Diogenes the Cynic, Dead

by Brett Rutherford

     After Archias, The Greek Anthology, vii, 68

Weeping is your delight, O boatman of Hades
Tears from above are like wine to you
as you convey the dead
upon Acheron’s undrinkable waters.
If but one tear descends
with my name upon it, give heed
and add me to the manifest
for this night’s passage. With all
the dead weight of war and famine
you bear, my little bulk is as nothing.

I’ll not be left behind.
Call me “Diogenes the Dog”
if you wish to diminish me
even further. I do not mind.
Baggage have I none:
my staff, my smelly cloak,
this seldom-used wallet,
in which one obol,
down here as heavy
as a lump of lead,
that one thin coin
you are obliged to take
as my ticket. What’s here

is all I had above,
unless you count memory
of sky and sea, harvest
and the occasional
kindness of strangers.

True, most who knew me
wished me here. A shrug
greeted the news of my passing.
The best of my sayings
already twist this way
and that on the tongues
of rascals and old wives.

Here, the coin.
Let’s get on with it.
I left nothing in daylight,
anyway. Take it, boatman!