Night Vigil

 by Brett Rutherford

After Asclepiades,
     The Greek Anthology, v, 189

It is night.
The dead of winter.
Her rooftop grinds
against the setting
     Pleiades.
She is no gift
from the love-goddess;
these icy pangs I feel
resemble bee-stings
     or tiny thunderbolts.
The more she betrays me
behind those bolted doors,
the deeper it cuts at me.
The more I pace,
the longer the dawn delays.
Whose hand will emerge,
whose hooded head pop out
from the gaping entryway
at cock-crow, and skulk away?
Does it even matter?
Sea-salt, tear-salt, heart-jab —
love is an open wound.

The Dark Lady

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Asclepiades, The Greek Anthology, v, 210

Dark as dusk the lady was
when she waved a branch at me.
By myrtle, by palm, by ivy green,
by oak, by pine, by olive, be black
or brown or tawny from too much
sun, what matters it to me?
Like wax I melt before the heat
of love, though she be sent
by fierce Hannibal or Africa’s
proud Dido, Queen. Coals burn,
and what was black as night
throws red and amber light
upon the bedroom walls.
So tremble, Europe, now
beneath the slippered feet
of the beautiful Didyme.

Oh, Give It Up

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Asclepiades, The Greek Anthology, v, 85.

You, virgin still? Oh, why?
Small dam against a torrent,
frail barricade defying love,
why grudge it when a line
of suitors would un-Sphinx
your riddles and reduce
your silly girl talk to a sigh
of most sweet surrender?

If I may be so rude:
Just think on Hades, dear,
and its loveless eternity.
There, no one will give you
a second glance. In Acheron,
upon its acid river shore,
one lies not down for love
but to lament, in ash and dust,
the bygone days one wasted.

Snuff Out the Lamp

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Asclepiades, The Greek Anthology, v, 150.

She made an oath one ought
not take in vain: Demeter’s
name she invoked in promising
to come to me tonight.
So much for Nico’s word.
The famous one is faithless,
it seems. It’s almost three
and I grow sleepy waiting.
Why did she promise so
earnestly? Do words
mean nothing at the end?

Go servant, and snuff out
the lamp left by the garden gate.
Now it would serve only thieves,
and there is no use wasting oil.