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.

 

Month of Wine

by Brett Rutherford

Since the joys of wine

are denied me, I did not think

of October as a month brim full

of alcohol, a Bacchanalia.

But then one year,

out Elsdon way in old

Northumberland,

in memory of the Baron

of my name, I heard offered

"a tankard of October."

Was Bradbury here,

I wondered? Did Shelley's

breath of autumn's being

come this far north?

No, this describes

the best and strongest

of ales, October-brewed.

In Queen Anne's day

a Tory club met secretly

in Parliament's shadow,

to drink October Ale

and hurl insults

at the hated Whigs.

Neutral the stern name

October, from Rome,

eighth calendar month,

prefix to sides, legs, and years

(-gon, -pus, -genarian),

but ask the Dutch what time

of year it was in olden times

and they say Wynmaand,

"the wine month." In

Chaucer's day it was still

known as Winmonath,

to the Jacobins in Paris,

Vendémiaire (the time

of vintage). So add I must

to every fall, a demitasse,

if not a tankard,

of October Ale.

Let the year tip tipsy

till fall-on-your-face

winter seizes all.

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.