On Wine and Water

 

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, ix, 931

“Show me!” said Semele,
and, weeping, Zeus obliged.
One sight of his true face
and she was burnt to ash.
Out of the lightning sprang
the infant Bacchus.

Nymphs rushed to cool
his flaming limbs,
diverting a stream,
and from the steam
and boiling cloud he rose.

Zeus never noticed
his accidental offspring,
skulking away to Hera
and his smug marriage.
Bacchus reached out
and twined the vine
of the grape about him.

Only a fool drinks wine
from the cask, unwatered.
He is too soon drunk,
     useless for love;
his limbs give way, and
into the gutter he tumbles.

All know that wine,
full-strength, is fire,
driving men mad.
So draw from a spring
the Nymphs’ portion:
slake fire with ice.

Thus mingled, the red,
the gold, the purple
vintages flow,
fierce spirits quelled,
a blessing to all.

 

The God Pan, in Bronze

 by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 535

Mock me if you will with cries,
whistles, sheep sounds, wolf calls.
I am not to be dislodged, will not
turn my back to the busy avenue.

No more shall I, the cloven-footed
god, content myself with flocks
of stupid sheep, tame dogs,
and the unruly rompings of the goats.
I, Pan, am now a city-dweller.

Trust me, mountains are beautiful,
so long as you do not climb them.
Enough of up-and-down — the up
in particular. But it is grief

that brings me here, a grief
that requires distraction. Silent,
my pipe, and broken, my song
have been since Daphnis died.
Daphnis, a cousin-love,
a son of Hermes, handsome
as the god of dreams himself,
who kindled new fire
     in this old heart
     is gone, and with him my

merry smile. No grapes I pick,
no fruit I pluck from summer’s
rain-heavy branches. The dew
has not run rivulets down
from brow to beard — my tears
discolor my cheeks of bronze.

Young ones: seek in vain
to meet me in the forest.
Hunters: no more shall my pipe
suggest to you the brake
in which the fleet deer slumber.

I am here to stay, a sad Pan,
bereaved of one Daphnis.
If another comes, with just
such eyes, and shoulders proud —
well, then, we shall see.

Heliodora, Dead!

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 476

1

Tears by the teacup, tears
     by the pail, tears
a pond, a lake, an ocean —
these the last offerings
in proof of love I send 

down through the earth,
through crevice, cave, and rock,
down as a torrent, nine days
a waterfall to Hades —

thee, Heliodora, I mourn.
Each tear I shed
     is like a nail, thrust
deep inside me. These words

I add to all your friends’
laments, your parent’s grief.
Since I come late,
I wash away salt-stains
your other lovers deposited
(no matter now! I would
embrace them, each and all!)

My piteous, unabated flow
will slake your need below,
for tears earn merit there.

2

Still in death are you dear
to me, Heliodora, lost
to me forever. Undying love
and longing return to me —
O anger, and the amnesia
of jealous rage, begone! —

as I append these lines
to that bare stone tablet
on which is scrawled,
     impermanent,
in dyes that do not etch:
Heliodora — Beloved.

When readers ages hence
repeat these lines, even
in tongues unknown,
will they have wings to cross
the ever-still Acheron?

O reader, weep!
O River of Death, carry
my words to Heliodora!

Alas, no more upon the earth
shall such a woman abide
if this one is not praised below.
Hades! Look upon her kindly!

3

Destruction has taken her
     from me, nor did
I clasp her dead body before
they wrapped the shroud
around her. No one told me! 

Destruction has taken her,
leaving us all above ground
with nothing but ashes,
ashes that could be anyone.
No scent of hair or neck-nape,
no hint of the oiled sheen
of skin adheres to dust.

Great Mothers below:
acknowledge your daughter.
Deeply she loved,
     and if too much
    and among too many,
the joy she gave and took
was always honest. Take
her in your bosoms, Mothers,

and plead her case
     to Hades, he
of the adamantine heart.
Let she, who is bewailed by us,
become Persephone’s hand-maid. 

To see her one more time
is not given to this lowly poet:
to know her among the bless’d
is all the boon I pray. 

We above, are half-shadows
already, worn with weeping.
Destruction has taken her.

Alas! Alas! for Heliodora!

