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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Related quotes
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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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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Syria Stop Crying Blood
Syria your name I adore,
Syria my heart for you is crying out blood,
Syria how they could hurt you and destroy,
Syria with prayers your name we always honor,
Syria the peace again will surround you all around,
Syria stop crying blood,
Syria the most peaceful country at the world,
You always were how they could hurt you my earth,
Syria like a careful father you always have been for all of us,
Syria with love you always hugged us,
With opened arms always you hugged the painful and the lost and became their house,
When your neighbors were in pain and foist,
You always gave them your best support,
Syria you are the sign of the honesty and the trust,
Syria with you we always were proud,
My precious ground you are our pride,
Syria how can I praise your name and pride,
Syria for us you will always stay the same,
In our hearts you are at the best place,
Your blue sky will again shine proud,
The darkness will soon fade away and the clouds,
Syria your sun Will shine once again my pride,
Again pure and bright like always was,
The darkness never lasts forever I do believe and trust,
Soon the light will surround you my pride,
May crown angels with prayers save your grounds.
Syria with prayers we will always honor your name and pride.
My heavenly Father you may protect and save our country from all these hurts!
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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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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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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Country Girl
Livin in the country
Doesnt make me stupid
i dont just eat Fried Chicked
but i dont eat expensive squid
People say being a city rat is great,
but i love being a country mouse
It may not be a big mansion city
but hey, a box is worse then my house
So me, being a country girl, i have more skills
more skills in every category
I can drive, cook, ride a horse, drive a skidoo
and pretty much anything a 19 year old city rat can do: D
poem by Make A Wish
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Romace in the moonlight
In the city where the colours run dry
Or in the country where the colour green is applied
In the city where there are polluting cars
Or in the country where you can see the stars
In the city there are gangs, all full of violence
Or in the country where there is only silence
In the city where the air, its so thick
Or in the country where you dont feel sick
In the city where you seal the deal
Or in the country where it is a place to heal
In the city every corner is a fight
But in the city the romance is in the moonlight
poem by Nicole Buckland
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Exiles
It goes on being Alexandria still. Just walk a bit
along the straight road that ends at the Hippodrome
and you'll see palaces and monuments that will amaze you.
Whatever war-damage it's suffered,
however much smaller it's become,
it's still a wonderful city.
And then, what with excursions and books
and various kinds of study, time does go by.
In the evenings we meet on the sea front,
the five of us (all, naturally, under fictitious names)
and some of the few other Greeks
still left in the city.
Sometimes we discuss church affairs
(the people here seem to lean toward Rome)
and sometimes literature.
The other day we read some lines by Nonnos:
what imagery, what rhythm, what diction and harmony!
All enthusiasm, how we admired the Panopolitan.
So the days go by, and our stay here
isn't unpleasant because, naturally,
it's not going to last forever.
We've had good news: if something doesn't come
of what's now afoot in Smyrna,
then in April our friends are sure to move from Epiros,
so one way or another, our plans are definitely working out,
and we'll easily overthrow Basil.
And when we do, at last our turn will come.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The City Vs. The Country
In the city where the colours run dry,
Or in the country where the farmers grow rye.
In the city where there are fees,
Or in the country where beauty is free.
In the city where there are loud crowds,
Or in the country where you can watch clouds.
In the city where you camp out in your room,
Or in the country where you have fun dancing with a broom.
In the city where there are polluting cars,
Or in the county where you can see stars.
In the city where you seal the deal,
Or in the country where you can heal.
In the city where you say later,
Or in the country where you can see the water.
In the city where space is tight,
Or in the country where you hold their hand in the moonlight.
Written by Haley McRae,14.
poem by Haley McRae
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Country Girl
Written by - Jim Croce
She was just a country girl
Didn't have those New York City ways
When she hopped a bus in Ohio
Headin' for the crowded streets where no one says a word
She was just a country girl living in the lonely city
Met a man who learned her name
She became a woman on a rainy New York night
Chorus:
There's a new day dawnin' in the city
She calls her Mama collect
Sayin' Mama send bus fare back to Ohio
Have somebody meet me at the depot
She was just a country girl
Spent some time in New York City
Now she tells her friends about lonely New York City
And her lonely New York night
Chorus
She was just a country girl
She was just a country girl
song performed by by Jim Croce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Monologue #2
there are so many voices.
inside.
don't tell them,
they will concoct stories about you
during their parties.
but i join them in their table
and talk about
politics and
economy.
they think you have nothing at all.
you are flimsy.
i don't mind.
you are a choir of angels.
how sweet to hear
i close my eyes
and then i feel
heaven.
Idiot.
why are you like that to me?
we are friends.
stupid. you are so trusting and
so you are a loser.
be a fox.
i am not a fox.
i like being a dove.
moron! moron! moron!
that is quite repetitive.
and you are so cruel.
have faith.
that is the only choice now.
let life do it for you.
throw away your
planner.
listen.
i don't like you but i can't get rid of you.
you are myself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Centennial Celebration
In the year eighteen seventy-six,
A Fourth of July celebration
Was held in Grand Rapids city
In honor to our nation.
