The Mirror of Lais

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Julianus, Prefect of Egypt, The Greek Anthology, vi, 18, 20.

Lais,
in this mirror looking,
saw only Aphrodite.
Dim light, bright light,
year in, year out,
sorrows and lines
avoided her. The face
reflected there
seemed immutable.

She captivated Greece;
no mean feat
to make men bow
who had broken Persia
and crushed its shields
beneath their horses.

Now, suddenly,
she sees a hag,
dry lips, eye bags,
and a furrowed field
of ugly wrinkles.
A wig, face-paint,

lip gloss, all fail.
Men see, and look away.

The mirror no more
a pretty liar, becomes
a detested object.
Wrapped in a scarf
she sends it off
as an offering,
inscribed:

"Cytherea, goddess,
Aphrodite, friend
of my undying youth,
receive this mirror,
a false round window
now. Refuse it not,
well-made and gilt.

Look now and then
upon your beauty, you
who have no dread
of Time, the destroyer."

Either-Or

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 86.

Aphrodite it is,
   soft, curved
     and ever-smiling,
     who lays forth
liquid flame,
compelling men
     to women’s charms.

Eros, it is, tender,
     tall, eluding
one day and giving
     the next,
the North Star
    of male-to-male
     affection.

What is my Pole,
    my inclination?
How shall the world
turn me, and to whom?
Boy Eros in Hermes guise,
or Cypris, bride and mother?

Whom will I see,
     curled up
beneath my morning
     blanket; whose
hair will drive me mad
     as my fingers run
through the abundant curls
of the exhausted sleeper?

     She, or He?

In dreams I’ve heard
the Morning Star sigh
as Aphrodite admits
she cannot outpace
her mischievous son.
Regarding me,
    she shakes her head
       confessing,
“Eros, the arrogant brat
     has won again!”

 

The Funeral of Adonis

by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Dioscorides, The Greek Anthology, v, 193

Most sombre of all

the night festivals

is that of Adonis,

for whom the Cyprian

Aphrodite forever weeps —

Cleo was beside herself,

a nymph possessed

as the gong sounded

and the low flute

trembled, again

and again, as votive

to Venus, she smote

her own breasts until

they shone in moonlight

     milk-white.

Adonis, uninterested

in womankind,

is mourned each year —

     a wooden bier

with his effigy inside it

is cast upon the waters,

laden with tears

from love-sick maidens,

and mothers whose sons

never lived to be

happy bridegrooms.

If such as Cleo

loved me and mourned me so,

I should happily go

on Adonis's little boat

on its way to Acheron,

and the isles blessed

by gong and flute

and fruit-offering,

sent off in the agony

of a grief-beaten breast.