The Complete Poems of C.P. Cavafy - Daniel Mendelsohn

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be intrepid, and to have some hope.

      But something always comes up, and stops us cold.

      In the trench in front of us Achilles

      emerges, and affrights us with his shouting.—

      Our efforts are the efforts of the Trojans.

      We imagine that with resolve and daring

      we will reverse the animosity of fortune,

      and so we take our stand outside, to fight.

      But whenever the crucial moment comes,

      our boldness and our daring disappear;

      our spirit is shattered, comes unstrung;

      and we scramble all around the walls

      seeking in our flight to save ourselves.

      And yet our fall is certain. Up above,

      on the walls, already the lament has begun.

      They mourn the memory, the sensibility, of our days.

      Bitterly Priam and Hecuba mourn for us.

      [1900; 1905]

       King Demetrius

       Not like a king, but like an actor, he exchanged his showy robe of state for a dark cloak, and in secret stole away.

      —PLUTARCH, Life of Demetrius

      When the Macedonians deserted him,

      and made it clear that it was Pyrrhus they preferred

      King Demetrius (who had a noble

      soul) did not—so they said—

      behave at all like a king. He went

      and cast off his golden clothes,

      and flung off his shoes

      of richest purple. In simple clothes

      he dressed himself quickly and left:

      doing just as an actor does

      who, when the performance is over,

      changes his attire and departs.

      [1900; 1906]

       The Glory of the Ptolemies

      I’m the Lagid, a king. The possessor absolute

      (with my power and my riches) of pleasure.

      There’s no Macedonian, no Eastern foreigner

      who’s my equal, who even comes close. What

      a joke, that Seleucid with his vulgar luxe.

      But if there’s something more you seek, then simply look:

      the City is our teacher, the acme of what is Greek,

      of every discipline, of every art the peak.

      [1896; 1911; 1911]

       The Retinue of Dionysus

      Damon the artisan (none as fine

      as he in the Peloponnese) is

      fashioning the Retinue of Dionysus

      in Parian marble. The god in his divine

      glory leads, with vigor in his stride.

      Intemperance behind. Beside

      Intemperance, Intoxication pours the Satyrs wine

      from an amphora that they’ve garlanded with vines.

      Near them delicate Sweetwine, his eyes

      half-closed, mesmerizes.

      And further down there come the singers,

      Song and Melody, and Festival

      who never allows the hallowed processional

      torch that he holds to go out. Then, most modest, Ritual.—

      That’s what Damon is making. Along with all

      of that, from time to time he gets to pondering

      the fee he’ll be receiving from the king

      of Syracuse, three talents, quite a lot.

      When that’s added to the money that he’s got,

      he’ll be well-to-do, will lead a life of leisure,

      can get involved in politics—what pleasure!—

      he too in the Council, he too in the Agora.

      [1903; 1907]

       The Battle of Magnesia

      He’s lost his former dash, his pluck.

      His wearied body, very nearly sick,

      will henceforth be his chief concern. The days

      that he has left, he’ll spend without a care. Or so says

      Philip, at least. Tonight he’ll play at dice.

      He has an urge to enjoy himself. Do place

      lots of roses on the table. And what if

      Antiochus at Magnesia came to grief?

      They say his glorious army lies mostly ruined.

      Perhaps they’ve overstated: it can’t all be true.

      Let’s hope not. For though they were the enemy, they were kin to us.

      Still, one “let’s hope not” is enough. Perhaps too much.

      Philip, of course, won’t postpone the celebration.

      However much his life has become one great exhaustion

      a boon remains: he hasn’t lost a single memory.

      He remembers how they mourned in Syria, the agony

      they felt, when Macedonia their motherland was smashed to bits.—

      Let the feast begin. Slaves: the music, the lights!

      [1913; 1916]

       The Seleucid’s Displeasure

      The Seleucid Demetrius was displeased

      to learn that a Ptolemy had arrived

      in Italy in such a sorry state.

      With only three or four slaves;

      dressed like a pauper, and on foot. This is why

      their name would soon be bandied as a joke,

      an object of fun in Rome. That they have, at bottom,

      become the servants of the Romans, in a way,

      the Seleucid knows; and that those people give

      and take away their thrones

      arbitrarily, however they like, he knows.

      But nonetheless at least in their appearance

      they should maintain a certain magnificence;

      shouldn’t forget that they are still kings,

      that they are still (alas!) called kings.

      This is why Demetrius the Seleucid was annoyed,

      and

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