The largest city in the county of Kent,
Is this city, and it is respected,
For thousands of people was here to see
The beautiful arch erected.
The Centennial arch on Campau Place
Was the most principal feature;
It was a grand beautiful sight
To all human sensitive creatures;
To all the people that loved to read
The mottoes on it painted,
The engravings, too, and tell
What each one represented.
The paintings and mottoes on the arch
Was viewed by many people;
It was Colonel Joseph Penney's design,
And his work could not be equalled.
Mr. C. H. Gifford was architect,
He formed the noble structure,
A memento to the Centennial year,
A pride of our nation's culture.
A cabin was built, too, I believe,
That nicely represented
One that the traders built years ago,
This was the only one invented.
Ten thousand people respected it,
This token of early years, with pay;
The honor of this little hut
Was due to Mr. Godfroy.
The stars and stripes was honored, too,
For from a thousand windows waving,
That dear old flag, red, white and blue,
That's loved throughout our nation:
That same flag for one hundred years
Has waved over our nation;
May God let it forever wave
Over our Union celebration.
The people in the city, friends,
Was an honor to our nation,
For they all joined heart and hand
In our Union celebration.
Some gave money, other labor,
To maintain what was intended.
It was a success, some people said,
Who here that day attended.
That day will never be forgot
By the people of Kent county,
God bless the people who joined that day
In the honor of our country.
The people in the city, friends,
Dearly loved this nation,
For they saved no time or expense
In our Centennial celebration.
poem by Julia A Moore
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The One With Heaps Of money
The one with heaps of money his or her friends in numbers grow
And the pauper is the person only the kind of heart wishes to know
And money speaks more of one than words can ever do
And if you are short of money I can only pity you,
That money speaks every language is something you ought not doubt
And those who battle to survive know what the hard life's about,
It is a necessity of life despite what some do say
That's why people to earn money go to work every day
In the poor suburb of the city where poverty is rife
The poorest and the homeless live a miserable life
If they had heaps of money how different life for them would be
That money is most important no need for to tell me,
Why paupers do have few friends no need to wonder why
And those with heaps of money their friends in numbers multiply.
poem by Francis Duggan
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World Affairs Councils are great organizations. They help keep people throughout our country alive to important developments in world affairs and underscore that, in the country, we stay engaged and we are part of the world.
quote by George Schultz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sad State Of Affairs
It’s a sad state of affairs
When you start to loose your friends
No one there to show they care
You even miss them driving you round the bend
It’s a sad state of affairs
When your ego is your compadre
He whispers in your ear 'you’re right and fair
You don’t need them, pay attention to what I say'
It’s a sad state of affairs
To know your smarter then those around you
What’s the point me going to your lair?
You speak nonsense but to you it sounds true
It’s a sad state of affairs
To have nothing going on in your life
Inside you’re dying to get up off the chair
But lack of motivation is your new strife
It’s a sad state of affairs
When you can’t even pay your bills
But to be honest do you even care?
Give me alcohol, shrooms and more pills
It’s a sad state of affairs
To not remember the years growing up
Except the fights between your family and your frère
Makes you think 'I could jump into that slowing truck'
It’s a sad state of affairs
When your writing is what you confide in
Teenage angst mixed with an adults raging stare
On this mountain of life I see people climbing
It’s a sad state of affairs
When you realise you’re the one slipping and sliding
poem by Kaspa Richards
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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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Citizens
citizens...
of America, of Russia,
of Africa, of China,
of Syria, of Israel,
of France, of Italy....
no more!
citizens of the world!
no longer can one country
make it at the expense
of all others....
the walls between us were lies,
and they have fallen....
now we are a people
whose homeland is family!
there's no other way
humanity can survive!
citizens of the world!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Military wives- The silent ranks
I wear no uniforms no blue or army greens I am in the military ranks rarely seen I have no rank upon my shoulders salutes i do not give the military world is the place i live I'm not in the chain of command orders i do not get my husband is the one who does this i cannot forget I'm not the one who fires the weapon who put my life on the line though my job is just as tough I'm the one that's left behind my husband is a patriot a brave prideful man and the call to serve his country not all can understand behind the lines i see the thing needed to keep this country free my husband make the sacrifice but so do our children and i I love the man i married soldiering is his life I stand in the silent ranks know as the military wives
poem by Charity Howard
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Life Marches On
In the country
The farms and the orchards swell
With oranges and peaches
A little bit of truth as well
In the city
Politicians beat their drum
All the suits come a runnin'
It's all degeneration
Life Marches On
Life Marches On
Life Marches On
In the country
Everybody thinks we're dumb
But we built the fire
Why'd you come and get you some?
In the city, skyscrapers touch the sky
What's the use in being so high up
When it's only gonna bleed you dry?
Life Marches On
Life Marches On
Life Marches On
In the country
The stars shine brighter
Than in the city
In the country
In the country
In the city
I turn on the radio
Only leaves me down with the question:
What happened to our generation?
Life Marches On
Life Marches On
Life Marches On
Oh yeah, yeah
Life Marches On
Oh yeah
Life Marches On
Life Marches On
Life Marches On
song performed by by Live
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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