Sophist Leaving Syria
Eminent sophist, now that you are leaving Syria
with plans to write a book about Antioch,
it's worth your mentioning Mevis in your work—
the famous Mevis, unquestionably
the best looking, the most adored young man
in all Antioch. No one of the others
living his kind of life, no one of them gets paid
what he gets paid. To have Mevis
just for two or three days, they often give
as much as a hundred staters. I said in Antioch;
but in Alexandria as well, in fact in Rome even,
you can't find a young man as attractive as Mevis.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Herodis Attikos
What glory, this, for Herodis Attikos!
Alexander of Selefkia, one of our better sophists,
on reaching Athens to lecture
finds the city deserted
because Herodis was in the country and all the young men
had followed him there to hear him.
This makes sophist Alexander
write Herodis a letter
begging him to send the Greeks back.
And the tactful Herodis answers at once:
'Along with the Greeks, I'm coming too.'
How many young men now in Alexandria,
in Antioch or Beirut
(being trained by Hellenism as its future orators),
meeting at choice banquets
where the talk is sometimes about fine sophistry,
sometimes about their exquisite love affairs,
suddenly find their attention wandering and fall silent?
Their glasses untouched,
they think about Herodis' fortune-
what other sophist has been given this kind of honour?
Whatever his wish, whatever he does,
the Greeks (the Greeks!) follow him,
not to criticize or debate,
not even to choose any longer,
only to follow.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Greek from Ancient Times
Antioch is proud of its splendid buildings,
its beautiful streets, the lovely countryside around it,
its teeming population;
proud too of its glorious kings, its artists
and sages, its very rich
yet prudent merchants. But far more
than all this, Antioch is proud to be a city
Greek from ancient times, related to Argos
through Ione, founded by Argive colonists
in honor of Inachos' daughter.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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To Have Taken The Trouble
I'm practically broke and homeless.
This fatal city, Antioch,
has devoured all my money:
this fatal city with its extravagant life.
But I'm young and extremely healthy.
Prodigious master of Greek,
I know Aristotle and Plato through and through,
poets, orators, or anyone else you could mention.
I have some idea about military matters
and friends among the senior mercenaries.
I also have a foot in the administrative world;
I spent six months in Alexandria last year:
I know (and this is useful) something about what goes on there-
the scheming of Kakergetis, his dirty deals, and the rest of it.
So I consider myself completely qualified
to serve this country,
my beloved fatherland, Syria.
Whatever job they give me,
I'll try to be useful to the country. That's what I intend.
But if they frustrate me with their manoeuvres-
we know them, those smart operators: no need to say more here-
if they frustrate me, it's not my fault.
I'll approach Zabinas first,
and if that idiot doesn't appreciate me,
I'll go to his rival, Grypos.
And if that imbecile doesn't appoint me,
I'll go straight to Hyrkanos.
One of the three will want me anyway.
And my conscience is quiet
about my not caring which one I choose:
the three of them are equally bad for Syria.
But, a ruined man, it's not my fault.
I'm only trying, poor devil, to make ends meet.
The almighty gods ought to have taken the trouble
to create a fourth, a decent man.
I would gladly have gone along with him.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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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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Evil Against The Good
The game unquestionably harsh
Started the day we were born
Out of me God created the best
Out of me evil wants
To recreate the worst
An infant between life and death
Not yet time to escape by losing breath
The game just began for the young one
The game unquestionably harsh
Dark streets and rough childhood
Experience of an adverse neighborhood
Got him trapped under the belly of the beast
Evil encounters sinking in the young head
Thoughts of the good lad decaying
The game heading for the climax
The game unquestionably harsh
Thought I would be good forever
Evil troops changed me for a sinner
Got addicted to the harmful world
Young days of ours full of madness
Got my own demons and so fearless
The game has ambushed us under stress
The game unquestionably harsh
Work of the young man is to daydream
Run the best imaginary world as possible
Managing mind tries the impossible
Fantasy world will never be reality
Perhaps the dream just a prophesy
The game plays tricks in the young mind
The game unquestionably harsh
It is play on the day we are born
Even before us it was playing
As we see more days we get played
Evil rules the planet earth
Good rules the purest heaven
The game is on until the end of times.