 

 

Interrogation

      Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 470

Q.

Tell the stern one on the bench above,
he who hath no eyes but hears all,
what name you call yourself, and who
and of what place your father.

 A.
I tremble before thee, judge of all!

 Q.
Speak freely. He is but one of many.
Few they are, who meet the owner
of this forbidding and barren place.

 A.
Well, then, I was — and am — Philaulus.
Eucratides, my father, from Kos —
if he my father was — who knows?

 Q.
A cautious and a wise reply! What
livelihood took up the bulk of years?

 A.
These hands have never pulled
a plough, nor grappled the ropes
that hold a sail aloft. Instead
I tried to be wise among the wise —
a teacher, that is to say.

Q.
Full-haired your head,
well-trimmed, your beard.
A full count have you
of fingers and toes. How, then,
did you depart from life?
Did old age creep up upon you,
or some sudden sickness, or fall? 

A.
From what the sages taught me,
I mixed the Cean potion of death.
Of my free will I enter Hades.
The boatman’s coins I had,
and suitable prayers, I hope,
preceded me.

 Q.
                      So, were you old?

 A.
Ah, very old. All whom I loved
with the fire in my body, are gone,
and my world had gone to grayness.
All that I had to teach — subsumed
it was in newer sciences. It was time.

 Q. Wise the law that permitted this.
Wise is he who places no burden
of care on those around him.
Until a certain time,
     you must wait here,
till that of earth
     that still weighs down
the soul, passes. Worthy the life
you led in line
     with wisdom and reason.
Welcome, brother, to Hades!

 

 

 

If Only They Saw

Eyes, eyes, eyes, bright
as a volcano’s fire,
why do they not burn
one another up entirely?

The gods so peopled the earth
with beautiful men, and yet
so many sit, ignoring the other
like separate rivulets
of lava, one touch of which
could set a tree ablaze.

This one opposite that,
each reading his book —
blond hair, jet black,
chestnut brown, red locks
curling, a shoulder bared,
hand turning a scroll just so,
neck nape, the curves from

thighs to sandaled
feet, the noble line
of brow to nose unbroken.
All could be models
for some masterpiece.

Oh, nothing would get done
if they all suddenly noticed,
but then, I wonder
if after harvest came,
hearth-fires secured
with winter wood-pile,
and wars averted or never
even dreamt of, why not?

What joy if each devoted
to love and worship
all such beauty, his life?

In the House of Eros

by Brett Rutherford

His mother invited me home

to read poetry, she said,

to her invited guests.

I paled as I entered:

firefighters in uniform,

mailmen and UPS drivers,

flip-flopped teenagers

with cans of beer a-chug

but when her two pale sons

took me in hand

to the banquet table

I was charmed. Both food

and wine were exquisite.

Various hands touched me

from different directions

under the table.

I read my poems.

Some listeners swooned,

while others nodded off

into a stupored state.

The chamber music

was suddenly enhanced

by strange percussionists

and muted trumpets.

The brothers, one in front

and one behind me,

led me up stairs

toward their darkened

bedroom. Along one

corridor a line had formed:

men lounged, boys leered

as they eyed an open doorway.

The sounds inside

were unmistakable.

"Ignore that!" I was warned,

as warm lips kissed me.

"Mother is incorrigible!"

As I was pulled along, I saw

how the line extended

from their mother's door.

Those at the end

were younger than those

who jostled each other

to enter and have their way.

I swear the far ones

were no more than Boy Scouts.

Behind them stood --- dwarfs? --

no, the spitting images

of cartoon characters,

the Mouse, the Duck,

the Cat, the Rabbit

and with lewd smiles

and belts undone.

"This -- this!" I cried,

"is beyond prostitution!"

The last thing I saw,

as I was pulled

into welcome darkness

was the end of the line

where various household

appliances waited their turn,

wheezing and humming,

tallest among them

the upright vacuum cleaner.

The vacuum cleaner, my god,

even the vacuum cleaner?

At this I swooned

and had to be carried

to whatever it was

they had in mind for me.

I awoke in my own bed,

in clothing not my own.

Under the door,

another scarlet-fringed

envelope invited me.

Dare I go?

