
is lacking. The fulfillment is lacking
that ought to be there for both
to reach the intensity that is desired.
They are not both given alike
to pleasure in perversion.
Him alone had that mode made captive.
He wastes away, he’s lost his temper.
Besides, he is out of work. This contributes a lot.
He borrows with difficulty little bits of money .
(Almost, he begs sometimes) and scrapes along.
He kisses the lips he adores. Over that gorgeous
form—which nevertheless he senses
only consents—he takes his pleasure.
And then he drinks and he smokes.
He drinks and smokes.
He drags around the coffee shops all day.
Heartache drags him, bored with his beauty—
Go to work, my wit, the best you can.
In Sparta
King Kleomenes did not know, did not have the nerve
did not know a way to say to his mother that
Ptolemy would have as their compact’s stamp
her consigned to Egypt and kept under guard
very demeaning—inappropriate—
he kept starting to talk kept halting
he kept starting to speak, kept stopping.
But she comprehended, excellent lady,
had already heard some relevant gossip
and she gave him heart to explain himself
and laughed and said of course she would go
it pleased her very much she could
in her old age be useful to Sparta.
the Spartan attitude, surely the man was not up
to understanding that, he only yesterday a Lagid.
So his requirement could not in fact
demean a lady, noble like herself
mother of a Spartan king.
Picture of a 23 Year Old Young Man Done by a Friend of the Same Age, Amateur
He finished the portrait yesterday noon.
Now he examines details: he did him in gray
unbuttoned garb, dark gray,
no waistcoat, no cravat, but with a pink
shirt, opened, for something to show
of the beauty of his breast and his throat,
the right temple almost all of it
his hair covers, his good-looking hair
( in the style that he favors this year).
The tone is also there, fully hedonistic
as he hoped to impart when he did the eyes
when he did the lips—his mouth, the lips
that exist to fulfill a special loving.
In a Large Greek Colony, 200 BCE
In the Colony, no slightest doubt remained
things were not proceeding
in accordance with our prayer
although we push along somehow
maybe the time has come for us,
just as no few think, to bring on a Political Reformer.
But the thing is, the trouble is
they make a major history
out of every single thing, these reformers,
(Happiness would be never to need them)
They test and question every single tiny thing
and think right away of basic reforms
that must be installed without delay.
They also have a bent for sacrifice
“Abandon that possession
Your occupation there is not secure.
Such possessions cost the Colonies dear.
Relinquish that source of income
and that other related one too
and that third, as natural consequence.
They are substantial to be sure
but what is one to do?
For you they are creating harmful liabilities.”
The further they go with their testing
the more things they find redundant
and try to make them stop
things that are hard, however,
for a person to abolish.
And when if you’re lucky they finish their work
prescriptions and cut-backs in great detail
they are off taking with them a reasonable pay.
Ours is to see what still remains
after such wonderful surgery.
Maybe the time has not yet come.
Let’s not hurry. Haste is a dangerous thing.
Untimely measures bring repentance with them.
Agreed and too bad, the Colony has ineptitudes,
but is there any human thing without a fault?
And finally—look—we are pushing along.
A Duke from Western Libya
Generally liked in Alexandria
the ten days he stayed,
duke from western Libya,
Aristomenes, son of Menelaos,
in dress as in name decently Greek
accepted honors gladly but
did not seek them out:
he was modest
bought Greek books
&nbs
p; history most and philosophy
above all a man of few words.
He would—it was given about—
be a deep one
and such men by nature do not talk a lot.
Not deep not anything
an ordinary silly fellow
he took a Greek name
dressed Greek
learned more or less
to act Greek
and his soul trembled for fear
that he spoil his goodish impression
by speaking Greek with awful barbarisms
so that the Alexandrians make fun
as is their usual way—frightful tribe.
So he kept himself to few words
attending with fear to ending and accent
bored no little while holding in
conversations stacked up inside him.
Kimon, Son of Learchos, 22 Years Old, Student of Greek Literature (in Kyrene)
“The end came upon me when I was happy:
Hermoteles had me as inseparable friend
my very last days, although he pretended
he was not uneasy, I sensed very often
the tears in his eyes, if he thought for a moment
I had gone off to sleep, he would fall as though crazed
at the foot of my bed, but both of us were
young men of an age, twenty-three years.
Fate is a traitor: another passion perhaps
could have taken Hermoteles from me.
My death was fair: a love unshared.”
The epitaph of Marylos, Aristodemos’ son,
who died a month ago in Alexandria
I received in grief—I, his cousin, Kimon.
The writer sent it to me, a poet I know.
He sent it because he knew I was related
to Marylos; he did not know anything else.
My soul is full of grief for Marylos.
We’d grown up together like brothers.
I am sad deep down: his untimely death
has completely erased every trace of rancor . . .
every trace of rancor toward Marylos though
he stole from me Hermoteles’ love.
Though if he wanted me now, Hermoteles, again
it wouldn’t be at all the same: I know my nature
easily wounded. Marylos’ image
would come between us: I would imagine
him saying to me, “See! Satisfied now?
See! You got him back as you wanted, Kimon.
See! You no longer have reason to slander me.”
On the Way to Sinope
Mithridates, mighty and glorious,
lord of great cities
master of rugged armies and fleets
on the way to Sinope took a country road
way out of the way
where a prophet had his quarters.
