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

Demaratus

      The theme, “The Character of Demaratus,”

      which Porphyry has suggested to him in conversation,

      the young scholar outlined as follows

      (intending, afterwards, to flesh it out rhetorically).

      “At first the courtier of King Darius, and then

      a courtier of King Xerxes;

      and now accompanying Xerxes and his army,

      to vindicate himself at last: Demaratus.

      “A great injustice had been done to him.

      He was the son of Ariston. Shamelessly

      his enemies had bribed the oracle.

      Nor did they fail to deprive him of his throne;

      but when at last he yielded, and decided

      to resign himself to living as a private person

      they had to go and insult him before the people,

      they had to go and humiliate him, in public, at the festival.

      “And so it is that he serves Xerxes with such great zeal.

      Accompanying the enormous Persian army

      he too will make his return to Sparta;

      and, a king once more, how swiftly

      he will drive him out, will degrade

      that conniving Leotychides.

      “And so his days pass by, full of concerns:

      giving the Persians counsel, explaining to them

      what they need to do to conquer Greece.

      “Many worries, much reflection, which is why

      the days of Demaratus are so dreary.

      Many worries, much reflection, which is why

      Demaratus doesn’t have a moment’s pleasure;

      since pleasure isn’t what he’s feeling

      (it’s not; he won’t acknowledge it;

      how can he call it pleasure? it’s the acme of his misfortune)

      when everything reveals to him quite clearly

      that the Greeks will emerge victorious.”

      [1904; 1911; 1921]

       I Brought to Art

      I’m sitting and musing. I brought to Art

      longings and feelings— some half-glimpsed

      faces or lines; some uncertain mem’ries

      of unfulfilled loves. Let me submit to it.

      It knows how to shape the Form of Beauty;

      almost imperceptibly filling out life,

      piecing together impressions, piecing together the days.

      [1921; 1921]

       From the School of the Renowned Philosopher

      He remained Ammonius Saccas’s student for two years;

      but of philosophy and of Saccas he grew bored.

      Afterward he went into politics.

      But he gave it up. The Prefect was a fool;

      and those around him solemn, pompous stiffs;

      their Greek horribly uncouth, the wretches.

      His curiosity was aroused,

      a bit, by the Church: to be baptized,

      to pass as a Christian. But he quickly

      changed his mind. He’d surely get in a row

      with his parents, so ostentatiously pagan:

      and they’d immediately put an end—an awful thought—

      to his extremely generous allowance.

      Still, he had to do something. He became an habitué

      of the depraved houses of Alexandria,

      of every secret den of debauchery.

      In this, fortune had been kind to him:

      had given him a form of highest comeliness.

      And he delighted in that heavenly gift.

      For at least another ten years yet

      his beauty would endure. After that—

      perhaps to Saccas he would go once more.

      And if in the meantime the old man had died,

      he’d go to some other philosopher or sophist;

      someone suitable can always be found.

      Or in the end, it was possible he’d even return

      to politics—admirably mindful

      of his family traditions,

      duty to one’s country, and other pomposities of that sort.

      [1921; 1921]

       Maker of Wine Bowls

      On this mixing-bowl of the purest silver—

      which was made for the home of Heracleides,

      where great elegance always is the rule—

      note the stylish blooms, and the brooks, the thyme;

      and in the middle I put a beautiful young man,

      naked, sensuous; he still keeps one leg,

      just one, in the water.— O Memory, I have begged

      to find in you the best of guides, that I might make

      the face of the youth I loved as it really was.

      This has proved to be very difficult since

      some fifteen years have passed since the day on which

      he fell, a soldier, in the defeat at Magnesia.

      [1903; 1912; 1921]

       Those Who Fought on Behalf of the Achaean League

      You brave, who fought and fell in glory:

      who had no fear of those who’d conquered everywhere.

      You blameless, even if Diaeus and Critolaus blundered.

      Whensoever the Greeks should want to boast,

      “Such are the men our race produces,” is what they’ll say

      about you. That’s how marvelous the praise for you will be.—

      Written in Alexandria by an Achaean:

      in the seventh year of Ptolemy, the “Chickpea.”

      [1922; 1922]

       For Antiochus Epiphanes

      The young Antiochene said to the king,

      “In my heart there beats a single precious hope:

      the Macedonians again, Antiochus Epiphanes,

      the