[Allen Tice]

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.

[Allen Tice]

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.

[Martin Elster]

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.

[Martin Elster]

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?