After the Shipwreck, Love

 by Brett Rutherford

     After Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 84-85

The shipwreck’s vow to love,
on being rescued, the first he sees
if foiled by fickle Eros. A week
he languished, windless, idle,
and then for days storm-tossed
not only side-to-side but
upside down among the fishes;
ship dashed to splinters, all
of his fellows food to sharks;
he on his first voyage, alone
lived and came to shore.

A sight he was, barefoot,
and all but naked.
As it was dawn,
no one saw him.
Sheep he heard, but saw
    no shepherds.
Laughter of women came
where laundry lay on stones,
but when he approached
they had all fled somewhere,
as though some great bear
or a hungry Cyclops
     threatened them.

He chose among
the abandoned clothes
what modest raiment seemed
proper for a stranger’s entry
into the walled town.

The vow he made
to love whomever first
greeted him, came back
to his mind’s ear,
his own voice promising
against the howling gale.
Poseidon had spared him,
but what had Eros in store? 

“So be it,” he said.
“Be it crone or cripple,
beggar or brothel-maid,
I cast my lot to fate.”

And, lo! the first closed door
to a walled garden flew
open as if a wind willed it,
and there stood, bathing
from shoulders to feet
in fountain spray,
an eighteen-year ephebe,
chlamys and cap dropped
at water’s edge.

As quick as it had opened,
the door swung shut.
The lad laughed:
their eyes had locked
for just an instant,
enough for each,
if he willed,
to love the other
once and forever.

He went to an inn
across the way,
where ardent carousers
already at their wine
adopted his cause.

“As strangers come
from Zeus,” one said.
“here, take the last
coppers I’m carrying.
Another here will
    offer you lodging
and work enough
for strong hands.”

Cups raised,
    the Dionysian god
they praised.

One touched
the sleeve
of his tunic.
“That is my weave
you are wearing.
No matter — keep it.”

Now bread and oil,
lentils and meat
we put before him.
Once three wines full
he ventured to tell them
of that love oath which
the sea’s lord and Eros
bound him. “That house”
he pointed, “is where I saw
the most perfect being
in all the universe.
Pray, tell me the name
of the young man living there?”

Stone silence. Two faces
went red. Others choked down
whatever it was
     they wished to say.

“That house?”
     one asked him.
He nodded.
     All laughed.

“Welcome to Kos,
    and to ‘The Arrow’!”
the inn-host replied.
Arms reached
and went around
his shoulders.

“All day we sit and drink
and wait for that door
     to open.
We are a fellowship
     sworn to no jealousy.

Whom he chooses,
     we honor.
He walks as a godling
     among us.
Good luck to you, stranger!”

 

 

Burning Up

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 74

Cleobulus, dear friend,
this island of Kos
has really done me in.
The surfeit of children,
     bounty’s blessing,
has led to an overflow
of lusty, idling,
     superfluous young men.

I came here for peace of mind,
but what am I to do?
They come up to you
with those impudent faces,
dark eyes both mocking, imploring,
don’t you dare and will you please,

their eyebrows and lashes
     weird hieroglyphs.

So close to death am I
from all these love-burns,
I’d might as well carry
an urn beneath my arm.
Each time one smites me
with his glances, there
I can put my cinders,
ash and bone-shards
as I walk along.

When all that’s left of me
is a bronze urn
with little human feet,
smoldering, do me
the favor of a prompt burial.

But first, I pray you,
Cleobulos my confidant
immune to this kind of love,
take my plain urn —
letting no lads claim
a particle of trophy —

ignoring the hoots and howls
of mockery, take this
plain urn, soak it
three days in wine
(the redder the better)
and on that heart-dyed
verdigris inscribe my name
and just these words:

DRINK ME:
LOVE’S GIFT
TO DEATH.

 

 

 

Super Powers

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 63

The young men, smitten
at seeing themselves
mirrored in clear water,
are more than doubled
in beauty and power.

Their chests swell,
shoulders arch back,
biceps taut, fists
in a fighting posture.
Gods in themselves
they seem. Young

Heraclitus here
darts fire from his eyes.
So quick is he, that he
the thunderbolt of Zeus
could stop with a glance,
and, fire on fire, destroy it.

Diodorus, too,
attains heroic status.
Rising from marble bench
he says, “Not only
warmth my body grants
to inanimate stone,
but if I will it,
the stone will melt,
run off like a flow
at the forge of Hephaestus.

The two regard me,
notice me noticing
their lovely forms.
I burn. I melt.

Diasporas

by Brett Rutherford

People scattered
in a human cyclone
fall to strange places,
explode like pine cones
in a bonfire, seeds
spattering, shoots
rising up, roots
and trunk and branches
the aftermath
    of disasters.

Greeks fleeing
too small land,
too little soil
cover the map
with colonies,
city-state the envy
of adjacent empires.
The gods they carried
became everyone’s
alternate family.

