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

      streets made unrecognizable by time,

      bustling city centres that are no more

      and theatres and cafés that existed long ago.

      The apparition of my body in its youth

      came and also brought me cause for pain:

      deaths in the family; separations;

      the feelings of my loved ones, the feelings of

      those long dead which I so little valued.

      Half past twelve. How the time has passed.

      Half past twelve. How the years have passed.

      [1917; 1918]

       Comprehension

      The years of my youth, my pleasure-bent existence—

      how plainly do I see their meaning now.

      What useless, foolish regrets …

      But I ­didn’t see their meaning then.

      In the dissolute life I led in my youth

      my poetry’s designs took shape;

      the boundaries of my art were drawn.

      That is why the regrets were never firm.

      And my resolutions—to master myself, to change—

      would keep up for two weeks at the most.

      [1895; 1917/1918]

       In the Presence of the Statue of Endymion

      On a chariot of white, drawn by four

      snow-white mules caparisoned in silver,

      I have arrived at Latmus from Miletus. I sailed over

      from Alexandria in a purple trireme to perform

      holy rites for Endymion, sacrifices and libations.

      Behold the statue. With rapture I now look upon

      the fabled beauty of Endymion. My slaves

      empty panniers of jessamine; and well-omened acclamations

      have awakened the pleasure of ancient days.

      [1895; 1916]

       Envoys from Alexandria

      They ­hadn’t seen, in Delphi, such beautiful gifts in centuries

      as those that were sent by the two, the Ptolemies,

      the rival brother kings. Ever since the priests accepted them,

      though, they’ve been worried about the oracle. To frame it

      with finesse they’ll need all of their expertise:

      which of the two, two such as these, must be displeased.

      And they convene at night, secretly,

      to confer about the Lagid family.

      But look, the envoys have come back. They take their leave.

      Returning to Alexandria, they say. They no longer have

      need of oracles. The priests are overjoyed to hear this

      (it’s understood they’ll keep the fabulous gifts)

      but they’re also bewildered in the extreme,

      clueless as to what this sudden lack of interest means.

      For yesterday the envoys had grim news of which priests are unaware:

      At Rome the oracle was handed down; destinies were meted there.

      [1915; 1918]

       Aristobulus

      The palace is in tears, the king’s in tears,

      King Herod inconsolably laments,

      the entire country is in tears for Aristobulus

      who so needlessly, accidentally drowned

      playing in the water with his friends.

      And also when they hear the news elsewhere,

      when it gets as far as Syria,

      even many of the Greeks will be distressed:

      the poets and the sculptors all will mourn,

      for the renown of Aristobulus had reached them,

      and any vision of theirs of what a youth could be

      never matched the beauty of this boy.

      What statue of a god could Antioch boast

      that was the like of this boy of Israel?

      The Throne Princess laments and weeps:

      his mother, the greatest of the Jewesses.

      Alexandra laments and weeps over the calamity.—

      But when she finds herself alone her anguish alters.

      She groans; she seethes; she swears; she calls down curses.

      How they made a fool of her! How they gulled her!

      How, in the end, they had got their way!

      They’ve laid the house of the Hasmoneans in ruins.

      How did he manage it, that criminal of a king;

      that charlatan, that miscreant, that scoundrel?

      How did he manage it? What a diabolical plan,

      for Mariamne not to have noticed a thing.

      Had Mariamne noticed, or suspected,

      she’d have found a way to save her little brother;

      she’s queen after all, she could have managed something.

      How they’ll gloat now, how they’ll exult in secret,

      those spiteful women, Cypros and Salome;

      those vile trollops, Cypros and Salome.—

      And to be powerless, to be compelled

      to pretend as though she believed their lies;

      to be unable to go to the people,

      to go outside and cry out to the Jews,

      to tell, to tell how the murder had been done.

      [1916; 1918]

       Caesarion

      In part to ascertain a certain date

      and in part to while away the time,

      last night I took down a collection

      of Ptolemaic inscriptions to read.

      The unstinting laudations and flatteries

      are the same for all. All of them are brilliant,

      glorious, mighty, beneficent;

      every undertaking utterly wise.

      As for the women of the line, they too,

      all the Berenices and the Cleopatras, are wonderful too.

      When I successfully ascertained the date

      I’d have finished with the book, if a tiny,

      insignificant