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

in the midst of many others.

      Quite by chance their glances happened to meet,

      and timorously, hesitantly expressed

      the illicit longing of their flesh.

      Later, on the pavement, a few nervous steps—

      until they smiled, and nodded very faintly.

      And afterward the closed carriage. …

      the sensitive nearing of their bodies;

      the hands as one, the lips as one.

      [1907; 1917]

       Passage

      What he timidly imagined in his school days, is opened up,

      revealed to him. And he makes the rounds, stays out all night,

      gets swept up in things. And as is (for our art) only right,

      pleasure rejoices in his fresh, hot blood,

      an outlaw sensual abandon overcomes

      his body; and his youthful limbs

      give in to it.

      And so a simple boy

      becomes, for us, worth looking at, and passes through the High

      World of Poetry, for a moment—yes, even he;

      this aesthete of a boy, with his blood so fresh and hot.

      [1914; 1917]

       In Evening

      At any rate it wouldn’t have lasted long. Years

      of experience make that clear to me. But still, Fate

      came and ended things in too much of a hurry.

      The life of loveliness was brief.

      But how powerful our perfumed unctions were,

      how exquisite the bed in which we lay,

      to what pleasure we gave our bodies away.

      A reverberation of the days of pleasure,

      a reverberation of those days drew near me,

      something we two had in youth, the fire;

      once more I took a letter in my hands,

      and read it over and over, till the light had failed.

      And I went out onto the balcony, melancholy—

      went out so I might clear my head by seeing at least

      a little of this town I love so well,

      some little movement in the street, and in the shops.

      [1916; 1917]

       Gray

      Looking at an opal of medium gray,

      I remembered two beautiful gray eyes

      that I saw; it must be twenty years ago. …

      . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

      For one month we were in love.

      Then the departure, for Smyrna I daresay,

      to get work there, and we never saw each other again.

      Those gray eyes—if they’re alive—will have lost their beauty;

      the beautiful face will have fallen into ruins.

      O my memory, keep them as they were.

      And, memory, whatever you can bring back from that love of mine,

      whatever you can, bring back to me tonight.

      [1917; 1917]

       Below the House

      Yesterday while strolling through a neighborhood

      on the edge of town, I passed below the house

      I used to go in when I was very young.

      There Eros had taken possession of my body

      with his exquisite force.

      And yesterday

      as I passed along that ancient street,

      suddenly everything was made beautiful by desire’s spell:

      the shops, the pavements, the stones,

      and walls, and balconies, and windows;

      there was nothing ugly that remained there.

      And while I was standing, gazing at the door,

      and standing, tarrying by the house,

      the foundation of all my being yielded up

      the sensual emotion that was stored inside.

      [1917; 1919]

       The Next Table

      Can’t be more than twenty-two years old.

      And yet I’m sure that, just about the same

      number of years ago, I enjoyed that very body.

      It’s not at all a flaring of desire.

      And I only came to the casino a little while ago;

      I haven’t even had time to drink a lot.

      This very body: I enjoyed it.

      And if I don’t remember where—one slip doesn’t signify.

      Ah there, sitting at the next table now:

      I recognize each movement—and beneath the clothes

      I see once more the naked limbs I loved.

      [1918; 1919?]

       Remember, Body

      Body, remember not just how much you were loved,

      not just the beds where you have lain,

      but also those longings that so openly

      glistened for you in the eyes,

      and trembled in the voice—and some

      chance obstacle arose and thwarted them.

      Now that it’s all finally in the past

      it almost seems as if you gave yourself to

      those longings, too—remember how

      they glistened, in the eyes that looked at you;

      how they trembled in the voice, for you; remember, body.

      [1916; 1917/1918]

       Days of 1903

      I never found them, ever again—all so quickly lost …

      the poetic eyes, the pallid

      face. … in the gloaming of the street. …

      I’ve not found them since—things I came to have completely by chance,

      things that I let go so easily;

      and afterwards, in anguish, wanted back.

      The poetic eyes,