China so huge
it exports its people,
a centuries-long
diaspora of misery:
sent to dig
the guano fields
of far Peru, to sweat
for the promise of gold
as railroad coolees,
to roll cigars
in the damp heat in Cuba.

Scots fleeing hunger
    and the Enclosure laws,
Irish, from the whip
    and starvation,
scattered from Nova Scotia
to Tierra del Fuego.

British diaspora from slum
     and galley, to colonies,
branching to Canada,
bringing hot tea
     to burning Australia,
manners and order
     to the confounded
          Buddhist and Hindu.

Africans to everywhere,
     retreading the steps
         of evil slavers,
drums and Orishas
     slipped under the nose
of colonizers. Black river
in brown and white sands,
    object of fear, desire.

Jews driven hither,
     Jews driven yon,
absorbing, withholding,
    and moving on,
a demon myth following
a people of peace.

Romana, the destested
     people, detesting back
the unwelcoming nations,
    dark eyes in wagons
         rolling by.

The Russians, fleeing
     Lenin, Stalin,
and later monsters,
weeping, eat blini
in foreign capitals.
Each, in his heart
returns from exile.

The gay diaspora,
men living abroad,
abhorred by their own
parents and fellows,
some paid, in fact,
to stay away, society’s
“remittance men.”

Other migrations
are underway. Millions
flee the weather, the floods,
the failed crops, the rising sea.
So great this flow shall be
that nations shall be erased
and new ones formed.

The thing about diasporas
is that the place of exile
becomes enriched,
in fact becomes a new thing
upon the earth, amalgam.
There, nothing belongs
    to anyone by birth.
A culture is a cubbyhole
in a large treasure-chest,
its contents free for all.

Just take a breath
in New York City:
the smell of bagels baking,
the fish scent of
    Canal Street open market,
the spicy aroma of curry,
the corner taco stand.

The babel of welcome tongues,
strange and delicious,
on a free street declaiming
the art that was not allowed
back home. 

Property of Zeus

by Brett Rutherford

     After Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 68

A fool said: “Spare the pretty ones,
for they are property of Zeus.”
Does he, the son of Kronos, require
more than his thousand-year
     Ganymede, than whom
no mortal youth can be
     more handsome?

I want Charidemus.
I told him so. Some fool
advised him to seek only Zeus
as his lover, the prize so high —
good food, and life eternal.
But the price, boy:
     a boyfriend as old
     as the mountains of Atlas.

How vain the lad becomes.
He goes about now,
     chlamys flapping,
exposing his attributes
    to the blue sky above.
He wears an eagle pendant,
   the little flirt.

Elsewhere I’d better turn
my attentions, the busybody
advises me. With all
my other troubles piled up,
     do I need cloudbursts
     and thunderbolts, too?

At risk, I follow him about.
Courting his little ascension
he might go off some cliff
or get his eyes pecked out
by lesser avians. Dare I,
if an eagle lifted him
     on giant pinions,
grab hold, pull back,
aghast and weeping,
hot tears on my empty hand
my only reward? I fear
I am not so brave as that.

Zeus, take him then! Let’s
get the waiting over with.
Glut your eyes on beauty.
And having taken one, oh,
Charidemus has brothers,
cousins, all of one mold.

Or, if the sophist is right,
you’d might as well scoop up
the whole town square’s
ephebes, young loiterers
of a Saturday afternoon
with nothing better to do
than bask bright-eyed
in the blue-white day?
Take all, greedy god,
till none are left
but the lame and homely.

Consider, King of Heaven,
how I am denied ambrosia,
     and a poet, no less.
Harvest the earth
    of all its beauties,
and no more poems will come!

You want hymns,
     encomiums, prayers
        and rituals?  Fine.
In return, let each of us
cherish and keep his own
    Charidemus!

 

An Interior Temple

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 57

Praxiteles of old
     made delicate art
     in bronze and marble,
fooled men to believe
     a lifeless copy
     moved and breathed
in the confines
     of a captured moment.

Today’s Praxiteles, an
     almost-beardless youth,
has other powers. His hands
reach into my heart
and carve a figure there:
dread Eros, the rogue-brat!

This young one even
makes things inside my head,
already so clogged
with mazes and Minotaurs:
the latest, a many-chambered
temple where he alone
merits my worship.

As faint as fly-buzz
I hear the tiny hammers,
the dragging of stones,
as my interior temple
grows apace. Shall I

be better for this
acropolis complex
within my cerebellum?
Within my mind’s eye’s
eye, I spy an interior peristyle.
Am I permitted to kneel inside,
an ageless, robed
hierophant, hands
extended to one
who touches me back?

For be not fooled.
Its arms go up and down.
It even speaks.
(Beneath the god,
machineries below
give life to stone
and breath to lips.)

So dreaming, I worship
Praxiteles, and Eros obey.
Waking, I pass him by,
all eyes, and he pretends
he does not know me.

Oh, do not build and abandon
sky-palaces! Steal not the soul
in which proud columns rise.
Embrace, Praxiteles,
     this tortured dreamer!

