Of the Same Name

Praxiteles' Eros - Roman Copy

by Brett Rutherford

     After Meleager, The Greek Anthology,  xii, 56

How dare anyone so fair
have such a name as
     Praxiteles?
Should not the name
have been forever retired
after the Athenian carved
from Parian marble the gods
themselves? He made an Eros,
of Aphrodite born, by hand
and eye the gods permitted to see
without the punishment
     of blindness. 

Now Eros torments us,
endows today’s Praxiteles,
an idling son of no one
in particular, a youth
   among us watched
as he grew perfect,
who now, at twenty,
despite his indolence
looks fit to scale Olympus. 

Or will this living
     statue proxy be,
dispensing love affairs with ease,
while god-born Eros attends
the needs of the distracted gods?

It might be a good arrangement.
When there is much tedium
in Heaven, the gods come down
to bother nymphs and shepherds,
to woo away our mistresses,
and abduct by night the lads we adore. 

When there is too much intercourse
with those above, the crops
grow unreliable. Mountains smoke.
The rival temples demand
expensive sacrifices.

And oh, the demigods
     the poor maidens bear
to the despair of mortal
     relatives! 

With two love-gods about,
one here, and one above,
Hera will be vanquished,
and old wives silenced.

From the son of Cronos down
to the lowest demigod,
all heads will turn;
all beds will be fair play.

And as above, so below,
each one in turn shall love
and be loved, till all
fall down exhausted,
and die of old age, smiling.

There will scarcely be time
for the begetting of children.

 

 

 

Spitting Image

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology,xii, 76, 78

If Eros, my full-grown
     Nemesis,
stood sans the bow,
     the quiver, the arrows,
one foot before the other,
     just so,

and if you traced
     arms, shoulders, neck,
     the full-mouthed, high-
     cheeked, god-nosed
visage, and all the rest —

omitting those wings,
    of course,

then made Zoilus,
the potter’s son, pose
until each line and curve
was captured, lay one
upon the other. The same!

Let Eros put on
     the garb of youth,
the chlamys so
     provocative of desire,
then don the cap,
     the petasus,
or, better yet,
the cap suspended
by neck-string
behind the neck
as boys are wont
on windy days
to wear them. 

Trace this, lay one
outline upon the other —
Eros — Zoilus — the same!

 

 

Christmas Eve

by Brett Rutherford

After the cemetery walk

I went to the edge of town,

passing the sign that said

"Welcome to . . ."

There was a tree

beneath which nothing

but new underwear

awaited, last-minute

buy from Woolworth's.

My Mother and

the Evil One

would reel home

from the Moose Club

past midnight.

By noon the fights

and screaming

would overwhelm

the Merry Christmases.

I waited.

For a car, for a lean

and hawklike stranger,

the one who, it was said,

would carry you off.

I vowed this year

not even to enter

the tobacco-smelling

room with the tinsel-

tottering tree. So far

I had avoided it.

All I wanted

for Christmas

was my picture

on cartons of milk

beneath the headline

MISSING CHILD.

My Own Ganymede

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 65.

Now I have Myiscus,
the bliss of Olympians
seems right at hand.

True, no magic apples
stop time and age for us.
The cup he bears me
has water only. Too good
to last this pleasure is,

What if great Zeus
     on high,
tiring of his never-aging
Ganymede, youth
of a thousand years,

would pluck from me
this prize I treasure
but do not deserve?
What if my poems
     provoke
a curiosity divine?

I fear to walk with him
under a clear blue sky.
Beware, Myiscus dear,
the swooping wings,
     the raptor claws!

 

His Own Epitaph

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 417

Gadara in Syria, more Greek
than Greece itself, sired me.
Hail, island of Tye, my nurse!
I, Meleager, Eucrates’ son,
made my own way in epigrams;
Graces brought me to Menippus,
whose satires inspired me. Say
if you will I am only a Syrian.
What of it? Stranger speaking
and reading Greek, are we not one?
Sprung from Chaos,
     one common tongue
unites us. Now I am old,
and with a shaking hand
these words inscribe. Age
found me; Death sneaks about. 

Speak a kind word for me,
won’t you? I’m of an age
to have the ear of Heaven,
should I accord to wish you well.

 

 

Four Torches

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 182

Brief was the marriage
of our cousin Clearista.
Lamp doused, she stood,
her maiden girdle
loosened, listening
for the steps of the bridegroom.

The four immodest torches
cornered the bridal bed
in the adjacent chamber.
She blushed to think of eyes,
divine or human, seeing
the promised pleasures.

Sounds came to her:
the epithalamium sung
by all his companions,
the raucous drum and horn
of Priapus, the flutes
to calm her nerves.

Someone approached.
     Two hands
made a great clap
like thunder. Clearista
fell down dead.

The cries and wails rose up.
Bridegroom and friends,
the attendant maids,
lamenting the pale dawn
that followed such
a wedding banquet.

Around the rich
and canopied frame,
the four torches flamed.
Clearista’s bed
was now her bier. 

Dread Hades, attend:
Here comes the bride.

Heard Walking Past A Doorway in Ephesus

by Brett Rutherford

     after Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 79 

“So then, you have read my book.
That’s nice to know, but why
come here with all these questions?
Look here, I need not explain
to blockheads what I mean
when I say a simple thing.” — 

                                            “But who
are you to be taken a priori?” —

“I wrote the thing.
Heraclitus I am. I point
the finger at change and Chaos.
What would you have me prove?
Ask not the name of my teacher.
I worked on wisdom alone,
    and no god helped. 

“My mind and thought were found
sufficient to serve
     my countrymen. Such words
that came almost unbidden
from brow to lip were harsh.” —

“Too harsh, some say —”

“I even upbraided my sire,
    an evil man he was.” —

“But a father should be honored.
He brought you up, after all.” —

“Get lost. The young, knowing
     no better, obey. When reason
comes, the son perceives
     a toad for what it is.
I spat as I crossed
that threshold one last time.
May their hearth be extinguished!” — 

“Such talk offends the gods.” —

“And so they punish me with fools,
and long life in a Persian rat-trap.
Worse shall you hear, stranger,
if you keep pestering.” — 

“Good-bye, then, grump.
I came with a letter, and gold.
I shall seek another tutor.”— 

“A tutor, eh? Fine jest
it was, to send you to me.
If you wish to be wise,
then stay away from me,
or, better yet, Ephesus flee!”

 

 

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.