Watching Her House

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Meleager, The Greek Anthology. V. 191

 

Was it with cunning

that Zenophila occupied

a three-doored house —
front, back,
    and that secret garden door —

so try as one might
there is no place to spy

the comings and goings

of lady and maid,

peddler and ash-carrier,

let alone my rivals

who might at any time

at any door

with signal-knock

and a full purse

gain entry?

 

I forgive nothing.

I wake up in

     a certain state
and forgive all,

if but the door

of its own free will,

unknocked upon,

would open suddenly,

and she, seeing me,

would wave and beckon.

 

But no, I watch, unsure.

She is seldom alone, it seems.

Cloaked figures approach
and turn the corner,
someone younger, taller,
passes the front door
again and again – dare he?

 

Oh, for the hundred eyes

of Argos, the unsleeping,

jealous watchman.
But even Argos can only be

in one place at one time.

 

Night makes it worse,

when every bright star

and that lantern moon

guide her lovers here.
The faint pluck of a kitar,

flute-breath, a tenor high-

note sung pianissimo: if I rush

to confront them, they run

to the other side unseen

to serenade her.

 

Or do I imagine all this? Is she

alone in there, no friend

except her fading lamp,

to which she confesses

her actual yearnings?

Or does she douse the lamp

as eager hands reach for her?

 

Aphrodite, born of Cyprus,
I’ll dedicate a wreath to you
and leave it at her door,

but it shall be a wilted thing
so much have I wept over it.

To Cypris, with regrets, this gift
from Meleager rests

     upon Love’s sepulchre,

for here I learned

     your secret revels,
and here parted ways

forever with my dignity.
Youth! Shun this house!
Wealth! Pass on by!
Folly! just knock three times
and take what Meleager

never won, and losing it,
gained his own soul again.