Eros, my heart,
Praxiteles, my mind,
Priapus, down below.
I am a trinity. Pray
that my arms and legs
drawn hither and thither
do not fly off!

 

 

Of the Same Name

Praxiteles' Eros - Roman Copy

by Brett Rutherford

     After Meleager, The Greek Anthology,  xii, 56

How dare anyone so fair
have such a name as
     Praxiteles?
Should not the name
have been forever retired
after the Athenian carved
from Parian marble the gods
themselves? He made an Eros,
of Aphrodite born, by hand
and eye the gods permitted to see
without the punishment
     of blindness. 

Now Eros torments us,
endows today’s Praxiteles,
an idling son of no one
in particular, a youth
   among us watched
as he grew perfect,
who now, at twenty,
despite his indolence
looks fit to scale Olympus. 

Or will this living
     statue proxy be,
dispensing love affairs with ease,
while god-born Eros attends
the needs of the distracted gods?

It might be a good arrangement.
When there is much tedium
in Heaven, the gods come down
to bother nymphs and shepherds,
to woo away our mistresses,
and abduct by night the lads we adore. 

When there is too much intercourse
with those above, the crops
grow unreliable. Mountains smoke.
The rival temples demand
expensive sacrifices.

And oh, the demigods
     the poor maidens bear
to the despair of mortal
     relatives! 

With two love-gods about,
one here, and one above,
Hera will be vanquished,
and old wives silenced.

From the son of Cronos down
to the lowest demigod,
all heads will turn;
all beds will be fair play.

And as above, so below,
each one in turn shall love
and be loved, till all
fall down exhausted,
and die of old age, smiling.

There will scarcely be time
for the begetting of children.

 

 

 

Spitting Image

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology,xii, 76, 78

If Eros, my full-grown
     Nemesis,
stood sans the bow,
     the quiver, the arrows,
one foot before the other,
     just so,

and if you traced
     arms, shoulders, neck,
     the full-mouthed, high-
     cheeked, god-nosed
visage, and all the rest —

omitting those wings,
    of course,

then made Zoilus,
the potter’s son, pose
until each line and curve
was captured, lay one
upon the other. The same!

Let Eros put on
     the garb of youth,
the chlamys so
     provocative of desire,
then don the cap,
     the petasus,
or, better yet,
the cap suspended
by neck-string
behind the neck
as boys are wont
on windy days
to wear them. 

Trace this, lay one
outline upon the other —
Eros — Zoilus — the same!

 

 

Christmas Eve

by Brett Rutherford

After the cemetery walk

I went to the edge of town,

passing the sign that said

"Welcome to . . ."

There was a tree

beneath which nothing

but new underwear

awaited, last-minute

buy from Woolworth's.

My Mother and

the Evil One

would reel home

from the Moose Club

past midnight.

By noon the fights

and screaming

would overwhelm

the Merry Christmases.

I waited.

For a car, for a lean

and hawklike stranger,

the one who, it was said,

would carry you off.

I vowed this year

not even to enter

the tobacco-smelling

room with the tinsel-

tottering tree. So far

I had avoided it.

All I wanted

for Christmas

was my picture

on cartons of milk

beneath the headline

MISSING CHILD.

My Own Ganymede

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 65.

Now I have Myiscus,
the bliss of Olympians
seems right at hand.

True, no magic apples
stop time and age for us.
The cup he bears me
has water only. Too good
to last this pleasure is,

What if great Zeus
     on high,
tiring of his never-aging
Ganymede, youth
of a thousand years,

would pluck from me
this prize I treasure
but do not deserve?
What if my poems
     provoke
a curiosity divine?

I fear to walk with him
under a clear blue sky.
Beware, Myiscus dear,
the swooping wings,
     the raptor claws!

 

His Own Epitaph

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 417

Gadara in Syria, more Greek
than Greece itself, sired me.
Hail, island of Tye, my nurse!
I, Meleager, Eucrates’ son,
made my own way in epigrams;
Graces brought me to Menippus,
whose satires inspired me. Say
if you will I am only a Syrian.
What of it? Stranger speaking
and reading Greek, are we not one?
Sprung from Chaos,
     one common tongue
unites us. Now I am old,
and with a shaking hand
these words inscribe. Age
found me; Death sneaks about. 

Speak a kind word for me,
won’t you? I’m of an age
to have the ear of Heaven,
should I accord to wish you well.

 

 

Four Torches

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 182

Brief was the marriage
of our cousin Clearista.
Lamp doused, she stood,
her maiden girdle
loosened, listening
for the steps of the bridegroom.

The four immodest torches
cornered the bridal bed
in the adjacent chamber.
She blushed to think of eyes,
divine or human, seeing
the promised pleasures.

Sounds came to her:
the epithalamium sung
by all his companions,
the raucous drum and horn
of Priapus, the flutes
to calm her nerves.

