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XX. CAVAFY'S POEMS REWRITTEN \(nos. 1 - 7\)
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Cavafy's poems are very widely known today, and he is perhaps as much admired as Tennyson was by the Victorians. But the poems, in many excellent editions, come to us mostly only by the hands of the translator - as translator. There is the spirit and there is the letter of the law; and the translator must abide by the latter.
I know hardly any Greek, ancient or modern, and more ancient than modern. I have shamelessly used the work of all the translators of Cavafy available to me, not to make my own translation, but to recreate the poems in English. I have tried to be true to the spirit of each individual poem and to track down the basic message, the universal truth in its personal application. I have also unblushingly made not a few changes and additions in the search for euphony and clarity; and I can only hope that the beloved poet is not turning in his Alexandrian grave, appalled at my temerity.
Cavafy has much to tell us. He is at present regarded as something of a gay icon, and that is all to the good. Even so, he transcends the limitations of his own biography and observes the whole human condition.
Here are the first seven poems from the complete edition published in Alexandria in 1935. Further pages will be added to this website and it is my hope eventually to rewrite the whole canon.
- Charles Bryant, 8 February 2005.
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I. DESIRES
exquisite young corpses, beautiful still
in candle-glow, serene,
entombed in a painted mausoleum,
roses around their shining heads,
jasmine strewed across their naked feet
(feet and flesh protected from decay
by the embalmer's art)
- desires are like these, desires grown cold,
unsatisfied. unfulfilled desires
that never witnessed the palpitating night
nor the first pleasurable morning after love.
2. Voices
the remembered voices with their ideal tones
the throbbing voices of the dead,
the thrilling remembered voices
of the undead lost and departed
those we wished to hold who went from us.
in our dreams we hear these voices
at night, in the early dawn.
sometimes we seem to hear them in the day.
as we listen to these dead and undead voices
we're drawn back to the living past
whispering and echoing in the cave-skull
like far off night-music from a hall or tavern
distant and dying away
the further we travel from it.
3. PRAYER
down down down the sailor drowned
down to the deeps.
and as he drowned, his mother
(how could she know?)
lit a tall wax candle
before the ikon at the Virgin's shrine
Our Lady of the Sea.
'let him soon come back; the ocean calm.'
and as she prays she listens for the wind
and for its turn.
and as she prays and as she listens
the eyes of the painting watch her
in the candleglow,
a mother's eyes,
knowing her son will never again return.
4. FIRST STEP
a young poet
complained one day to his teacher:
'for two years i've been scribbling now
and have finished only one work.
i despair. the art is so very difficult
i'll never reach its height
but always be a very minor poet.'
his master said: 'don't be silly,
try not to talk such rubbish.
you have written one very proper poem
and should be thankful and proud.
to have got so far is a fine accomplishment.
this first step
lifts you above the prosaic world,
and standing on this new height
you're admitted to the great City of Thought.
only by hard work and exceptional talent
can one be enrolled in that distinguished company;
the requirements are so stringent
no fool could ever enter.
you have achieved a most wonderful thing.'
the pupil blushed;
but his downcast eyes were ablaze.
5. AN OLD MAN
his unread newspaper in his hands
an old man sits alone in the noisy bar
huddled and shabby.
afraid of age and fear, he's thinking
how little he appreciated, how little he enjoyed
the years of his strength, his handsome youth.
he feels so old, so tired, so spent,
amazed that it was only yesterday
that he was young, the time's so quickly gone;
remembers he never did what he desired,
never grasped his chances, stupidly believing
there was all the time in the world to have some fun,
but for now he must get on,
working hard, making money.
he'd checked his impulsive sexual longings,
the quick enjoyments he might have tasted,
fearing entanglements and waste of effort;
he had been so very very cautious;
and now is shrivelled by a vast regret.
befuddled by the light, the noise, the smoke,
the drink, he dozes over his unread paper,
pathetic in the noisy bar, alone.
6. CANDLES
our future days,
a row of lighted candles,
bright, golden and warm,
the days-to-come.
our past days,
guttered candles, wasted, spent
and out;
the nearest and most recent
smoking sunken wrecks of melted wax.
looking at the past, i feel the cold
and see their lights extinguished -
so sad to think that once they burned so brightly:
i'd like to avert my gaze from their dead darkness
and focus only on the living flames
but, terrified, i see the blackness growing,
the lighted candles fading one by one.
7. LAST STAND (THERMOPYLAE)
if life should be a battlefield, as it can be,
we should becomingly praise and celebrate
those who defend, against an overwhelming host,
the final fort on the frontier, knowing it will fall.
they see and do their duty and are faithful,
are sympathetic and compassionate;
generous when wealthy; and when poor
ready to share with others what they have;
straight-dealing, truthful,
not hating those who lie and cheat
(they know that hate's a self-consuming sickness).
and even more should we admire them
when we see what they foresee:
that the traitor who shares the little they possess
will sell them to the enemy;
and the enemy will conquer in the end.
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