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XXVIII. CAVAFY IN 1915. POEMS 47 - 56 REWRITTEN
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(The photograph above is of the poet's desk chair and lamp, the original to be found on the splendid Cavafy website ITHAKA, see link below.)
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Poems 46 to 56 are listed as dating from the year 1915. The dating of any literary work is often only an approximation, especially with a poet like Cavafy who was always rewriting his verse. Nor does the rewriting of a poem cease only with the poet's death. Here am I still rewriting on Cavafy's behalf seventy years after he died. And the poets of imperial Rome, in an age when only a few scholars are fluent Latinists, are being similarly rearranged in foreign languages (languages largely nonexistant in their own day) two thousand years later.
In any case, let us take the dating at face value and look at Cavafy in the year 1915. He was now in his early fifties and had been working as a clerk in the Irrigation Office at Alexandria for a quarter of a century. The work there was not onerous; office hours were from eight to one-thirty, although he usually arrived late. His afternoons were free and he often spent them at the stock exchange where he was apparently moderately successful in his dealings. He was living alone at no.10 Rue Lepsius in a high-ceilinged fairly large flat - big entrance hall, red salon, Arabic salon, mauve dining room, the poet's bedroom and another room called the 'bindery' where he stacked copies of his poems in various stages of development in a system of interchangeable pamphlets for leisurely distribution. He had originally settled here with his brother Paul in 1907, but Paul's financial affairs had gone to the dogs and he had moved abroad and was now living in France in reduced circumstances.
As a middle-aged unmarried and unattached man, Cavafy was undoubtedly lonely. His romantic liaisons seem to have been predominantly fleeting; there was no long-term companion. It could be argued that he really preferred to live alone. He had his business activities, he had his poetry; there were family (inevitably reduced by the passage of time); there were friends, none of whom was particularly intimate and therefore unobtrusive. It seems that he liked to keep himself to himself.
- Charles Bryant, 12 April, 2005.
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47. THE ABOUT TO BE
everybody knows what’s happening now
and the gods can see the future.
the wise man observes the imminent:
immersed in contemplation, senses its movement.
while ordinary mortals, passing by
his study window, hear nothing, see nothing.
48. MORNING SEA
here i stand, observing nature:
the lapis blue of early morning sea
merging with unbounded sky;
the scoured yellow stretch of weedless shore.
lucency above below around.
here i stand, all eyes.
let me see what momently i saw
at first sight, with unclouded vision
unmitigated by imagination
memory or cerebration:
luminous clarity, the child-gift.
49. AT THE CAFÉ DOOR
somebody spoke beside me
as i turned toward the door of the café
and saw that beautiful form
touched by the masterful hand of Eros
son of Venus;
who modelled its amazing symmetry
and living sculpture of its limbs;
who shaped the face so tenderly,
the god’s own loving fingers
exquisitely moulding
the contours of the brow, the eyes
and fluted parting of the sensuous lips.
50. OROPHANES
handsome profile, refined features -
Orophanes’ face
on a four drachma coin.
he seems to be smiling.
exiled from his father’s palace
in Cappadocia as a youngster
he grew up in Ionia
abandoned among foreign people.
did i say abandoned?
my god! those idyllic evenings in Ionia,
those luminous nights
when fearlessly and like a native Greek
he indulged in every sort of sensual pleasure.
always Asian, with eastern eyes
and features, he learnt the speech and ways of Greece;
dressed like them; flaunted turquoise jewellery;
perfumed himself with jasmine-scented oils.
Orophanes Orophanes he far exceeds
in beauty the exquisite Ionian youth.
* * * * * *
Syria took Cappadocia,
made Orophanes king.
son of kings and to the manner born
he embraced his new-found role
not wisely but too well;
amassed much gold and silver;
piled room on room with riches
over which he gloated.
as for governing the country -
he was useless.
the Cappadocians chucked him out.
he went to Syria;
in Demetrios’ palace
loafed and lounged.
idle, he brooded on one idea:
how through his mother Antiochis,
through grandmama Stratoniki
he was connected to the Syrian crown.
he gave up sex and drink;
dazed, half in a dream,
cack-handedly intrigued,
ineptly spun a web of revolution
in which he mired himself
with his simpleton friends;
was extruded from the palace and departed,
deported to god-knows-where.
exiled again and in a foreign land
he disappears from history,
lost in insignificance.
* * * * * *
but mark this coin where he is shown
still in the bloom of his beautiful youth,
enigmatically smiling.
Orophanes Orophanes who far exceeds
in loveliness all the Ionians.
