by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from Paulus
Silentarius, The Greek Anthology, vi, 290
She sent him home with two apples,
rosy red. Her mother watched
but missed their secret gaze as eyes
outlined the apples, hand to hand.
What wizardry she worked,
ensorcelling desire so that,
alone, his hands trace ’round
and ’round the apples’ edges,
eyes closed, the curve of her —
by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from Rufinus, The Greek Anthology, v, 12
Let’s get it on, Prodike.
Here at the bath, whose water
is neither hot nor cold, and flesh
is the fire that burns, let’s crown
our heads with daring laurels,
and with a vintage undiluted
take in the grape as fast
as the poems pearl out
from our laughing mouths.
Large cups, large draughts,
no matter who is looking
or wants to join us, more,
and always more to come!
Oh, do not remind me
the days are growing shorter,
how night’s long shadows
foretell the reaping. No!
Short is the time allotted us.
I shall be old, and you
a horror to look upon.
Shall we both live to see this,
and bitter at the last,
raise up our cups to Hades?
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!
