Complete Poems (13 page)

Something they were saying close to me

drew my attention to the entrance of the café.

And I saw the lovely body that looked as if

Eros had made it using all his vast experience:

crafting with pleasure his shapely limbs;

making tall the sculpted build;

crafting the face with emotion

and leaving behind, with the touch of his hands,

a feeling in the brow, the eyes, and the lips.

The room was threadbare and tawdry,

hidden above that suspect restaurant.

From the window you could see the alley,

which was filthy and narrow. From below

came the voices of some laborers

who were playing cards and having a carouse.

And there, in that common, vulgar bed

I had the body of love, I had the lips,

sensuous and rose-colored, of drunkenness—

the rose of such a drunkenness, that even now

as I write, after so many years have passed!,

in my solitary house, I am drunk again.

Come back often and take hold of me,

beloved feeling come back and take hold of me,

when the memory of the body reawakens,

and old longing once more passes through the blood;

when the lips and skin remember,

and the hands feel like they’re touching once again.

Come back often and take hold of me at night,

when the lips and skin remember …

I’d like to talk about that memory …

But by now it’s long died out … as if there’s nothing left:

because it lies far off, in the years of my first youth.

Skin, as if it had been made of jasmine …

That August—was it August?—evening …

I can just recall the eyes: they were, I daresay, blue …

Ah yes, blue: a deep blue, sapphirine.

Now and then he swears    to begin a better life.

But when the night comes on    with its own counsels,

its own compromises,    and with its promises:

but when the night comes on    with a power of its own,

of a body that desires and demands, he returns,

lost, once more to the same fateful pleasure.

No restraint. I surrendered completely and I went.

To gratifications that were partly real,

partly careening within my mind—

I went in the illuminated night.

And I drank powerful wines, just as

the champions of pleasure drink.

In a small and empty room, four lone walls,

covered in a cloth of solid green,

a beautiful chandelier burns and glows

and in each and every flame there blazes

a wanton fever, a wanton need.

In the small room, which has been set

aglow by the chandelier’s powerful flames,

the light that appears is no ordinary light.

The pleasure of this heat has not been fashioned

for bodies that too easily take fright.

Half past twelve. The time has quickly passed

since nine o’clock when I first turned up the lamp

and sat down here. I’ve been sitting without reading,

without speaking. With whom should I speak,

so utterly alone within this house?

The apparition of my body in its youth,

since nine o’clock when I first turned up the lamp,

has come and found me and reminded me

of shuttered perfumed rooms

and of pleasure spent—what wanton pleasure!

And it also brought before my eyes

streets made unrecognizable by time,

bustling city centres that are no more

and theatres and cafés that existed long ago.

The apparition of my body in its youth

came and also brought me cause for pain:

deaths in the family; separations;

the feelings of my loved ones, the feelings of

those long dead which I so little valued.

Half past twelve. How the time has passed.

Half past twelve. How the years have passed.

The years of my youth, my pleasure-bent existence—

how plainly do I see their meaning now.

What useless, foolish regrets …

But I didn’t see their meaning then.

In the dissolute life I led in my youth

my poetry’s designs took shape;

the boundaries of my art were drawn.

That is why the regrets were never firm.

And my resolutions—to master myself, to change—

would keep up for two weeks at the most.

On a chariot of white, drawn by four

snow-white mules caparisoned in silver,

I have arrived at Latmus from Miletus. I sailed over

from Alexandria in a purple trireme to perform

holy rites for Endymion, sacrifices and libations.

Behold the statue. With rapture I now look upon

the fabled beauty of Endymion. My slaves

empty panniers of jessamine; and well-omened acclamations

have awakened the pleasure of ancient days.

They hadn’t seen, in Delphi, such beautiful gifts in centuries

as those that were sent by the two, the Ptolemies,

the rival brother kings. Ever since the priests accepted them,

though, they’ve been worried about the oracle. To frame it

with finesse they’ll need all of their expertise:

which of the two, two such as these, must be displeased.

And they convene at night, secretly,

to confer about the Lagid family.

But look, the envoys have come back. They take their leave.

Returning to Alexandria, they say. They no longer have

need of oracles. The priests are overjoyed to hear this

(it’s understood they’ll keep the fabulous gifts)

but they’re also bewildered in the extreme,

clueless as to what this sudden lack of interest means.

For yesterday the envoys had grim news of which priests are unaware:

At Rome the oracle was handed down; destinies were meted there.

The palace is in tears, the king’s in tears,

King Herod inconsolably laments,

the entire country is in tears for Aristobulus

who so needlessly, accidentally drowned

playing in the water with his friends.

