A Contest of Eyes

by Brett Rutherford

     After Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xi, 92

i

Why, despite his
apparent indifference,
does my head turn
to follow Hicetas
till he is out of sight?

The problem is
that I have seen his eyes.

My goose is cooked.
He’s nobody, really.
How can the lesser
bring down the greater?
Glue-traps on trees
capture the wild dove,
admittedly,
     but by and large,
sheep do not eat wolves,
crows do not catch scorpions,
ash does not smother fire.

Love cooks and stirs
everything. The soul
in love is upside-down.

I roast in beauty;
my soul runs down
into the fire.

ii

My eyes betray
my soul’s intent,
forsaking peace.
Like hounds, they burst
from out their sockets,
chasing the beloved.
And he, bird-lime
on his fair limbs,
catches the glance
and will not let it go.

Winged eyes discover
the wolves in the fold,
who, having been seen,
go skulking off. The crow,
whose eyes blink
sideways, taunts
the scorpion’s steady gaze
and turns away.

The pitying sky’s
tears fall and smother
the flame beneath
     the crumbling ash.

 

iii

No love at first sight
for the sightless.

What if we made
a merry bonfire
of these steaming orbs?
Trusting no more
the trickery of vision,
what if we crawled about
like errant crabs
in the receding tide,
selecting at random touch
whom we should love?

Could it be worse
than this cruel lottery
of colliding visions,
eyeballs circling
in long ellipses
like lost comets?

 

iv
Taking no lesson
from Oedipus,
far-knowing Tiresias,
or from the woe
of a Spartan bridegroom
begetting warriors
in total darkness,
I must accept my fate.

I see, I am seen.

My complaints are petty.
Hicetas, hold my gaze,
for in Hades, I am told
all eyes are averted.