***The Book of End of Times
poem by Young Church
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The Truth
They called you a failure
They called you a lost cause
They said you would never become anything at all
The love generation, With no direction
But when I look in your eyes I see the prize yet to be claimed
[chorus]
I'll say it once, I'll say it twice
That your life was worth the price
Paid for you, Paid for me
And I believe in you
And I know you'll find the truth
I know you've been broken
'Cause I've seen the abuse
I know there's a place inside your heart begging for truth
For a soft spoken answer
That won't wake your spirit
And when I look in your eyes I see the prize that's yet to be claimed
[chorus]
I'll say it once, I'll say it twice
That your life was worth the price
Paid for you, Paid for me
And I believe in you
And I know you'll find the truth
That's not what they told you
When they said they gave up for you
And your nothing
And you'll never be anything
I wait for the day when you stand up and say
I can do all things
Through Him here who strenghtens me
[chorus]
I'll say it once, I'll say it twice
That your life was worth the price
Paid for you, Paid for me
And I believe in you
Yes I believe in you
And I know you'll find the truth
..........
Life, not just any kind of life
This is eternal life
It's easy to understand, simple to get
It's as simple as ABC (life)
A - Admit that you are a sinner and that you need a saviour
B - Believe in your heart that Jesus Christ is Lord
C - Confess your sins and committ your life to Him
D - Don't wait until tomorrow
song performed by by ZoeGirl
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Favour of Alexander Valas
I'm not in the least put out that my chariot wheel broke
and I lost that silly race.
I'll drink great wines the whole night,
lying among lovely roses. Antioch is all mine.
I'm the most celebrated young man in town
Valas' weakness, he simply adores me.
You'll see, tomorrow they'll say the race wasn't fair
(though if I'd been crude enough to insist on it secretly,
the flatterers would have given first place even to my limping
chariot).
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Julian and the Antiochians
Neither the letter C, they say, nor the
letter K had ever harmed the city.... We,
finding interpreters... learned that these
are the initial letters of names, the first
of Christ and the second of Konstantios.
Julian, Misopogon (The Beard-Hater)
Was it conceivable that they would ever give up
their beautiful way of life, the range
of their daily pleasures, their brilliant theatre
which consummated a union between Art
and the erotic proclivities of the flesh?
Immoral to a degree—and probably more than a degree—
they certainly were. But they had the satisfaction that their life
was the notorious life of Antioch,
delectably sensual, in absolute good taste.
To give up all this, indeed, for what?
His hot air about the false gods,
his boring self-advertisement,
his childish fear of the theatre,
his graceless prudery, his ridiculous beard.
O certainly they preferred C,
certainly they preferred K—a hundred times over.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Lowry Bay
I am not here alone. A hidden throng
Is round me in the vesper of the sky.
Dead Babylon and Nineveh are nigh;
Rome, Antioch; the slave who felt the thong;
The lord that slew him when the day was long
And the soul heavy with satiety.
And some are near who saw the Christ go by;
While Pilate shut aloof, at gaze with wrong.
And what are they these ministers surround?
The cliff, the sand, the island at my feet
Reef-scattered far below all human ken.
Lo! God hath made a mighty angel beat
His wings, a benediction in their sound,
Above the roof of the most forlorn of men
poem by Hubert Church
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While I Wasn't Looking
*About New York City Landords
While I wasn't looking
They took my home away
They said it was theirs
Because they had more money
And they could make more money
It wasn't mine just because I lived there all my life
Just because my dad paid for it when I was young
And my mom paid for it when I was young
Just because I had paid for it for an adult third of my life
How could it be mine
If they had more money
So they took my home away
Because they could
July 4,2007
poem by Marjorie DeBol DeFazio
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That's The Man
Unknown -a stranger in Antioch- the man from Edessa
writes and writes. And at last, there,
the final canto's done. That makes
eighty-three poems in all. But so much writing,
so much versifying, the intense strain
of phrasing in Greek, has worn the poet out,
and now everything has gone stale.
But a thought suddenly brings him out of his dejection:
the sublime 'That's the man'
which Lucian once heard in his sleep.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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102
First one paid nine
then, two paid eight
then three paid seven
then, four paid six
then five paid five
then six paid four
then seven paid three
then eight paid two
and finally, nine paid one,
wee, wee, wee, wee, wee
all the way home.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Memorial Day
Memories of those who are no longer here
are shared by millions who hold them dear.
Their faces so young that stay in the mind
of parents and wives and husbands that find
their loved ones were taken so young in their years.
Their children were left too young to cry tears,
never knowing their fathers or seeing their smile
or having them there as they walk down the aisle.