And also when they hear the news elsewhere,

when it gets as far as Syria,

even many of the Greeks will be distressed:

the poets and the sculptors all will mourn,

for the renown of Aristobulus had reached them,

and any vision of theirs of what a youth could be

never matched the beauty of this boy.

What statue of a god could Antioch boast

that was the like of this boy of Israel?

The Throne Princess laments and weeps:

his mother, the greatest of the Jewesses.

Alexandra laments and weeps over the calamity.—

But when she finds herself alone her anguish alters.

She groans; she seethes; she swears; she calls down curses.

How they made a fool of her! How they gulled her!

How, in the end, they had got their way!

They’ve laid the house of the Hasmoneans in ruins.

How did he manage it, that criminal of a king;

that charlatan, that miscreant, that scoundrel?

How did he manage it? What a diabolical plan,

for Mariamne not to have noticed a thing.

Had Mariamne noticed, or suspected,

she’d have found a way to save her little brother;

she’s queen after all, she could have managed something.

How they’ll gloat now, how they’ll exult in secret,

those spiteful women, Cypros and Salome;

those vile trollops, Cypros and Salome.—

And to be powerless, to be compelled

to pretend as though she believed their lies;

to be unable to go to the people,

to go outside and cry out to the Jews,

to tell, to tell how the murder had been done.

In part to ascertain a certain date

and in part to while away the time,

last night I took down a collection

of Ptolemaic inscriptions to read.

The unstinting laudations and flatteries

are the same for all. All of them are brilliant,

glorious, mighty, beneficent;

every undertaking utterly wise.

As for the women of the line, they too,

all the Berenices and the Cleopatras, are wonderful too.

When I successfully ascertained the date

I’d have finished with the book, if a tiny,

insignificant reference to King Caesarion

hadn’t attracted my attention suddenly… …

Ah, there: you came with your indefinite

charm. In history there are only a few

lines that can be found concerning you;

and so I could fashion you more freely in my mind.

I fashioned you this way: beautiful and feeling.

My artistry gives to your face

a beauty that has a dreamy winsomeness.

And so fully did I imagine you

that yesterday, late at night, when the lamp

went out—I deliberately let it go out—

I dared to think you came into my room,

it seemed to me you stood before me: as you must have been

in Alexandria after it had been conquered,

pale and wearied, perfect in your sorrow,

still hoping they’d have mercy on you,

those vile men—who whispered “Surfeit of Caesars.”

Nero wasn’t worried when he heard

the prophecy of the Delphic Oracle.

“Let him beware the age of seventy-three.”

He still had time to enjoy himself.

He is thirty years old. It’s quite sufficient,

this deadline that the god is giving him,

for him to think about dangers yet to come.

Now to Rome he’ll be returning a little wearied,

but exquisitely wearied by this trip

which had been endless days of diversion—

in the theatres, in the gardens, the gymnasia.…

Evenings of the cities of Achaea …

Ah, the pleasure of naked bodies above all …

So Nero. And in Spain, Galba

was secretly assembling his army and preparing it:

the old man, seventy-three years old.

Emes, a young man of twenty-eight, came by a Tenian

ship (meaning to learn the incense trade) to this Syrian

haven. But during the voyage he took sick,

and just after he had disembarked,

he died. His burial, the very cheapest kind,

took place there. A few hours before he died,

he whispered something about “home” and “elderly parents.”

But no one knew who they might have been;

nor what his native land might be, in all the wide Greek world.

Better this way. For this way, while

he lies dead in this safe haven,

his parents will keep hoping he’s still alive.

Whenever one of Them would cross Seleucia’s

marketplace, around the time that evening falls—

like some tall and flawlessly beautiful boy,

with the joy of incorruptibility in his eye,

with that dark and fragrant hair of his—

the passersby would stare at him

and one would ask another if he knew him,

and if he were a Syrian Greek, or foreign. But some,

who’d paid him more attention as they watched,

understood, and would make way.

And as he disappeared beneath the arcades,

among the shadows and the evening lights,

making his way to the neighborhood that comes alive

only at night—that life of revels and debauch,

of every known intoxication and lust—

they’d wonder which of Them he really was

and for which of his suspect diversions

he’d come down to walk Seleucia’s streets

from his Venerable, Sacrosanct Abode.

The Lanes whom you loved is not here, Marcus,

in the tomb where you come to cry, and stay for hours and hours.

The Lanes whom you loved you have much closer to you,

at home, when you shut yourself in and look at his picture:

it preserves some part of what was precious in him,

it preserves some part of what you’d loved.

Remember, Marcus, how you brought the famed

Cyrenian painter back from the proconsul’s palace,

and with what artful cunning he attempted

to persuade you both, no sooner had he seen your friend,

that he simply
had
to do him as Hyacinth

(which would make his portrait so much better known).