The Fire-Bearer

by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 110

Something there is

about Myiscus's eyes.

Heroic-statue eyes are fixed

on distant horizons;

those on portrait busts

are blank as unhatched

eggs, a mystery,

but his? He blinks,

and thunderbolts

all but knock me over.

If he sees something bright,

he hurls sun's warmth

upon me. Has Eros

made one youth so powerful,

borrowing from Zeus, Apollo,

and Eos, shafts of light

no mortal should possess?

Hail, Myiscus,

fire-bearer of Love,

guiding my way, a lamp

of friendship eternal.

The Hungry Eye

In later life, Meleager moved the island of Kos. Heliodora had died, and now Meleager's wandering eye turned to the beautiful young men of the island, who seemed to make a sport of seducing their older admirers. The raging jealousies of Meleager's earlier poems gives way to a voluptuous appreciation of human beauty. So now I commence adapting these poems...

THE HUNGRY EYE

by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 106

I swear, until just now

I was deceived about Beauty.

One thing has crowded

all other Beauties out,

this one: perfect! My hungry eye

feeds on sunlight; sunlight

feeds off magnificent Myiscus.

All those I thought I adored

seem shapeless lumps, or stones

fit only for a blind man's

fancy, reading augury.

He, this one, is everything

and all things. Do my own eyes,

drunk with pleasure, fasten

on his, as soul to soul

are drawn together?

Strip Woods

by Brett Rutherford

Immodest, these

shivering sycamores

wiggle to Offenbach's

Orpheus in Hades

can-can, the trees'

strip-tease for all

to view. Maples

askew in their scarlet

underwear, oaks

making the wind pluck off

one leaf at a time

from their muscled

limbs, till streams

are clogged with them.

The brazen gingko

fan-dancer

sheds all its gold

pasties in one

great shrug.

And there they stand

amid the cheers and whoops

and drunk applause:

wide trunks with peeling

bark, old maple ladies

raked with lightning marks

and fungal warts, saplings

so thin and straight, no curve

to stir the loins, stick-twigs

and gnarled fingers, ring-

hungry and desperate

to be taken home, each

taking one final can-can

kick and calling out

Don't forget me, mister!

You saw me naked!

Knecht Ruprecht, or The Bad Boy's Christmas

by Brett Rutherford

Don't even think of calling your
mother or father.
They cannot hear you.
No one can help you now.
I came through the chimney
in the form of a crow.

You are my first this Christmas.
You are a very special boy, you know.
You have been bad,
bad every day,
dreamt every night
of the next day's evil.

It takes a lot of knack
to give others misery
for three hundred and sixty
consecutive days!

How many boys have you beaten?
How many small animals killed?
Half the pets in this town
have scars from meeting you.

Am I Santa Claus? Cack, ack, ack!
Do I look like Santa, you little shit?
Look at my bare-bone skull,
my eyes like black jelly,
my tattered shroud.

My name is Ruprecht,
Knecht Ruprecht.
I'm Santa's cousin! Cack, ack, ack!

Do stop squirming and listen--
(of course I am hurting you!)
I have a lot of visits to make.
My coffin is moored to your chimney.
My vultures are freezing their beaks off.

But as I said, you are special.
You are my Number One boy.
When you grow up,
you are going to be a noxious skinhead,
maybe a famous assassin.
Your teachers are already afraid of you.

In a year or two you will discover girls,
a whole new dimension of cruelty and pleasure.

Now let us get down to business.
Let me get my bag here.

Presents? Presents! Cack, ack, ack!
See these things? They are old,
old as the Inquisition,
make dental instruments look like toys.

No, nothing much, no permanent harm.
I shall take a few of your teeth,
and then I shall put them back.

This is going to hurt. There--
the clamp is in place.
Let's see--where to plug in
those electrodes?

Oh, now, don't whimper and pray to God!
As if you ever believed! Cack, ack, ack!
I know every tender place in a boy's body.
There, that's fine! My, look at the blood!
      Look at the blood!

You'll be good from now on? That's a laugh.
Am I doing this to teach you a lesson?
I am the Punisher. I do this
because I enjoy it! I am ... just ... like ... you!

There is nothing you can do!
I can make a minute of pain seem like a year!
And no one will ever believe you!

