Orophernis
The figure on this four drachma coin
who seems to have a smile on his face
his beautiful, delicate face
this figure is Orophernis, son of Ariarathis.
A child, they threw him out of Cappadocia,
out of his great ancestral palace,
and sent him to grow up in Ionia,
to be forgotten there among foreigners.
Oh those exquisite Ionian nights
when fearlessly, and entirely in a Greek way,
he came to know sensual pleasure totally.
In his heart, Asiatic always,
but in manners and language, a Greek;
with his turquoise jewellery, his Greek clothes,
his body perfumed with oil of jasmine,
he was the most handsome, the most perfect
of Ionia's handsome young men.
Later, when the Syrians entered Cappadocia
and made him king,
he became fully engrossed in his kingship
so as to enjoy himself in a new way each day,
greedily hoarding gold and silver,
delightedly gloating over
the piles of wealth glittering before his eyes.
As for worrying about the country and running it-
he had no idea what was going on.
The Cappadocians quickly got rid of him,
and he ended up in Syria, at the palace of Dimitrios,
where he spent his time amusing himself and loafing.
But one day unfamiliar thoughts
broke in on his completely idle life:
he remembered how through his mother Antiochis
and that old grandmother Stratoniki
he too was connected with the Syrian crown,
he too almost a Selefkid.
For a while he gave up lechery and drink
and ineptly, half dazed,
tried to start an intrigue,
do something, come up with a plan;
but he failed pitifully and that was that.
His end must have been recorded somewhere only to be lost;
or maybe history passed over it
and rightly didn't bother to notice
anything so trivial.
The figure on this four drachma coin,
something of whose young charm can still be seen,
a ray of his poetic beauty
this sensuous image of an Ionian boy,
this is Orophernis, son of Ariarathis.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Related quotes
Of Dimitrios Sotir
Everything he'd hoped for turned out wrong.
He'd seen himself doing great things,
ending the humiliation that had kept his country down
ever since the battle of Magnesia
seen himself making Syria a powerful state again,
with her armies, her fleets,
her big fortresses, her wealth.
He'd suffered in Rome, become bitter
when he sensed in the talk of friends,
young men of the great families,
that in spite of all their delicacy, their politeness
toward him, the son
of King Selefkos Philopator-
when he sensed that in spite of this there was always
a secret contempt for the Hellenized dynasties:
their heyday was over, they weren't fit for anything serious,
were completely unable to rule their peoples.
He'd cut himself off, indignant, swearing
it would be quite different from the way they thought.
Why, wasn't he himself full of determination?
He would act, he would fight, he would put it all right again.
If he could only find a way of getting to the East,
only manage to escape from Italy,
then all this inner strength,
all this energy,
he'd pass on to his people.
Only to be in Syria!
He was so young when he left his country
he hardly remembered what it looked like.
But in his mind he'd always thought of it
as something sacred that you approach reverently,
as a beautiful place unveiled, a vision
of Greek cities and Greek ports.
And now?
Now despair and sorrow.
They were right, the young men in Rome.
The dynasties resulting from the Macedonian Conquest
can't be kept going any longer.
It doesn't matter. He'd made the effort,
fought as much as he could.
And in his bleak disillusion
there's only one thing in which he still takes pride:
that even in failure
he shows the world his same indomitable courage.
The rest: they were dreams and wasted energy.
This Syria -it almost seems it isn't his country
this Syria is the land of Valas and Herakleidis.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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In business you need two Jews for one Greek, two Greeks for one Syrian and two Syrians for one Armenian.
Poseidonians
The Poseidonians forgot the Greek language
after so many centuries of mingling
with Tyrrhenians, Latins, and other foreigners.
The only thing surviving from their ancestors
was a Greek festival, with beautiful rites,
with lyres and flutes, contests and wreaths.
And it was their habit toward the festival's end
to tell each other about their ancient customs
and once again to speak Greek names
that only few of them still recognized.
