Love On Top

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology

Really, Eros! You threw me down.
I was no match; I tumbled,
and there you are on top of me.

Worse than wrestling, this;
more like arena gladiators.

Why not just finish me off,
foot on my neck and all?
Even in the pale dawn light —
when I lay here waiting
for the one who did not come —
I recognized you. Heavy
you are — how you have grown
from child to manhood.

Eros grown up is
     even more dangerous.
Where love by proxy
    was your boyish business,

so now you come yourself
     to possess me.
What? No bow, no quiver,
     no stinging arrows?
Really? Just you … and me?

I hope this is some random
     visitation. Truly,
to be overcome as I have
     done to others
is amusing. Do what you will.

But not my heart, mind you:
     set that not alight.
You cannot burn it, Eros!
It is already ash. Get on
with your pulsations, make
me scream the names
    of everyone I longed for, 

but this is all in vain.
Leave the back way
     so no one sees,
or better yet, just spread
those pinions and wing
up and out the open window.

 And mind you take
your sandals, cap, and staff.
I’ll never tell — I promise!

 

 

The Fading Charms

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 41

I once found Theron beautiful —
what was I thinking?

Apollodotus, too,
     of golden gleam —
dull, tarnished brass!

How soon youth’s torches
     burn out! 

Women take care
to make themselves fair,
and sustain the illusion.
At least with them
the suddenly-sprouted
beard, nose broken
in the heat of sport,
gashes from antlers
    and boar-tusks,
the random bruises,
blights and blemishes
of manhood: all these,
by their magic,
the ladies evade.

True, these damaged youths
still have some followers.
Men older than me,
    as coarse as goat-herds,
jostle to encounter them,
eager to mount
this hirsute and broken
merchandise.

 

Beardless No More

 by Brett Rutherford

     After Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 33

Now Heracleitus, once so fair, has come
to what I called “the bearded stage.”
Not to be like a philosopher —
     oh, never that! —
but just to prove he can pass 

as one ready for bride-grooming.
It’s just as though he stuck
some mud-and-hide camouflage
so that his face and neck
repel meek kisses, or a touch.

So Polyxenius, his rival,
struts about like Hermes,
no more than a tantalizing
tuft beneath his chin,
a hint of moustache. He knows
all eyes are upon him.

Proud youth, your fall is coming,
for, judging by your father,
in not too many months
goat-hair will sprout
     not just on cheeks
but, trust me, lad, all over!

Timon of Athens' Tombstone

by Brett Rutherford

     From the Greek Anthology

My name? My country?

None of your business!

Before you know it,

you too shall be dead.

Serves you right.

Spare This Ox!

 

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, ix, 453

Priests of the temple, forbear
on behalf of a suppliant.
If he had tongue to speak,
     this animal,
brought at great cost by one
who cannot afford to lose him,
might bow its head and utter:

Zeus on your Olympian throne,
this lowly ox, unspotted but old,
lows as the priest approaches,
knife upraised, and cries out
     “Spare me!”

For who serves all with better heart
than one who pulls the plow?
     Son of Cronus,
remember when you bore Europa
over the broad sea on your back —
and in what form? — the untiring bull.
Remember, and spare your fellow creature!

 

 

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?