by Brett Rutherford
HYLLUS AND THE CHARIOTEER
Anakreon, to Hyllus:
So last night I followed you, to the foot
of your street, to that Dionysian ruin
where men and youths commingle
’mid broken columns and pedestals.
I saw you there, “virgin” Hyllus
in quadruped surrender
to a popular chariot driver.
I watched and heard it all
from the anonymous shadows:
the brutal, pathetic beauty of it,
the animal moans,
the false starts,
the invoking of gods,
the simultaneous gasping,
the hurried redress of tunic and belt,
the counting out of three small coins.
Others watched, and saw me watching;
their little nods admonishing me.
I almost laughed at how, departing,
you brushed aside my friend Harmodius,
all too willing to have a go with you,
with that quick and dismissive line:
“Only the hand that has held a whip
can ever hold mine!”
Small wonder that I have never possessed you,
slave as I am of scribbling,
more fond of vowels than hard-edged consonants,
my only rod the stylus. How strange
when beauty seeks not its merited worship,
leaving its pedestal for the dust,
kneeling for the promise of certain pain,
for such a negotiated, small price.
