Times Four

 by Brett Rutherford 

     after Callimachus, Epigram 53

Rival: if young Theocritus,
who is mine if only
for his many poems,
hates me, as you say he does,

four times as much
shall you hate him
and shun his company.
You hate all poets anyway.

But if Theocritus loves me,
as he protested earlier,
let that be multiplied by four,
to the heat of a burning star.

As Zeus had Ganymede,
fair-haired and ever-loving,
Theocritus, whose face
is fringed with a young man’s
first beard, shall be mine.

The gods will it.
I say no more.

 

He Comes Around

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Callimachus, Epigram 46

After his friends warned him,
“Callimachus is after you.
Don’t give him anything.
     Leave town, give no one
a forwarding address.”

 And so Menecrates, who said,
“I am not like that. Look not
that way upon my features,”
left town on June 20th. Then on
the holiday, what was it? the 10th
of the month following,
my door, unknocked, flew open.

The ox came to the plow
without a summons.
Well, well. A bow
to Hermes, the god
of sudden inspiration,
well done! Just twenty days
between the wish
and the arrival.

 

Suspicions

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Callimachus, Epigram 45

Don’t say I wasn’t warned,
old friend Menexenus.
No sooner had I said
I was done with doting,
along comes Pan, the sneaky one,
on a mission from Dionysius
to stir inside my ashes
     a hidden fire.

I thought I was beyond
distractions. A wall
was I, yet undermined
by hidden streams beneath.
So now I tremble, head
to foot, with dread,
that this unworthy lad,
a rent-boy if ever I saw one,
a purse-snatcher or worse,

dread that he slips in
where my heart is empty,
and something like love
floods in to overwhelm me.

Friends should rescue friends
who totter at the edge of folly.

Walking, Wounded

by Brett Rutherford 

     after Callimachus, Epigram 44

He sat among us bleeding,
     and we knew it not.
With sighs, the stranger
     nearly choked at dinner.
The wine he took, and swallowed,
     would not stay down,

 and when he left us,
     the garlands he wore —
as though he had just been
     at someone’s wedding —
shed onto paving-stones
their one-day faded petals,
     roseate.

 O what a tale
    he might have told us!
Burned by the gods he was.
He had loved
     where he was not supposed to,
          and then he had to flee.

 Being a thief of hearts myself,
my mirrored self in him I see.

 

Knowing Not Whom I Love, or Why

by Brett Rutherford 

     after Callimachus, Epigram 42 

Am I half-dead
or am I half-alive?
I know not which;
my soul is split
and I am heavy
with longing. Love’s end
is a small slice of Death,
so it is hard to tell.

Something between my
head and breast
has gone hollow.
Is there someone
I should be thinking of?

Is it one among those boys
I see too often already.
Have I not cautioned them,
as they circle my table —
the flirts! — “Don’t let me
fall in love with you!”

 What part of me, then,
sits here like a ghost,
giving out lovesick glances —
where, and to whom?
Knowing not who
has made me feel this way
is certain madness.

If this be not
a fore-taste of the tomb,
show me a face, at least,
or let me be put
into the market for stoning.

 

 

The Hunt

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Callimachus, Epigram 33

Vain are the ways of venery.
The hunt, I mean to say.
The sportsman scales hills,
friend Epicydes, in search
of what is hidden there.

Hare in the snow,
     the track of roe,
the burrowing fox.
The colder it gets,
     the more he enjoys it,
the rarer the catch
     the better.

Yet should he chance
     upon an arrow-
     wounded beast or boar,
felled by another’s darts,
     he will not touch it.

The hunt I know,
     the other venery,
takes place
in street and alley,
strolls in the park at night,
or anywhere at all.

My arrow, the random glance
     bold and in full daylight
can light upon one beauty
     amid a herd of his fellows —

Oh, to pursue what flees
     is best for me,
while what accosts me,
      offering,
I scorn to touch.

  

The Love-Lorn

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Callimachus, Epigram 32 

Poor lad, have you eaten?
Good Heavens! You!
Wasted away to nothing,
made hollow-cheeked by lack
to skin and bone, I knew
you not, poor boy,
Cleonicus of Thessaly!
I swear by the burning sun
I mistook you for another
who idles here sometimes
in need of a meal or more.

 Come, have a drink. Ah,
we have a common woe.
The doom that once withered me
was wizened you — the gods
have played cruel tricks on us,
the same humiliating jest
on thee and me. Drink up!

 How did I guess? If walls
have ears, and windows eyes,
nothing in Alexandria
escapes the gossips. I need
but whisper the cursèd name
Euxitheus. He played you too?
You’ll need a month of dinners
to vanquish your despair. You too,
like me, looked in those eyes
and fell into the same abyss.