Someone approached.
     Two hands
made a great clap
like thunder. Clearista
fell down dead.

The cries and wails rose up.
Bridegroom and friends,
the attendant maids,
lamenting the pale dawn
that followed such
a wedding banquet.

Around the rich
and canopied frame,
the four torches flamed.
Clearista’s bed
was now her bier. 

Dread Hades, attend:
Here comes the bride.

Heard Walking Past A Doorway in Ephesus

by Brett Rutherford

     after Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 79 

“So then, you have read my book.
That’s nice to know, but why
come here with all these questions?
Look here, I need not explain
to blockheads what I mean
when I say a simple thing.” — 

                                            “But who
are you to be taken a priori?” —

“I wrote the thing.
Heraclitus I am. I point
the finger at change and Chaos.
What would you have me prove?
Ask not the name of my teacher.
I worked on wisdom alone,
    and no god helped. 

“My mind and thought were found
sufficient to serve
     my countrymen. Such words
that came almost unbidden
from brow to lip were harsh.” —

“Too harsh, some say —”

“I even upbraided my sire,
    an evil man he was.” —

“But a father should be honored.
He brought you up, after all.” —

“Get lost. The young, knowing
     no better, obey. When reason
comes, the son perceives
     a toad for what it is.
I spat as I crossed
that threshold one last time.
May their hearth be extinguished!” — 

“Such talk offends the gods.” —

“And so they punish me with fools,
and long life in a Persian rat-trap.
Worse shall you hear, stranger,
if you keep pestering.” — 

“Good-bye, then, grump.
I came with a letter, and gold.
I shall seek another tutor.”— 

“A tutor, eh? Fine jest
it was, to send you to me.
If you wish to be wise,
then stay away from me,
or, better yet, Ephesus flee!”

 

 

Anti-Eros

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted and expanded from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 179

Eros, if I lay hands on you,
     you’re done for.
At the next sign
     of your sneaky arrival
I’ll grab the bow, that
    fancy Scythian quiver
and the whole lot
     of those vicious arrows,
and burn them up,

bow and string, the cloth,
the fletching feathers, all
into my hearth-fire,
up in smoke. See how
you like it then, powerless
except by persuasion
to make us men run about
like ants or termites.

How can I write
serious poetry
when all I can think about
is the pursuit, the conquest,
the jealous rage, and then
the renunciation, as if

you were not the god at all
of loving, but of falling
out of love. Anti-Eros
you are, diverting us
from our best instinct:
first love, best love.

Ah, there you are! See
how I have thieved you
of your quiver? Aim not
your bow like a club
at my forehead and listen
for once, ridiculous son
of Aphrodite!

“I attend,” the little god said.

“This is madness!” I charged.
“First this one, then that one,
and then another.
Heliodora, on and off,
then Zenophila,
and then some random boy
whose eyes flash
mischievously.” —

“What is it you want,
Meleager? To love them all?
Monday. Wesnesday, Friday
Heliodora’s lot —
Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
with Zenophila —
and Saturday for boys,
as many as you wish,
     like candy?”

Oh, I had not thought of that.
“That would be terrible,”
     protested I.
“I’d waste away. My legs
would shrink to spindles.
And imagine the jealousy:
each one to do as she pleases
four days a week! Imagine
the whole city rocked by quakes
if they should ever meet in public!”

At this, a boyish laugh erupted
and the god snickered. “Beware
to get what you wish for! Give back!”

I handed him the quiver.

                                        “Well,
I demanded. What is it now?
Shall I just bare my chest
and take the shaft you came
to torment me with? Your
visits are frequent, as though
we were cousins, as though
you thought you were doing me
a favor. With me you are a lynx
pacing around a flock of sheep.” —

At this the boy leaned up, and,
taking my head in his hands,
planted a chaste kiss upon my brow.

“Would you refuse your next
adventure in love? You are not
supposed to see me coming!”

I closed my eyes. I did not
feel the sting, but heard
the air give way before
the approaching arrow.
The light winged sandals,

the wings outspread
framed the dawn light
window, and he was gone.

I am afraid to go out.
What if the next creature I see
is the one I must love?

But then I smiled,
for today is Saturday.

 

Month of Wine

by Brett Rutherford

Since the joys of wine

are denied me, I did not think

of October as a month brim full

of alcohol, a Bacchanalia.

But then one year,

out Elsdon way in old

Northumberland,

in memory of the Baron

of my name, I heard offered

"a tankard of October."

Was Bradbury here,

I wondered? Did Shelley's

breath of autumn's being

come this far north?

No, this describes

the best and strongest

of ales, October-brewed.

In Queen Anne's day

a Tory club met secretly

in Parliament's shadow,

to drink October Ale

and hurl insults

at the hated Whigs.