And so their festival always had a melancholy ending
because they remebered that they too were Greeks,
they too once upon a time were citizens of Magna Graecia;
and how low they'd fallen now, what they'd become,
living and speaking like barbarians,
cut off so disastrously from the Greek way of life.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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On an Italian Shore
Kimos, son of Menedoros, a young Greek-Italian,
devotes his life to amusing himself,
like most young men in Greater Greece
brought up in the lap of luxury.
But today, in spite of his nature,
he is preoccupied, dejected. Near the shore
he watched, deeply distressed, as they unload
ships with booty taken from the Peloponnese.
G r e e k l o o t: b o o t y f r o m C o r i n t h.
Today certainly it is not right,
it is not possible for the young Greek-Italian
to want to amuse himself in any way.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Sleeping in Greece
Every detail of you I touched;
like a Greek god you are,
flesh carved in stones,
face calm as newest moon...
hair weaved in thread immortal.
While you were sleeping, I watched;
like a Greek god you are,
perfectly still,
vigorous as Samson...
delicate as a child.
Every detail of you and such,
through my fingers I've read.
Every bit I understood;
like a Greek scroll you are...
none I could read as perfectly, as you.
19Sep2012
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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The Sound Of Grecian Music
The sound of Grecian music where the Greek diners eat
From the Athenian restaurant it floats across the street
And a beautiful Greek songstress with the music sings along
One could listen to the music and the singer all night long.
Greek music and Greek poetry is in a class of it's own
And the legends of Greek history by history not outgrown
And there is life in Greek music it has a bubbling sound
It makes you want to shake your feet and to it dance around.
And when the diners have drunk and eaten the dining tables are put away
And the dancers will be dancing till the small hours of the new day
They sing as they dance in a Greek ring around the timbered floor
And enjoy themselves as the Greeks do for three hours or even more.
The marvellous sound of Grecian music from the Athenian restaurant nearby
Is food to the soul and senses and something to enjoy
To the quiet street on a friday night such happiness they bring
Till the small hours of the morning they laugh and dance and sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Prince from Western Libya
Aristomenis, son of Menelaos,
the Prince from Western Libya,
was generally liked in Alexandria
during the ten days he spent there.
As his name, his dress, modest, was also Greek.
He received honors gladly,
but he did not solicit them; he was unassuming.
He bought Greek books,
especially history and philosophy.
Above all he was a man of few words.
It got around that he must be a profound thinker,
and men like that naturally don't speak very much.
He was neither a profound thinker nor anything else—
just a piddling, laughable man.
He assumed a Greek name, dressed like the Greeks,
learned to behave more or less like a Greek;
and all the time he was terrified he would spoil
his reasonably good image
by coming out with barbaric howlers in Greek
and the Alexandrians, in their usual way,
would make fun of him, vile people that they are.
This was why he limited himself to a few words,
terribly careful of his syntax and pronunciation;
and he was driven almost out of his mind, having
so much talk bottled up inside him.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Desert Is In Your Heart
producer for bonnie: ?
Recorded in 1992 for sophie arbaniti 's album 'parafora', lyrics taken from
Careful listening.
First half of this song is in greek...so your guess is as good as mine - here's
The english part...
You move the veil from your face
And escape from the world that is hurting
You feel oppressed when you know
That the words are killing the meaning
There is no reason to hide in the dark
When you're far from the fighting
How can you dream in a world that is getting greyer than grey?
You don't have to hide your face, there's no disgrace
There's no harm in knowing that we're all a part of the human race
You have got to lift your head, think of what he said
You were born to know the truth, nothing but the truth, and what the truth is
Worth
Oh, the desert is in your heart
In your heart
The desert is in your heart
In your heart
It's so hard to try to forget
So many thinks you regret
You try to look back, but there's little to see
Just nothing can't take this pain from me
Oh, the desert is in your heart
In your heart
You don't have to hide your face
There's no disgrace
There's no harm in knowing we're all a part of the human race
You have got to lift your head, think of what he said
You were born to know the truth, nothing but the truth, and what the truth is
Worth
Oh, the desert is in your heart
In your heart
The desert is in your heart
In your heart
(greek)
In your heart
(greek)
The desert is in your heart
(greek)
The desert is in your heart
(greek)
song performed by by Bonnie Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Romance In The Rough
A sturdy fellow, with a sunburnt face,
And thews and sinews of a giant mould;
A genial mind, that harboured nothing base,—
A pocket void of gold.