51. HE SWEARS
intermittently he swears
to live a more ordered life.
then evening comes; then night
with enamoured yearning,
endlessly enticing
with promised fulfilment.
night falls, and he is drawn
into destruction.
his body demands
and obtains the fatal deception,
the depraved attraction
to which he’s now addicted.
52. THE ILLUSTRATION
artistic creativity is heaven;
but today i’m dull; my pen is leaden.
i feel utterly exhausted. the sky
is growing darker, wind chasing rain.
thought’s now so slow. i do not wish to think
but only look.
here at hand an illustrated book.
i absently flick through the pages,
discover a drawing of a naked boy,
a beautiful youth stretched beside a stream,
lying face down, exhausted, half in dream.
he has run a long way and now rests
beside the cooling water on soft grass,
a creature of perfection. His long limbs
relax in sleepy stupefaction. it is noon.
a picture of contentment, loveliness.
i gaze and gaze until my vision blurs;
released by art from all art’s weary toil.
53. ONE NIGHT
a cheap and nasty room
above a noisy pub.
the view from the window:
a dirty alley.
up through the broken floorboards
came the noisy conversation
of rowdy drunks, excited at their cards.
but there, on that old bed,
love’s body pressed against me,
i tasted the lips of love,
love’s sensuous kisses.
thinking of it now, after all these years,
solitary in these lonely rooms,
again i’m drunk with passion,
just as then.
54. MAGNESIA
he’s sagging;
all the fire’s gone out of him;
he’s feeling sick.
he’ll have to look after himself
and that’s a fact.
an unhurried, unworried life -
that above all else is what he needs.
so King Phillip tells himself
hearing the news of Antiochus’ defeat
at the hands of the Roman state
at the great big dust-up battle of Magnesia.
tonight he’s playing dice
with a bunch of cronies
determined to have fun.
‘roses!’ he shouts to the servants.
‘roses for the table
lots of roses!’
he’s sagging on his couch,
rings around his wine-soaked eyes;
just a little petulant.
‘Antiochus defeated at Magnesia?
his great army massacred?
well, that’s what we’re hearing,
but you never know.
people always exaggerate.
let’s look on the bright side.
roses! more roses!
i do so hope it’s only exaggeration.’
he’s determined to party on,
whatever the cost.
no matter how exhausted
Phillip has decided to have fun.
no matter that he’s ill
(this bad news makes him worse)
his mind is still as sharp as ever it was
(so he tells the dicers.)
yes, his mind is crisp and he recalls
how the Syrians mourned
how they commiserated
at the rape of Macedonia,
his Macedonia
by the Roman.
he remembers it well,
how much they mourned.
it brings the tears to his eyes.
enough of that. he’s hungry.
‘come on there, let’s eat!
the tables are covered
with roses - wonderful!
it smells like the mountains in summer.
send in the musicians!
send in the dancers!
and let us have more lamps,
more light, more light!’
55. MANUEL KOMNINOS
aware that he was dying
the Emperor Manuel Komninos
one misty September morning
sent to the church for ecclesiastical vestments.
the paid astrologers laughed.
‘you won’t need those’
they told him. ‘you will live
for many many years’ -
waving their charts in his face.
the emperor knew otherwise.
he would follow ancient tradition,
assume the venerable priestly garb
appropriate to his fatal situation.
the Emperor Manuel Komninos
robed with ostentatious piety
peaceful in his mind
contentedly awaited his earthly end
dressed in the habiliments of his faith.
56. SELEUKIDES’ DISPLEASURE
Ptolemy Philometor
expelled from Alexandria by his brother,
sues to the Roman Senate for reinstatement.
Demetrios Seleukides is livid
that Ptolemy - a Ptolemy! -
has arrived in such poor state,
inappropriately dressed
and badly attended.
this will make their dynasty a joke,
the laughing-stock of Rome.
he cannot stand it!
Seleukides is not stupid, though offended.
he realises they are little more than servants.
the Romans give, or take away, their thrones
at their own pleasure.
nonetheless, some dignity is essential.
after all, they’re kings!
Seleukides tries to press on Ptolemy
purple robes and a jewelled crown,
diamonds and servants and retainers
and his most expensive horses -
to enable him to enter Rome in splendour
as befits their common kingly status.
Ptolemy has different ideas.
he has arrived to beg and must refuse
all these proferred luxuries.
he comes into Rome dressed in shabby clothes;
lodges in a humble working man’s home.
it is thus that Ptolemy appears before the Senate -
unkempt, bedraggled, bowing, eager to please.
he knows the effect of theatre; plays his part.
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Links:
ITHAKA
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