Neutral the stern name

October, from Rome,

eighth calendar month,

prefix to sides, legs, and years

(-gon, -pus, -genarian),

but ask the Dutch what time

of year it was in olden times

and they say Wynmaand,

"the wine month." In

Chaucer's day it was still

known as Winmonath,

to the Jacobins in Paris,

Vendémiaire (the time

of vintage). So add I must

to every fall, a demitasse,

if not a tankard,

of October Ale.

Let the year tip tipsy

till fall-on-your-face

winter seizes all.

Wreath and Crown

by Brett Rutherford 

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 147, 143, 144

The flowers I plait
into one wreath are sad:
plucked off from root and stem,
their glory will be brief, but oh,
what company! White violets,

frailest of all the field’s blooms,
rain-spring narcissus, sweet crocuses,
lilies laughing as they fold arms
with the fields’ purple hyacinths,
royal roses plucked from thorns,
branchlets of berry-rich myrtle,
all in a wreath enfolding
the brow of Heliodora,
a wreath so rich
    in love and the lore
        of gods.

I place this fragrant garland,
on Heliodora’s brow.
stand back, and gasp
at Nature crowning Beauty.

Later, let petals fall
as blossoms fade
    and die —
no matter!

Walking barefoot
     across them
in dawn-fresh day,
Beauty triumphs
     over Decay,

above the faded wreath
of narcissus, hyacinth,
     violet and rose,
she, with her own
     scented curls
is a crown eternal.

Dilemma

by Brett Rutherford

            From Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 141.

Her whisper in my ear,
     as soft as bees —
or from the distant
     laurel trees,
the high harp of Apollo?
Oh, do not make me choose!

When Zenophila Sings

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 139.

If you would seduce a poet, play the lyre.
Pan in Arcadia swoons, and puts
aside his pipes when Zenophila tunes
and plays her sweet melodies. Yes, by Pan
and the philosophers, I say it so.
Even out of earshot, my mind retains it,
each note a fiery dart from Eros flown,
and when she sings along, just audible
above a whisper, no one breathes at all.
Would that the words sung included my name!
It is just too much — Beauty — Muse — Grace.
any and all of them in one woman.

  

She Waits at Kos

by Brett Rutherford  

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 53

Sailors of the Hellespont, if
as your richly-laden barks
head full sail out on the North Wind,
as you pass Kos, and leaning in
toward its fair beaches, look out
for a woman alone — Phaniôn
she is called — standing alert
and watchful for friendly sails.

Me it is she looks for — I promised,
and I shall get there by and by.
The long way ’round, by land I tread,
till from the nearest point I’ll take
the shortest crossing. Sea-legs I’ve none;
too many monsters of the deep
I know by name. Sea-sickness
is my real complaint, but tell
the lady instead I am on pilgrimage,
counting each step until I see her.

Bear her this message, sailor friends,
that I am bound to come to Kos
one way or another. That done,
Zeus and strong gales be on your side.

Absence

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 52

Adraganthus, gone to sea!
He could not wait, alas, for me:
fair-blowing winds take to the South
all ships so quick to seize the time
of prosperous sailing. Bereft
we are that such a one has fled
from banquet, poems, wine, and bed.

That such a one would ride the waves
delights the ocean spirits thrice,
and four times bless’d the breezes are
that drive the sails. In dolphin form,
should he sink, I would carry him —
oh, let the octopus take all
the rest of them, ugly sailors! —

Bear him I would to Rhodes intact
where I am told the shores are lined
with shipwreck rescuers, fair boys
who with their loving fingers draw
all the lost men from the briny waves.

Abductors of Rhodes, return him!
Lure him not with emerald eyes
and garlands of gold amaranth.
Send Adraganthus back to me!

 

  

Love On Top

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology

Really, Eros! You threw me down.
I was no match; I tumbled,
and there you are on top of me.

Worse than wrestling, this;
more like arena gladiators.

Why not just finish me off,
foot on my neck and all?
Even in the pale dawn light —
when I lay here waiting
for the one who did not come —
I recognized you. Heavy
you are — how you have grown
from child to manhood.

Eros grown up is
     even more dangerous.
Where love by proxy
    was your boyish business,

so now you come yourself
     to possess me.
What? No bow, no quiver,
     no stinging arrows?
Really? Just you … and me?

I hope this is some random
     visitation. Truly,
to be overcome as I have
     done to others
is amusing. Do what you will.

But not my heart, mind you:
     set that not alight.
You cannot burn it, Eros!
It is already ash. Get on
with your pulsations, make
me scream the names
    of everyone I longed for, 

but this is all in vain.
Leave the back way
     so no one sees,
or better yet, just spread
those pinions and wing
up and out the open window.

 And mind you take
your sandals, cap, and staff.
I’ll never tell — I promise!

 

 

The Fading Charms

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 41

I once found Theron beautiful —
what was I thinking?

Apollodotus, too,
     of golden gleam —
dull, tarnished brass!

How soon youth’s torches
     burn out! 

Women take care
to make themselves fair,
and sustain the illusion.
At least with them
the suddenly-sprouted
beard, nose broken
in the heat of sport,
gashes from antlers
    and boar-tusks,
the random bruises,
blights and blemishes
of manhood: all these,
by their magic,
the ladies evade.

