Antwerp, 1961

There was a time when mornings were defined
by bicycles, and sturdy girls who rode them
to their office jobs through cold, damp, still dark
Flanders winter mornings: full of laughter,
as they lingered in the downstairs hall;
sweater sleeves pulled down to fingertips,
bare, unshaven legs chapped flaming red.

A time to pass the shell-pocked fronts of houses,
and see, and yet not see; look past the scars,
wash blood from clotted blood, put stone on stone,
restore the earth, rebuild and resurrect,
and do not ask whose blood, what earth, which God,
but hope that something had been learned in blood.
There was this time, one time, and then it passed.


Two Love Stories

Her Princeton MFA, his partnership.
A turquoise choker with a silver clasp,
two Breuer chairs, an aunt’s pied-a-terre,
a Baskin woodblock print. An opening
at Sotheby’s, a brightly patterned vest,
a small tattoo, the scent of cloves, cocaine.
A nose once mangled in a rugby match.
The Parthenon, Antarctica, Beijing.

Her denim wedding skirt, his Zuni blood,
a way of always laughing after sex.
Two spotted dogs, a uniform, a cat
that jumps on stranger’s laps, some paperbacks.
A chance to leave the pueblo far behind.
A neatly folded flag, a body bag.

This is by Cavafy as translated by Stratis Haviaras. The setting is about 175 BC. The Greek original is in Haviaras’ book, Cavafy, The Canon. I recommend it. It’s ecphrastic in a very important sense.

Craftsman of Wine Krateres

On this wine krater fashioned from purest silver—
custom-made for the house of Herakleides,
where taste of the highest order reigns supreme—
regard the delicate flowers, the streams, the thyme,
within which I’ve set a lovely young man,
sensual and naked, a leg yet dangling in the water.
O memory, I implored, guide well my efforts
as I render this young face I loved as it once was.
The undertaking, as it turned out, was difficult, in that
nearly fifteen years had passed since the day
he died, a soldier fallen in the defeat at Magnesia.

Did you mean to post this on the new Art Poetry and Image thread?

No. I put it here because of the death of the soldier at the end. Although the specific people and bowl are imaginary, the conflict and defeat are not. There are actual bowls as incredible as this imagined one. Perhaps I can locate a photo link to one. It’s a masterpiece of art that constructs a convincing ache at war’s useless destruction. If the lamented individual had been a young non-combatant woman, the narrator’s sorrow would have required a different last line, perhaps her being captured and sold off. I know that it might seem a stretch to put it here, but the narrator still feels the powerful individual loss.

Τεχνουργός κρατήρων

Εις τον κρατήρα αυτόν xx από αγνόν ασήμι —
που για του Ηρακλείδη xx έγινε την οικία,
ένθα καλαισθησία xx πολλή επικρατεί —
ιδού άνθη κομψά, xx και ρύακες, και θύμοι,
κ’ έθεσα εν τω μέσω xx έναν ωραίον νέον,
γυμνόν, ερωτικόν· xx μες στο νερό την κνήμη
την μια του έχει ακόμη.— xx Ικέτευσα, ω μνήμη,
να σ’ εύρω βοηθόν xx αρίστην, για να κάμω
του νέου που αγαπούσα xx το πρόσωπον ως ήταν.
Μεγάλη η δυσκολία xx απέβη επειδή
ως δέκα πέντε χρόνια xx πέρασαν απ’ την μέρα
που έπεσε, στρατιώτης, xx στης Μαγνησίας την ήτταν.

https://brewminate.com/wp-content/up...Rome-Roman.jpg

https://i.pinimg.com/474x/e0/92/ec/e...eum-a-bowl.jpg

These illustrate what Cavafy was imagining. Neither is precise. I have not located right now my own photo of a Roman silver head whose features could be distinct enough for the poem, though Cavafy’s description of the body and pool are lacking.

An old poem of mine I found in my files:

I Didn’t See the Parade

I didn’t see the parade this morning, no;
what I saw were blooms that glow in the sun and grow.
I didn’t hear loud trumpet, cymbal, drum;
from songs of birds, with light I was overcome.
I didn’t feel the gravity of the day;
I felt the warmth that launches June from May.
I heard the wind, like flutes, sough through the trees
and knew that war will never silence these.

The Heart of Hell

A theater where thousands shelter
as in a tomb—they swelter
dreaming of water and food,
falling as infants squall.
A maternity hospital—
falling, they can’t elude
the missiles and bombs which batter
peaceful towns, vibrant cities, a nation.
Apartments in high-rises shatter.
They fear annihilation.
They flee by the millions. An age
has begun. And who can gauge
whether this is the final stage
of humankind or the birth
of a more harmonious Earth?

It wasn't until it was recently published that I remembered the poem I posted earlier had been revised.

Slaughter

What you see are the remains:

the woodland, the smoke, the retreating flames.

Somewhere, perhaps, in a far-away country

the sky is bluer and roses cling to a stone wall,

palm trees lull a milder wind.

Here there is nothing.

Here there is nothing but snow on the branches of the spruce.

Here there is nothing to kiss with warm lips.

Here lips grow cold with time.

And you claim, my child, your heart is brave.

Does it ever end?

Blood and Sand

Do kids in sand
dream
of a deadly rocket
in each raised hand?

Do kids in sand
dream
of a ribboned pocket,
from their homeland?

Do kids in sand
dream
of a clever docket
for a slaughter planned,

and then to mock it,
the bloody sand?

Auden 84 years ago had the words, which still match the horrors of today.
.....
I and the public know
What all school children learn
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
.....