No war's ever worth their great sacrifice,
fought with their lives, they paid the great price.
And now we take time just one day a year
and pray somehow, somewhere they can hear
we miss them and honor them in memory
and hope their children's lives will turn out to be
ones that are filled with love and with peace.
So in their futures 'Memorial Days' will cease.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Great Procession of Priests and Laymen
A procession of priests and laymen—
each walk of life represented—
moves through streets, squares, and gates
of the famous city, Antioch.
At the head of this imposing procession
a handsome white-clad boy
carries the Cross, his arms raised—
our strength and hope, the holy Cross.
The pagans, lately so full of arrogance,
now reticent and cowardly,
quickly slink away from the procession.
Let them keep their distance, always keep their distance from us
(as long as they do not renounce their errors).
The holy Cross goes forward; it brings joy and consolation
to every quarter where Christians live;
and these God-fearing people, elated,
stand in their doorways and greet it reverently,
the strength, the salvation of the universe, the Cross.
This is an annual Christian festival.
But today, you see, it is more conspicuous.
The empire is delivered at last.
The vile, the appalling Julian
reigns no longer.
For most pious Jovian let us give our prayers.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Young And Beautiful
So young and beautiful
So young and beautiful
U're so young and beautiful
U're so full of life - everybody knows
That's why they try 2 take advantage of u...
but u don't have 2 do what the other ones do
U're so cool - the world at your feet,
they only want ur virginity
Keep ur clothes on and ur chastity
until u find the one that's worth it baby
So young and beautiful
So young and beautiful
U're so fine my heart's just pounding
If I had the chance 2 lay u down,
I'd probably take a rain check 'til next summer
cuz I don't wanna b like all ur other lovers
young and beautiful
young and beautiful
So young and beautiful
I'm hippin' u 2 the game darlin'
so that u'll always remain
young and beautiful
young and beautiful
oh yeah
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Don't judge by adulation.
Paid news, paid degrees, paid titles,
Paid awards, paid felicitations
And the strategic moves count.
The bought judgment culminates all..
09.08.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Mom
She comes, a wizened, ruined thing,
Who wants no more, no less, than to
Be served and heard. She rattles off
Her trove of tales, each told a hundred
Times before, and, in the telling, tortured
Into fantasies of principle and pluck,
Of proof that, though she cowers,
Home, alone, she is, in fact, someone
Of worth. The world's learned. She
Thinks I should. I squirm in silence,
Knowing, as I have since I was young,
That nothing I have done would mean
A thing to her. She hasn't come for
Conversation. She is here to be adored,
And, as she drones, I dream of saying,
'You once raised me, Mother. Thanks.
I guess you did the best you could,
But, now, I find you awful and I wish
That you were gone.'
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Alexander Jannaios And Alexandra
Full of their success, thoroughly satisfied,
King Alexander Jannaios
and his wife Queen Alexandra
move through the streets of Jerusalem
with musicians in the lead
and every kind of pomp and circumstance.
The work begun by the great Judas Maccabaios
and his four celebrated brothers
has now been concluded brilliantly,
work relentlessly carried on
among so many obstacles and dangers.
Nothing unseemly remains now.
All subservience to the haughty monarchs
of Antioch is over. Clearly
King Alexander Jannaios
and his wife Queen Alexandra
are equal to the Selefkids in every way.
Good Jews, pure Jews, devoted Jews above all.
But, as circumstances require,
also skilled in speaking Greek,
even on familiar terms with Greeks and Hellenized monarchs—
as equals, though, let that be understood.
The work begun by the great Judas Maccabaios
and his four celebrated brothers
has indeed been concluded brilliantly,
concluded in the most striking way.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Compensation
I'd like to think when life is done
That I had filled a needed post.
That here and there I'd paid my fare
With more than idle talk and boast;
That I had taken gifts divine.
The breath of life and manhood fine,
And tried to use them now and then
In service for my fellow men.
I'd hate to think when life is through
That I had lived my round of years
A useless kind, that leaves behind
No record in this vale of tears;
That I had wasted all my days
By treading only selfish ways,
And that this world would be the same
If it had never known my name.
I'd like to think that here and there,
When I am gone, there shall remain
A happier spot that might have not
Existed had I toiled for gain;
That someone's cheery voice and smile
Shall prove that I had been worth while;
That I had paid with something fine
My debt to God for life divine.
poem by Edgar Albert Guest
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