True, these damaged youths
still have some followers.
Men older than me,
    as coarse as goat-herds,
jostle to encounter them,
eager to mount
this hirsute and broken
merchandise.

 

Beardless No More

 by Brett Rutherford

     After Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 33

Now Heracleitus, once so fair, has come
to what I called “the bearded stage.”
Not to be like a philosopher —
     oh, never that! —
but just to prove he can pass 

as one ready for bride-grooming.
It’s just as though he stuck
some mud-and-hide camouflage
so that his face and neck
repel meek kisses, or a touch.

So Polyxenius, his rival,
struts about like Hermes,
no more than a tantalizing
tuft beneath his chin,
a hint of moustache. He knows
all eyes are upon him.

Proud youth, your fall is coming,
for, judging by your father,
in not too many months
goat-hair will sprout
     not just on cheeks
but, trust me, lad, all over!

Timon of Athens' Tombstone

by Brett Rutherford

     From the Greek Anthology

My name? My country?

None of your business!

Before you know it,

you too shall be dead.

Serves you right.

Spare This Ox!

 

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, ix, 453

Priests of the temple, forbear
on behalf of a suppliant.
If he had tongue to speak,
     this animal,
brought at great cost by one
who cannot afford to lose him,
might bow its head and utter:

Zeus on your Olympian throne,
this lowly ox, unspotted but old,
lows as the priest approaches,
knife upraised, and cries out
     “Spare me!”

For who serves all with better heart
than one who pulls the plow?
     Son of Cronus,
remember when you bore Europa
over the broad sea on your back —
and in what form? — the untiring bull.
Remember, and spare your fellow creature!

 

 

On Wine and Water

 

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, ix, 931

“Show me!” said Semele,
and, weeping, Zeus obliged.
One sight of his true face
and she was burnt to ash.
Out of the lightning sprang
the infant Bacchus.

Nymphs rushed to cool
his flaming limbs,
diverting a stream,
and from the steam
and boiling cloud he rose.

Zeus never noticed
his accidental offspring,
skulking away to Hera
and his smug marriage.
Bacchus reached out
and twined the vine
of the grape about him.

Only a fool drinks wine
from the cask, unwatered.
He is too soon drunk,
     useless for love;
his limbs give way, and
into the gutter he tumbles.

All know that wine,
full-strength, is fire,
driving men mad.
So draw from a spring
the Nymphs’ portion:
slake fire with ice.

Thus mingled, the red,
the gold, the purple
vintages flow,
fierce spirits quelled,
a blessing to all.

 

The God Pan, in Bronze

 by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 535

Mock me if you will with cries,
whistles, sheep sounds, wolf calls.
I am not to be dislodged, will not
turn my back to the busy avenue.

No more shall I, the cloven-footed
god, content myself with flocks
of stupid sheep, tame dogs,
and the unruly rompings of the goats.
I, Pan, am now a city-dweller.

Trust me, mountains are beautiful,
so long as you do not climb them.
Enough of up-and-down — the up
in particular. But it is grief

that brings me here, a grief
that requires distraction. Silent,
my pipe, and broken, my song
have been since Daphnis died.
Daphnis, a cousin-love,
a son of Hermes, handsome
as the god of dreams himself,
who kindled new fire
     in this old heart
     is gone, and with him my

merry smile. No grapes I pick,
no fruit I pluck from summer’s
rain-heavy branches. The dew
has not run rivulets down
from brow to beard — my tears
discolor my cheeks of bronze.

Young ones: seek in vain
to meet me in the forest.
Hunters: no more shall my pipe
suggest to you the brake
in which the fleet deer slumber.

I am here to stay, a sad Pan,
bereaved of one Daphnis.
If another comes, with just
such eyes, and shoulders proud —
well, then, we shall see.

Heliodora, Dead!

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 476

1

Tears by the teacup, tears
     by the pail, tears
a pond, a lake, an ocean —
these the last offerings
in proof of love I send 

down through the earth,
through crevice, cave, and rock,
down as a torrent, nine days
a waterfall to Hades —

thee, Heliodora, I mourn.
Each tear I shed
     is like a nail, thrust
deep inside me. These words

I add to all your friends’
laments, your parent’s grief.
Since I come late,
I wash away salt-stains
your other lovers deposited
(no matter now! I would
embrace them, each and all!)

My piteous, unabated flow
will slake your need below,
for tears earn merit there.

2

Still in death are you dear
to me, Heliodora, lost
to me forever. Undying love
and longing return to me —
O anger, and the amnesia
of jealous rage, begone! —

as I append these lines
to that bare stone tablet
on which is scrawled,
     impermanent,
in dyes that do not etch:
Heliodora — Beloved.

When readers ages hence
repeat these lines, even
in tongues unknown,
will they have wings to cross
the ever-still Acheron?

