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

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      rhetoric with Parus. A student in Thebes, he read

      the sacred writings. He wrote a history

      of the Arsinoïte district. This at least will endure.

      Nevertheless we’ve lost what was most dear: his beauty,

      which was like an Apollonian vision.

      [1912; 1914]

       That Is He

      Unknown, the Edessene—a stranger here in Antioch—

      writes a lot. And there, at last, the final canto has

      appeared. Altogether that makes eighty-three

      poems in all. But the poet is worn out

      from so much writing, so much versifying,

      the terrific strain of so much Greek phrasing,

      and every little thing now weighs him down.

      A sudden thought, however, pulls him out

      of his dejection—the exquisite “That is he”

      which Lucian once heard in a dream.

      [1898; 1909]

       Dangerous

      Said Myrtias (a Syrian student

      in Alexandria; during the reign

      of the augustus Constans and the augustus Constantius;

      partly pagan, and partly Christianized):

      “Strengthened by contemplation and study,

      I will not fear my passions like a coward.

      My body I will give to pleasures,

      to diversions that I’ve dreamed of,

      to the most daring erotic desires,

      to the lustful impulses of my blood, without

      any fear at all, for whenever I will—

      and I will have the will, strengthened

      as I’ll be with contemplation and study—

      at the crucial moments I’ll recover

      my spirit as it was before: ascetic.”

      [?; 1911]

       Manuel Comnenus

      The emperor Lord Manuel Comnenus

      one melancholy morning in September

      sensed that death was near. The court astrologers

      (those who were paid) were nattering on

      that he had many years left yet to live.

      But while they went on talking, the king

      recalls neglected habits of piety,

      and from the monastery cells he orders

      ecclesiastical vestments to be brought,

      and he puts them on, and is delighted

      to present the decorous mien of a priest or friar.

      Happy are all who believe,

      and who, like the emperor Lord Manuel, expire

      outfitted most decorously in their faith.

      [1905; 1916]

       In the Church

      I love the church—its labara,

      the silver of its vessels, its candelabra,

      the lights, its icons, its lectern.

      When I enter there, inside of a Greek Church:

      with the aromas of its incenses,

      the liturgical chanting and harmonies,

      the magnificent appearance of the priests,

      and the rhythm of their every movement—

      resplendent in their ornate vestments—

      my thoughts turn to the great glories of our race,

      to our Byzantium, illustrious.

      [1892; 1901; 1906; 1912?]

       Very Rarely

      He’s an old man. Worn out and stooped,

      crippled by years, and by excess,

      stepping slowly, he moves along the alleyway.

      But when he goes inside his house to hide

      his pitiful state, and his old age, he considers

      the share that he—he—still has in youth.

      Youths recite his verses now.

      His visions pass before their animated eyes.

      Their healthy, sensuous minds,

      their well-limned, solid flesh,

      stir to his own expression of the beautiful.

      [1911; 1913]

       In Stock

      He wrapped them up carefully, neatly

      in green silken cloth, very costly.

      Roses from rubies, pearls into lilies,

      amethyst violets. Lovely the way that he sees,

      and judges, and wanted them; not in the way

      he saw them in nature, or studied them. He’ll put them away,

      in the safe: a sample of his daring, skillful work.

      Whenever a customer comes into the store,

      he takes other jewels from the cases to sell—fabulous things—

      bracelets, chains, necklaces, rings.

      [1912; 1913]

       Painted

      To my craft I am attentive, and I love it.

      But today I’m discouraged by the slow pace of the work.

      My mood depends upon the day. It looks

      increasingly dark. Constantly windy and raining.

      What I long for is to see, and not to speak.

      In this painting, now, I’m gazing at

      a lovely boy who’s lain down near a spring;

      it could be that he’s worn himself out from running.

      What a lovely boy; what a divine afternoon

      has caught him and put him to sleep.—

      Like this, for some time, I sit and gaze.

      And once again, in art, I recover from creating it.

      [1914; 1916]

       Morning Sea

      Here let me stop. Let me too look at Nature for a while.

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