The rival’s years were fifty at the least—
Withered his skin, and wrinkled as a crone;
But day by day his worldly goods increased,
Till great his wealth had grown.
And she, the lady of this simple tale,
Was tall and straight, and beautiful to view;
Even a poet’s burning words would fail
To paint her roseate hue.
The suitors came, the old one and the young,
Each with fond words her fancy to allure.
For which of them should marriage bells be rung,
The rich one or the poor?
She liked the young one with his winning ways,
He seemed designed to be her future mate—
Besides, in novels and romantic plays
Love has a youthful gait.
But well she knew that poverty was hard,
And humble household cares not meant for her;
Nor cared she what the sentimental bard
Might warble or infer.
She made her choice, the wedding bells rang clear;
The aged bridegroom figured in the Times.
The young man, after some superfluous beer,
Went forth to foreign climes.
And this is all I ever chanced to know,
Told by my mate while digging on the Creek,
Who ended with his handsome face aglow,
And with a verse in Greek.
poem by Arthur Patchett Martin
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A rich queen and a poor king
The handsome threadbare man who struggled in a slum.
I don't know why I loved him and took him to my palace?
I gave an old king's name to bring him to our own society.
This beautiful witch-Queen dragged me to her palace
and given me an ugly name of a Lunatic.
My halcyon slum is a paradise.
The edge of the heavy crown pierced my head
and I never had a sound sleep
since I came to this hell.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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I've Looked So Much...
I've looked on beauty so much
that my vision overflows with it.
The body's lines. Red lips. Sensual limbs.
Hair as though stolen from Greek statues,
always lovely, even uncombed,
and falling slightly over pale foreheads.
Figures of love, as my poetry desired them
. . . . in the nights when I was young,
encountered secretly in my nights.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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I´ve Looked So Much…
I’ve looked on beauty so much
that my vision overflows with it.
The body’s lines. Red lips. Sensual limbs.
Hair as though stolen from Greek statues,
always lovely, even uncombed,
and falling slightly over pale foreheads.
Figures of love, as my poetry desired them
…in the nights when I was young,
encountered secretly in those nights.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Black Shawl
As of senses bereft, at a black shawl I stare,
And my chill heart is tortured with deadly despair.
When dreaming too fondly in credulous youth,
I loved a Greek maiden with passion and truth.
My Greek girl was gentle and loving and fair;
But my joy quickly sank in a day of despair.
Once I feasted gay friends; ere the banquet was o'er
A Jew, the accursed, softly knocked at my door.
'Thou art laughing,' he whispered,'in pleasure's mad whirl;
But she hath betrayed thee, thy young Grecian girl.'
I cursed him; but gold as a guerdon I gave,
And took as companion my trustiest slave.
My swift charger I mounted; at once we depart,
And the soft voice of pity was stilled in my heart.
The Greek maiden's dwelling I hardly could mark,
For my limbs they grew faint, and my eyes they grew dark.
I silently entered—alone and amazed;
An Armenian was kissing the girl as I gazed.
I saw not the light; but I seized my good blade;
The betrayer ne'er finished the kiss that betrayed.
On his warm, headless body I trampled, then spurn'd,
And silent and pale to the maiden I turned.
I remember her prayers—in her blood how she strove;
Then perished my Greek girl—then perished my love.
I tore the black shawl from her head as she lay,
Wiped the blood-dripping weapon, and hurried away.
When the mists of the evening rose gloomy, my slave
Threw each corpse in the Danube's dark fastrolling wave.
Since then no bewildering eyes can delight;
Since then I forbear festive banquets at night.
As of senses bereft, at a black shawl I stare,
And my chill heart is tortured with deadly despair.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Ionic
That we've broken their statues,
that we've driven them out of their temples,
doesn't mean at all that the gods are dead.
O land of Ionia, they're still in love with you,
their souls still keep your memory.