Mithridates sent a captain
asking the prophet
what more in the way of fine acquisitions
lay in his future
how much more power.
He sent his captain
and again took up his way for Sinope.
The prophet withdrew to his secret room
came out in about half an hour
distracted and said to the captain
“I could not distinguish well enough
today is not right
I did see some shadowy things.
I did not understand them.
Let him however be satisfied—I think—
the king with what he has.
More will bring him into danger.
Remember, captain, to tell him this:
Be satisfied, for God’s sake, with what he has.
Luck has its sudden changes.
Tell King Mithridates very rare
is the comrade of his ancestor,
the noble who writes in the nick of time
with the tip of his lance in the dirt
the life-saving, Flee, Mithridates.”
Days of 1909, ’10, and ’11
He was the son of a beggared, beleaguered
merchant seaman, out of an Aegean isle.
He worked at a smith’s
his work shoes split, fit for trash,
worn out clothes, hands fouled
with rust and oil.
At evening when he closed the shop
if there were something he wanted a lot
a somewhat—let’s say—expensive cravat
for Sunday wear—let’s say—a cravat,
or if in the window of a shop
he saw some nice blue shirt,
and had to have it
he sold his body for a dollar or two.
I wonder if in ancient times
celebrated Alexandria had a fairer young man
a more perfect boy than he—who got lost.
No sculpture of him, to be sure,
no portrait was done
dumped in that wretched smithy.
He soon from exhausting work
and blue-collar boozing
in hard usage turned to trash.
Myres: Alexandria. 340 AD
When I learned of the disaster, that Myres had died,
I went to his home, although I avoid
going into the houses of Christians,
above all when they have griefs or celebrations.
I stood in the hall. I did not want
to go further inside, for I noticed
the departed’s relations were looking at me
in open perplexity and displeasure.
They had him in a big room
of which from the end, where I stood,
I saw a bit: expensive carpets everywhere
and objects of silver and gold.
I stood and wept at one end of the hall,
I was thinking that our meetings and trips
would not be worth the while any more, with Myres gone,
and I was thinking I won’t see him any more
at the beautiful indecent nights we stayed up
happy and laughing and reciting lines
with his perfect feel for Greek cadence,
and I thought I had lost forever
his beauty. I had lost forever
the young man I adored to distraction.
Some old women nearby quietly spoke
of the last day he lived—
on his lips throughout, the name of the Christ,
in his hands he was holding a cross.
Then there went into the room
four Christian priests, and they said fervent
prayers and supplications to Jesus
or Mary (I do not know their worship well).
We knew of course that Myres was Christian,
from at first we knew it, when
the year before last he became one of us.
But he lived like us exactly,
more libertine than us all in pleasure,
spending without spare his money on enjoyments,
careless of the world’s estimation,
throwing himself heartily into fights
at night on the streets
when our gang chanced on a rival gang.
He never spoke of his worship.
One time, yes, we told him
we would take him with us to the Sarapeion.
But he disliked, it seemed,
that joke of ours—I remember now.
Ah, and another two times now come to mind:
when we were making libations to Poseidon
he drew back from our circle and looked elsewhere.
When one of us, inspired,
said let our brotherhood be under
the benevolence and protection of great
and most beautiful Apollo, Myres whispered
(the rest did not hear) “With exception of me.”
The Christian priests loudly
prayed for the young man’s soul.
I observed th
e care and intense concern
for the forms of their worship by which they readied
all for the Christian funeral,
and suddenly a strange impression
took me: indefinably I felt
Myres was leaving from close by me.
I felt he was one—Christian—
with his own, and I had become
stranger, wholly a stranger. Now I felt
doubt. Maybe I had been fooled
by my passion, and I had always been a stranger to him.
I hurtled out of their horrid house.
I left fast before it was abducted and transformed
by their Christianity, my memory of Myres.
Alexander Jannaeus and Alexandra
Successful and wholly gratified
King Alexander Jannaeus
and his consort Queen Alexandra
pass with music preceding
and every sort of pomp and chic
pass along Jerusalem’s streets:
he executed nicely the work
great Judas Maccabaeus started,
and his four renowned brothers,
that after went on without capitulation amidst
many dangers and many hindrances.
Now nothing left that did not fit:
he had stopped all submission to the braggart
monarchs of Antioch. Behold
King Alexander Jannaeus
and his consort, Queen Alexandra,
in every respect Seleucids’ equals,
good Jews, pure Jews, faithful Jews—before all else,
but as circumstances require it
expert also at Hellenic speech
and with Greeks and Greek-speaking
monarchs involved—but as equals, let it be said.
In fact, he executed it nicely,
executed it brilliantly,
the work that great Judas Maccabaeus started,
and his four renowned brothers.
Pretty Flowers and White, How Very Right They Were
He went into the coffee-house where they used to go together.
His friend had said to him here three months before
“We don’t have a nickel: two kids flat broke.
We are down down to the cheap spots.
I’m putting it straight. I can’t go around
with you. Someone else—understand—is after me.”
“Someone else” had promised two suits and some
silk handkerchiefs. To get him back he turned
the world upside down and raised twenty pounds.
He came together with him again for the twenty pounds