O reader, weep!
O River of Death, carry
my words to Heliodora!

Alas, no more upon the earth
shall such a woman abide
if this one is not praised below.
Hades! Look upon her kindly!

3

Destruction has taken her
     from me, nor did
I clasp her dead body before
they wrapped the shroud
around her. No one told me! 

Destruction has taken her,
leaving us all above ground
with nothing but ashes,
ashes that could be anyone.
No scent of hair or neck-nape,
no hint of the oiled sheen
of skin adheres to dust.

Great Mothers below:
acknowledge your daughter.
Deeply she loved,
     and if too much
    and among too many,
the joy she gave and took
was always honest. Take
her in your bosoms, Mothers,

and plead her case
     to Hades, he
of the adamantine heart.
Let she, who is bewailed by us,
become Persephone’s hand-maid. 

To see her one more time
is not given to this lowly poet:
to know her among the bless’d
is all the boon I pray. 

We above, are half-shadows
already, worn with weeping.
Destruction has taken her.

Alas! Alas! for Heliodora!

 

 

Interrogation

      Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 470

Q.

Tell the stern one on the bench above,
he who hath no eyes but hears all,
what name you call yourself, and who
and of what place your father.

 A.
I tremble before thee, judge of all!

 Q.
Speak freely. He is but one of many.
Few they are, who meet the owner
of this forbidding and barren place.

 A.
Well, then, I was — and am — Philaulus.
Eucratides, my father, from Kos —
if he my father was — who knows?

 Q.
A cautious and a wise reply! What
livelihood took up the bulk of years?

 A.
These hands have never pulled
a plough, nor grappled the ropes
that hold a sail aloft. Instead
I tried to be wise among the wise —
a teacher, that is to say.

Q.
Full-haired your head,
well-trimmed, your beard.
A full count have you
of fingers and toes. How, then,
did you depart from life?
Did old age creep up upon you,
or some sudden sickness, or fall? 

A.
From what the sages taught me,
I mixed the Cean potion of death.
Of my free will I enter Hades.
The boatman’s coins I had,
and suitable prayers, I hope,
preceded me.

 Q.
                      So, were you old?

 A.
Ah, very old. All whom I loved
with the fire in my body, are gone,
and my world had gone to grayness.
All that I had to teach — subsumed
it was in newer sciences. It was time.

 Q. Wise the law that permitted this.
Wise is he who places no burden
of care on those around him.
Until a certain time,
     you must wait here,
till that of earth
     that still weighs down
the soul, passes. Worthy the life
you led in line
     with wisdom and reason.
Welcome, brother, to Hades!

 

 

 

If Only They Saw

Eyes, eyes, eyes, bright
as a volcano’s fire,
why do they not burn
one another up entirely?

The gods so peopled the earth
with beautiful men, and yet
so many sit, ignoring the other
like separate rivulets
of lava, one touch of which
could set a tree ablaze.

This one opposite that,
each reading his book —
blond hair, jet black,
chestnut brown, red locks
curling, a shoulder bared,
hand turning a scroll just so,
neck nape, the curves from

thighs to sandaled
feet, the noble line
of brow to nose unbroken.
All could be models
for some masterpiece.

Oh, nothing would get done
if they all suddenly noticed,
but then, I wonder
if after harvest came,
hearth-fires secured
with winter wood-pile,
and wars averted or never
even dreamt of, why not?

What joy if each devoted
to love and worship
all such beauty, his life?

In the House of Eros

by Brett Rutherford

His mother invited me home

to read poetry, she said,

to her invited guests.

I paled as I entered:

firefighters in uniform,

mailmen and UPS drivers,

flip-flopped teenagers

with cans of beer a-chug

but when her two pale sons

took me in hand

to the banquet table

I was charmed. Both food

and wine were exquisite.

Various hands touched me

from different directions

under the table.

I read my poems.

Some listeners swooned,

while others nodded off

into a stupored state.

The chamber music

was suddenly enhanced

by strange percussionists

and muted trumpets.

The brothers, one in front

and one behind me,

led me up stairs

toward their darkened

bedroom. Along one

corridor a line had formed:

men lounged, boys leered

as they eyed an open doorway.

The sounds inside

were unmistakable.

"Ignore that!" I was warned,

as warm lips kissed me.

"Mother is incorrigible!"

As I was pulled along, I saw

how the line extended

from their mother's door.

Those at the end

were younger than those

who jostled each other

to enter and have their way.

I swear the far ones

were no more than Boy Scouts.

Behind them stood --- dwarfs? --

no, the spitting images

of cartoon characters,

the Mouse, the Duck,

the Cat, the Rabbit

and with lewd smiles

and belts undone.

"This -- this!" I cried,

"is beyond prostitution!"

The last thing I saw,

as I was pulled

into welcome darkness

was the end of the line

where various household

appliances waited their turn,

wheezing and humming,

tallest among them

the upright vacuum cleaner.

The vacuum cleaner, my god,

even the vacuum cleaner?

