Message to Heliodora

 by Brett Rutherford

    Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 182

Dorcas, take this! A note
to Heliodora, who else?
Be not content to hand
it to her dull servant,
illiterate, who might just use
my love-note to wrap
chopped vegetables.

Into her own hands
you must place this,
and wait to be sure
she unseals and opens it.
And bring it back to me,
answer or not. Paper
is not cheap, you know.

Wait — don’t hurry along
so fast. So just in case,
recite it back to her
just as I did for you,
and as she wakens late
and may not be alert,
repeat it twice; three times
is not too much
and might exert
a spell’s effect. So, go now!

That way! I’m off on other
errands. Oh, wait, come back!
Here in my pocket, Dorcas,
here is a poem. Add this
and say — where are you running to?
It’s hard for me to keep up
as my legs are so much shorter
than your sprinting bean-poles.
I’ve not yet finished. There’s more.
Don’t walk so fast, my friend.

Oh, what a fool I am. Perhaps
the note reveals too much. Stay,
hand it back a moment. Why must
you walk so fast, anyway? Ah,
take it back, Dorcas, say everything
I told you — mind not my doubts.

So hurry and tell her everything.
What’s this? Why send you
on this errand when here we stand
before her door. Short-cut, you say?
How could we be there already?
So do me one last favor
and knock. I just can’t do it.

My arms feel paralyzed. My heart
has stopped. My message sinks
like a stone cast down a well.
My poem is a lead sinker.
Someone is at the door,
     unlatching!
Ye gods, where is my voice?
Should I just slide the paper
     under, and run?

 

 

Anti-Eros

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted and expanded from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 179

Eros, if I lay hands on you,
     you’re done for.
At the next sign
     of your sneaky arrival
I’ll grab the bow, that
    fancy Scythian quiver
and the whole lot
     of those vicious arrows,
and burn them up,

bow and string, the cloth,
the fletching feathers, all
into my hearth-fire,
up in smoke. See how
you like it then, powerless
except by persuasion
to make us men run about
like ants or termites.

How can I write
serious poetry
when all I can think about
is the pursuit, the conquest,
the jealous rage, and then
the renunciation, as if

you were not the god at all
of loving, but of falling
out of love. Anti-Eros
you are, diverting us
from our best instinct:
first love, best love.

Ah, there you are! See
how I have thieved you
of your quiver? Aim not
your bow like a club
at my forehead and listen
for once, ridiculous son
of Aphrodite!

“I attend,” the little god said.

“This is madness!” I charged.
“First this one, then that one,
and then another.
Heliodora, on and off,
then Zenophila,
and then some random boy
whose eyes flash
mischievously.” —

“What is it you want,
Meleager? To love them all?
Monday. Wesnesday, Friday
Heliodora’s lot —
Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
with Zenophila —
and Saturday for boys,
as many as you wish,
     like candy?”

Oh, I had not thought of that.
“That would be terrible,”
     protested I.
“I’d waste away. My legs
would shrink to spindles.
And imagine the jealousy:
each one to do as she pleases
four days a week! Imagine
the whole city rocked by quakes
if they should ever meet in public!”

At this, a boyish laugh erupted
and the god snickered. “Beware
to get what you wish for! Give back!”

I handed him the quiver.

                                        “Well,
I demanded. What is it now?
Shall I just bare my chest
and take the shaft you came
to torment me with? Your
visits are frequent, as though
we were cousins, as though
you thought you were doing me
a favor. With me you are a lynx
pacing around a flock of sheep.” —

At this the boy leaned up, and,
taking my head in his hands,
planted a chaste kiss upon my brow.

“Would you refuse your next
adventure in love? You are not
supposed to see me coming!”

I closed my eyes. I did not
feel the sting, but heard
the air give way before
the approaching arrow.
The light winged sandals,

the wings outspread
framed the dawn light
window, and he was gone.

I am afraid to go out.
What if the next creature I see
is the one I must love?

But then I smiled,
for today is Saturday.

 

Wreath and Crown

by Brett Rutherford 

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 147, 143, 144

The flowers I plait
into one wreath are sad:
plucked off from root and stem,
their glory will be brief, but oh,
what company! White violets,

frailest of all the field’s blooms,
rain-spring narcissus, sweet crocuses,
lilies laughing as they fold arms
with the fields’ purple hyacinths,
royal roses plucked from thorns,
branchlets of berry-rich myrtle,
all in a wreath enfolding
the brow of Heliodora,
a wreath so rich
    in love and the lore
        of gods.

I place this fragrant garland,
on Heliodora’s brow.
stand back, and gasp
at Nature crowning Beauty.

Later, let petals fall
as blossoms fade
    and die —
no matter!

Walking barefoot
     across them
in dawn-fresh day,
Beauty triumphs
     over Decay,

above the faded wreath
of narcissus, hyacinth,
     violet and rose,
she, with her own
     scented curls
is a crown eternal.