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.

Dilemma

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!

When Zenophila Sings

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 139.

If you would seduce a poet, play the lyre.
Pan in Arcadia swoons, and puts
aside his pipes when Zenophila tunes
and plays her sweet melodies. Yes, by Pan
and the philosophers, I say it so.
Even out of earshot, my mind retains it,
each note a fiery dart from Eros flown,
and when she sings along, just audible
above a whisper, no one breathes at all.
Would that the words sung included my name!
It is just too much — Beauty — Muse — Grace.
any and all of them in one woman.

  

She Waits at Kos

by Brett Rutherford  

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 53

Sailors of the Hellespont, if
as your richly-laden barks
head full sail out on the North Wind,
as you pass Kos, and leaning in
toward its fair beaches, look out
for a woman alone — Phaniôn
she is called — standing alert
and watchful for friendly sails.

Me it is she looks for — I promised,
and I shall get there by and by.
The long way ’round, by land I tread,
till from the nearest point I’ll take
the shortest crossing. Sea-legs I’ve none;
too many monsters of the deep
I know by name. Sea-sickness
is my real complaint, but tell
the lady instead I am on pilgrimage,
counting each step until I see her.

Bear her this message, sailor friends,
that I am bound to come to Kos
one way or another. That done,
Zeus and strong gales be on your side.

Absence

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 52

Adraganthus, gone to sea!
He could not wait, alas, for me:
fair-blowing winds take to the South
all ships so quick to seize the time
of prosperous sailing. Bereft
we are that such a one has fled
from banquet, poems, wine, and bed.

That such a one would ride the waves
delights the ocean spirits thrice,
and four times bless’d the breezes are
that drive the sails. In dolphin form,
should he sink, I would carry him —
oh, let the octopus take all
the rest of them, ugly sailors! —

Bear him I would to Rhodes intact
where I am told the shores are lined
with shipwreck rescuers, fair boys
who with their loving fingers draw
all the lost men from the briny waves.

Abductors of Rhodes, return him!
Lure him not with emerald eyes
and garlands of gold amaranth.
Send Adraganthus back to me!

 

  

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!