Come, Cleonicus! With wine
and open heart, be free!
Now, over there, look at that one!

Matters of Taste

by Brett Rutherford 

     after Callimachus, Epigram 30

Refrains, anaphora, endless
retakes of the Trojan War
in tedious detail, such ways
as poems turn in on themselves,
dining on old regurgitations —
such things annoy me.

Likewise the city streets
that circle back
the same one hundred faces
day after day
in one’s own neighborhood.
Where is the joy in that?

 Like something foul I dread
the company of serial seducers
and inconstant lovers.
Some wells are for the connoisseur
of water; some are for swine.

Some are content
     with what is common,
          low, and cheap.
These things I loathe.

I can be fooled. Take
Lysinias here.
Is he not, oh, better than fair?
But no sooner did I say “fair”
than someone echoed “fair”
outside my window way
and beckoned him by name,
and, having purse and good looks,
he took the boy from me.

 

Catastrophe at Cyrene

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Callimachus, Epigram 22

Some days the sun
should refrain from rising;
some nights the moon
should turn its face in shame.

At morn, we filed into
the graveyard. Ashes
of Melanippus we consigned
into the tomb intended
for his parents. At dusk,
the grieving Basilo died
of self-murder. The pyre
that had burned her brother
would take another too
before its embers had faded.

At home, proud Aristippus
staggered with double woe —
first Malenippus,
     and now Basilo! —
a childless father now.

All of Cyrene wept
and its citizens shuddered
to pass his desolated house.

 

Necromancy

 by Brett Rutherford

     from Callimachus, Epigram 15

Speak, stone! Does Charidas
rest beneath you?
A groan from the witch,
a deep gong sounding,
and then the deep answering:

“Mortal, if by Charidas
you mean the son
of Arimmas of Cyrene,
I answer as summoned.”

 Charidas, my countryman,
my cousin, may I dare to say?
What of the world down there?
We still alive are craving to know.

 “It’s dark a lot.”
                         — A ghost of few words.

 Is there a way upward
to some blessed isles?

“An old wives’ tale. Forget it.”

And what of Pluto?
     Does he judge?

                             “A fable!”

 Then all is for nothing,
and human striving, undone.
Have you nothing good to say?

 “How we get by down here
is a tale you would not savor,
but if it is good news you wish,
you can buy a whole ox to eat
for a copper penny in Hades.”

 

 

 

The Little Plaque By the Garden Way

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Callimachus, Epigram 18

Oh, where is Crathis? We,
her Samian girlfriends,
have looked everywhere.
We miss her never-ending
chatter, the gossip, the tales!

Look here! Look there!
Part ways and meet again
at the garden overgrown
where sometimes she
plays hide-and-seek.

 The market stalls?
    No one has seen her.
Nose in a book
     in the scribes’ alley?
(Nay, no syllable of Homer
has ever passed her lips!)
The Temple of Isis?
     Oh, no! Not that!
I looked everywhere.
Just let me catch my breath.
Some boy has got her!
No! No! where is the chatterbox?
Where? Where? Where?

 Look down! O, which
of you can read this?
A little plaque, not stone,
but carved in common wood.

From Crathis, it says.
Read this and know,
I sleep below.
A sudden fever took me.
Come back. Bring flowers.

 

 

The Cenotaph

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Callimachus, Epigram 20

This mausoleum, unoccupied,
waits open-doored for Lycus,
gone on a merchant trip to Aegina.
He, of Naxos, and well-versed
in the seasons, went anyway
when Orion and Arcturus bode ill.
He drowned. Ship sunk,
Lycus inside the rotting hulk
of shattered vessel, now sells
his wares to the canny octopus.
Or worse, his bird-picked visage,
floats eyes-up in a knot of weeds.

Decorum forbids these thoughts
be put on stone, so just
his name above the lintel
must suffice. Wild wind
cascades the oak leaves in,
then out, of the empty tomb.

Step in. Remember him,
and if a soft murmuring
comes up, the breeze
and swaying myrtles amplify,
until a goat-cry issues
from your unwilling throat,

it is a warning to mariners,
of the two Kid-stars
in flickering Capella, whose fall
presages the storms that kill.

 

The Poor Man's Gravestone

 by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Callimachus, Epigram 28

Having little, I humbly lived.
I asked for no monument, but
others who loved me, paid for one.
I had a point of pride, just one:
I never did a dreadful deed,
nor can anyone say
I injured them.

In proof of this I vowed:
O Earth, if I, Micylus,
have spoken well
of any evil thing,
deny me your light and blessing,
bar me and the kind guardians
who would lead me down
to the better shades below.

To refrain from evil
when it pays so well
is no small thing.