When an August dawn wakes over you,
your atmosphere is potent with their life,
and sometimes a young ethereal figure
indistinct, in rapid flight,
wings across your hills.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Story Teller
The story tellers
of different language
of different clothes
of different color
tells the same story
about the missing prince
in the palace.
People gathered around
and listen
to the story teller
who has the most beautiful face
and dressed like a princess.
One young man
dressed like a beggar
tells the same story
about the missing prince
in the palace
but no one came to listen.
Night comes
and the young man rides his horse
back to the palace
the young man...
is the missing prince.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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They Should Have Provided
I have almost been reduced to a homeless pauper.
This fatal city, Antioch,
has consumed all my money;
this fatal city with its expensive life.
But I am young and in excellent health.
My command of Greek is superb
(I know all there is about Aristotle, Plato;
orators, poets, you name it.)
I have an idea of military affairs,
and have friends among the mercenary chiefs.
I am on the inside of administration as well.
Last year I spent six months in Alexandria;
I have some knowledge (and this is useful) of affairs there:
intentions of the Malefactor, and villainies, et cetera.
Therefore I believe that I am fully
qualified to serve this country,
my beloved homeland Syria.
In whatever capacity they place me I shall strive
to be useful to the country. This is my intent.
Then again, if they thwart me with their methods --
we know those able people: need we talk about it now?
if they thwart me, I am not to blame.
First, I shall apply to Zabinas,
and if this moron does not appreciate me,
I shall go to his rival Grypos.
And if this idiot does not hire me,
I shall go straight to Hyrcanos.
One of the three will want me however.
And my conscience is not troubled
about not worrying about my choice.
All three harm Syria equally.
But, a ruined man, why is it my fault.
Wretched man, I am trying to make ends meet.
The almighty gods should have provided
and created a fourth, good man.
Gladly would I have joined him.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Ionic
That we've broken their statues,
that we've driven them out of their temples,
doesn't mean at all that the gods are dead.
O land of Ionia, they're still in love with you,
their souls still keep your memory.
When an August dawn wakes over you,
your atmosphere is potent with their life,
and sometimes a young ethereal figure
indistinct, in rapid flight,
wings across your hills.
poem by Gaius Valerius Catullus
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Backbite
A widower comes asking
For new seedlings
Of sexy pink
His old jeep parks
His young handsome
Driver
Comes his name is
Mark
Both of them smells
Musk
Something’s musky
Something needs
To be explained
But you understand
This widower at
60 needs a
Young boy like the
Greek Plato
To appease his
Philosophical sense
About loneliness
The good, the beautiful
And yes
The truth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Let Us Live, My Lady, When We Are Young
Tomorrow I may die young lady,
And reduced to dust may be lost in dust:
Therefore let us live when we are young
And taste of life what it offers us:
The morrow may offer nothing to us,
It is the present that matters most
When you are young and budding like a rose.
Tomorrow this beauteous figure may fade
Time my lady shall not wait
And meanwhile youth shall pass.
Let us live, my lady, when we are young;
When my heart aches at missing your sight;
When with warmth I can clasp you in my arms;
When you are rich in your figure
When your touch sends ripples through my body
When your kiss makes life worth living,
Let us live, my lady, when we are young.
Kamala Das
I bought a book written by you,
On whose wrapper your face at sixty,
With a stud on left nostril, the lock
Utter black by dye, in loose knot,
And lips as fleshy as your cheeks,
Stared at me, sultrier than any youth.
How sexier you must have been
A decade ago, two decades back
Or at your thirty, let alone twenty!
How fortunate those must have been,
Who revolved around you then!
How many wooed and how many were voyeurs!
Is it your exceptional intellect
That keeps you alluring?
Is it your matriarchal Clan
That keeps your eyes sensual?
Is it by your sensuous poems
That you look sensual
Or is it by your sensual and sensuous looks
Your writings came to be sensual?
I read your poems sensually
With your sexy figure in thought.
I read your face sensually
With your sexy poems in thoughts.
You or your verses, which tempt more?
‘Age cannot wither her, nor customs stale
Her infinite variety’
8.11.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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