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

body on the bed.

      We’re a hodgepodge here: Syrians, Greeks, Armenians, Medes.

      Rhemon too is such a one. But yesterday, as the moon

      shone its light upon his sensuous face

      we were put in mind of Plato’s Charmides.

      [1916; 1917]

       Tomb of Ignatius

      Here I’m not the Cleon who’s renowned

      in Alexandria (where they aren’t easily impressed)

      for my fabulous houses, for my gardens,

      for my horses and for my chariots,

      for the diamonds and the silks I wore.

      Far from it: here I’m not that Cleon.

      May those twenty-eight years be erased.

      I am Ignatius, a Lector, who very late

      came to my senses. But still I lived ten blessed months

      in the serenity and security of Christ.

      [1916; 1917]

       In the Month of Hathor

      With difficulty I read upon this ancient stone

      “O Lo[r]d Jesus Christ.” I can just discern a “So[u]l.”

      “In the mon[th] of Hathor” “Leuciu[s] went to his re[s]t.”

      Where they record his age “The span of years he li[ve]d”

      the Kappa Zeta is proof that he went to his rest a youth.

      Amidst the erosion I see “Hi[m] … Alexandrian.”

      Then there are three lines radically cut short;

      but some words I can make out— like “our t[e]ars,” “the pain,”

      “tears” again further down, and “grief for [u]s, his [f]riends.”

      In love, it seems to me, Leucius was greatly blessed.

      In the month of Hathor Leucius went to his rest.

      [1917; 1917]

       For Ammon, Who Died at 29 Years of Age, in 610

      Raphael, they want you to compose

      some verses as an epitaph for the poet Ammon.

      Something very artistic and polished. You’ll be able,

      you’re the perfect choice, to write what’s suitable

      for the poet Ammon, one of our own.

      Certainly you’ll talk about his poetry—

      but do say something, too, about his beauty,

      about the delicate beauty that we loved.

      Your Greek is always beautiful and musical.

      But now we want all of your craftsmanship.

      Into a foreign tongue our pain and love are passing.

      Pour your Egyptian feeling into a foreign tongue.

      Raphael, your verses should be written

      so that they have, you know, something of our lives within them,

      so that the rhythm and every phrasing makes it clear

      that an Alexandrian is writing of an Alexandrian.

      [1915; 1917]

      Aemilian Son of Monaës, an Alexandrian, 628–655 A.D.

      From my speech, and looks, and from my mien

      I shall make an excellent panoply;

      and so I’ll stand before those wicked men

      without fear, without debility.

      They will want to harm me. But none of those

      who come close to me will ever see

      where my vulnerable places are, my wounds,

      beneath the falsehoods that will cover me.—

      Boastful words of Aemilian son of Monaës.

      I wonder if he ever made that suit of armor?

      In any event, he ­didn’t wear it much:

      At twenty-seven, in Sicily, he died.

      [1898?; 1918]

       Whenever They Are Aroused

      Try to keep watch over them, poet,

      for all that few of them can be restrained:

      Your eroticism’s visions.

      Place them, partly hidden, in your phrases.

      Try to keep hold of them, poet,

      whenever they’re aroused within your mind,

      at night or in the brightness of midday.

      [1913; 1916]

       To Pleasure

      Joy and balm of my life the memory of the hours

      when I found and held on to pleasure as I wanted it.

      Joy and balm of my life—for me, who had no use

      for any routine enjoyment of desire.

      [1913; 1917]

      I’ve Gazed So Much—

      At beauty I’ve gazed so much

      that my vision is filled with it.

      The body’s lines. Red lips. Limbs made for pleasure.

      Hair as if it were taken from Greek statues:

      always lovely, even when it’s uncombed,

      and falls, a bit, upon the gleaming brow.

      Faces of love, exactly as

      my poetry wanted it … in the nights of my youth,

      secretly encountered in my nights. …

      [1911; 1917]

       In the Street

      His appealing face, somewhat pallid;

      his chestnut eyes, looking tired;

      twenty-five years old, but looks more like twenty;

      with something artistic about his clothes

      —something in the color of the tie, the collar’s shape—

      aimlessly he ambles down the street,

      as if still hypnotized by the illicit pleasure,

      by the very illicit pleasure he has had.

      [1913; 1916]

       The Window of the Tobacco Shop

      Nearby the illuminated window

      of