Worse yet, you cannot change.
Tomorrow you shall be more hateful than ever.
The world will wish you had never been born.

Well now, our time is up. Sorry for the mess.
You may tell your mother
     you had a nosebleed.

Your father is giving you a hunting knife
for which I am sure you will have a thousand uses.

Just let me lick those tears from your cheeks.
I love the taste of children's tears.

My, it is late! Time to fly! Cack, ack, ack!
I shall be back next Christmas Eve!

rev. 2022

The Dark One

by Brett Rutherford

In memory of Scott Forsgren

We laughed in the graveyard
I wrote into poems and he
traced out in pen-and-ink.
His fingers raked earth
in the lake-shore hillside
until a bone that might have been
Jeannette Culberton’s finger
came to light, his trophy.

He walked one summer night
across the college campus
not knowing anyone, migraine
vision colliding with my identical
pain and misery. Two weeks
he stayed; like brothers we shared
a chaste bond, not to be broken.
I could not go home to parents;
something had riven him likewise
from home and family. Wagner
and Schubert, Mahler and Bach
bonded us. Moonlight and lake
and the transcendent stars
were our true homeland.
Some friendships
are instant, and last forever.

I moved to New York. I heard
he was swept away by religion,
at least for a while, and then
I heard no more of him.

Decades later, at a college reunion
for those of the Woodstock years
I heard it said casually
that he had drowned himself,
rock-weighted, self-hurled
from the top of a bridge.

In mind’s eye I saw
his weighted jacket,
the too-deep water,
the ignominy of a found body,
the pointless inquest,
the baffled, pained, guilty faces
of the left-behind.

I left the reception,
closed tight the door
of the cinder-block dorm
and wept uncontrollably.
That half-an-hour’s grief
should be enough for anyone,
but it did not abate.

What was the use of his death
except to those who stand and weep —
who must, in one life,
fill, and refill the cup of grief,
so early, and so many times?

What would I not have given to save him?
Why is self-murder a crime against the living?

If only magic could bring him back,
I would sit with ring and book
until the world collapsed
into its core of iron,
until the loam of the soil parted
and his dark laughter exploded
from his unremembered grave!

If only souls were immortal!
(The heart breaks, wishing it were so,
hoping to force from nature
what it cannot give).

If my hand raked soil
to touch the tip
of his dead fingers,
it would be our first
and only caress.

Afterwards

 by Brett Rutherford

An unpeopled metropolis,

stopped clocks —

abandoned cars, the doors

left open —

wind howling

through broken panes —

a siren, unattended,

howls for days

then fades to silence —

the open sky

criss-crossed by clouds,

but neither hawk nor crow

descend on downdrafts.

Two rivers meet, and what

new flow they form

is nameless now. Even

the compass points

have been forgotten,

map meaningless

with no one to read it.

The wheel of time grinds on.

All places are the same.

Concrete and granite,

steel and aluminum,

columns of marble

with their wreath'd tops

sacred to no one now.

They gasped their last,

those creators, users,

and inheritors.

Flames lick

the horizon, while

angry tides erode.

Who made all this?

Who knows?

What is this thing

that flaps and tatters

with frail white leaves,

glued up between covers?

Those black scribbles

must have meant something.

Did these lost beings

possess a language?

Is this where they put

their dreams and ideas?

Were they capable

of reason?

It seems not.

The Funeral of Adonis

by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Dioscorides, The Greek Anthology, v, 193

Most sombre of all

the night festivals

is that of Adonis,

for whom the Cyprian

Aphrodite forever weeps —

Cleo was beside herself,

a nymph possessed

as the gong sounded

and the low flute

trembled, again

and again, as votive

to Venus, she smote

her own breasts until

they shone in moonlight

     milk-white.

Adonis, uninterested

in womankind,

is mourned each year —

     a wooden bier

with his effigy inside it

is cast upon the waters,

laden with tears

from love-sick maidens,

and mothers whose sons

never lived to be

happy bridegrooms.

If such as Cleo

loved me and mourned me so,

I should happily go

on Adonis's little boat

on its way to Acheron,

and the isles blessed

by gong and flute

and fruit-offering,

sent off in the agony

of a grief-beaten breast.