At this I swooned

and had to be carried

to whatever it was

they had in mind for me.

I awoke in my own bed,

in clothing not my own.

Under the door,

another scarlet-fringed

envelope invited me.

Dare I go?

The Fire-Bearer

by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 110

Something there is

about Myiscus's eyes.

Heroic-statue eyes are fixed

on distant horizons;

those on portrait busts

are blank as unhatched

eggs, a mystery,

but his? He blinks,

and thunderbolts

all but knock me over.

If he sees something bright,

he hurls sun's warmth

upon me. Has Eros

made one youth so powerful,

borrowing from Zeus, Apollo,

and Eos, shafts of light

no mortal should possess?

Hail, Myiscus,

fire-bearer of Love,

guiding my way, a lamp

of friendship eternal.

The Hungry Eye

In later life, Meleager moved the island of Kos. Heliodora had died, and now Meleager's wandering eye turned to the beautiful young men of the island, who seemed to make a sport of seducing their older admirers. The raging jealousies of Meleager's earlier poems gives way to a voluptuous appreciation of human beauty. So now I commence adapting these poems...

THE HUNGRY EYE

by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 106

I swear, until just now

I was deceived about Beauty.

One thing has crowded

all other Beauties out,

this one: perfect! My hungry eye

feeds on sunlight; sunlight

feeds off magnificent Myiscus.

All those I thought I adored

seem shapeless lumps, or stones

fit only for a blind man's

fancy, reading augury.

He, this one, is everything

and all things. Do my own eyes,

drunk with pleasure, fasten

on his, as soul to soul

are drawn together?

Strip Woods

by Brett Rutherford

Immodest, these

shivering sycamores

wiggle to Offenbach's

Orpheus in Hades

can-can, the trees'

strip-tease for all

to view. Maples

askew in their scarlet

underwear, oaks

making the wind pluck off

one leaf at a time

from their muscled

limbs, till streams

are clogged with them.

The brazen gingko

fan-dancer

sheds all its gold

pasties in one

great shrug.

And there they stand

amid the cheers and whoops

and drunk applause:

wide trunks with peeling

bark, old maple ladies

raked with lightning marks

and fungal warts, saplings

so thin and straight, no curve

to stir the loins, stick-twigs

and gnarled fingers, ring-

hungry and desperate

to be taken home, each

taking one final can-can

kick and calling out

Don't forget me, mister!

You saw me naked!

Knecht Ruprecht, or The Bad Boy's Christmas

by Brett Rutherford

Don't even think of calling your
mother or father.
They cannot hear you.
No one can help you now.
I came through the chimney
in the form of a crow.

You are my first this Christmas.
You are a very special boy, you know.
You have been bad,
bad every day,
dreamt every night
of the next day's evil.

It takes a lot of knack
to give others misery
for three hundred and sixty
consecutive days!

How many boys have you beaten?
How many small animals killed?
Half the pets in this town
have scars from meeting you.

Am I Santa Claus? Cack, ack, ack!
Do I look like Santa, you little shit?
Look at my bare-bone skull,
my eyes like black jelly,
my tattered shroud.

My name is Ruprecht,
Knecht Ruprecht.
I'm Santa's cousin! Cack, ack, ack!

Do stop squirming and listen--
(of course I am hurting you!)
I have a lot of visits to make.
My coffin is moored to your chimney.
My vultures are freezing their beaks off.

But as I said, you are special.
You are my Number One boy.
When you grow up,
you are going to be a noxious skinhead,
maybe a famous assassin.
Your teachers are already afraid of you.

In a year or two you will discover girls,
a whole new dimension of cruelty and pleasure.

Now let us get down to business.
Let me get my bag here.

Presents? Presents! Cack, ack, ack!
See these things? They are old,
old as the Inquisition,
make dental instruments look like toys.

No, nothing much, no permanent harm.
I shall take a few of your teeth,
and then I shall put them back.

This is going to hurt. There--
the clamp is in place.
Let's see--where to plug in
those electrodes?

Oh, now, don't whimper and pray to God!
As if you ever believed! Cack, ack, ack!
I know every tender place in a boy's body.
There, that's fine! My, look at the blood!
      Look at the blood!

You'll be good from now on? That's a laugh.
Am I doing this to teach you a lesson?
I am the Punisher. I do this
because I enjoy it! I am ... just ... like ... you!

There is nothing you can do!
I can make a minute of pain seem like a year!
And no one will ever believe you!

Worse yet, you cannot change.
Tomorrow you shall be more hateful than ever.
The world will wish you had never been born.

Well now, our time is up. Sorry for the mess.
You may tell your mother
     you had a nosebleed.

Your father is giving you a hunting knife
for which I am sure you will have a thousand uses.

Just let me lick those tears from your cheeks.
I love the taste of children's tears.

My, it is late! Time to fly! Cack, ack, ack!
I shall be back next Christmas Eve!

rev. 2022