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
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—