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by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from Dioscorides, The Greek Anthology, v, 138
One song I cannot bear, and now
Athenion sings it night and day.
Like some neglected, stupid dog
he brays away
the tune of “The Horse.”
Down with his horse, I say,
and damn all horses in general.
I cannot bear the sound of hooves.
In my dreams, an evil animal
this is. All Troy is aflame,
and in that fire I perish.
Ten years of siege, I cursed
those Greeks, but in one night
we horse-mad Trojans died.
THE FIRST ANTHOLOGIST
Adapted from
Meleager, The Greek Anthology, iv, 1
This my memorial for all of time,
to my beloved Diocles I give,
not helmet, shield, or fleece of gold,
but poems garland-gathered, sweet
and noble, angry at gods and men,
swooning with unrequited love, full
of heaven’s bliss and Hades’ cold
comforts, flowers bound tight
with leaf and branch. Burn not,
my long-labored book! Set sail
on fair winds with many copies,
ye who thrill to beautiful words.
This was Meleager’s work. His own
lines are packed in immodestly
with the best of the best. Too few
the flowers of Sappho, but roses
they are! Lilies, Anyte and Moero
left us. Oh, the sad narcissus,
with the clear blue eyes and song
of Melanippides; a strong branch
of Simonides keeps it from falling.
The iris of Nossis, short-lived
but beloved of the busy bees.
Eros stopped by, and with his heat
the wax melted for all my
piled-up writing tablets; long
he distracted me, but the work
is done at last. Have I not turned
every temple-stone and epitaph
so that no good line was missed?
Herbs, too, mix in when flowers
are too fragile. The sweet crocuses
of Rhianus and Erinna crouch here
pale as unmolested maids. Alceus
left his hyacinth, like the self-same
beauty’s locks, Apollo’s tears.
Laurel, be sure, is there beneath,
the dark-leafed branch of Samius.
To last, my garland must be made
of sterner stuff than blossoms only.
Here Leonidas’s ivy cluster clings,
here the pine’s spiky needles hold
green forever the words of Mnasaclas.
A fist-full of plane leaves for Pamphilus,
all tangled up with walnut Pancrates.
Add to the rustling poplar of Tymnes,
all shading the sweet wild thyme below
where Nicias still tunes his lyre, wild
spurge enwraps Euphemus whose
words are not forgotten. Even the frail
violet of Damagetus is gently placed,
protected by the myrtle, sweet
Callimachus, whose words
are biting honey. The list goes on.
You may consult the book. I wove
the names one after another
into an elegaic garland. Even
Anacreon’s sweet lyrics flew in,
and a nameless poet, too, whose
name would not fit any meter.
A dash of ocean water went in
to stop the garland from going
stale. There came Antipater, red,
and a golden bough of Plato, too,
and other fine poets too many
to mention. Here they will peep
among the lilies and surprise you.
If I place here, for my own Muse
to honor, a smattering of spring’s
early-blooming white violets,
my little poems, can I be blamed?
Things most of you have read
and memorized, are here,
conjoined with works
the world has never seen before.
Welcome to my anthology.
[Note: Meleager’s long introduction to his Greek Anthology weaves in the name
of at least two dozen more poets, but he clearly is running out of steam with
the metaphor. I have therefore cut the list short, leaving enough of it here to
demonstrate what the poet was attempting.]
by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from
Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 94
Line up the young men of Kos
(the gods know they stand about
like apples in a market stall!),
and I will demonstrate
my varied tastes, and how I lack
that crude possessiveness
that mars so many comrades.
It is not as though
one wears them out,
for, laughing,
they come back for more
of our admiring glances.
Our kisses scar them not,
and we are not like
some fierce lizards swallowing
them head first. We carry books,
not ropes and nets, we dine
amid their company, their
fathers nod to us and smile.
Are we not all Greeks?
Is Diodorus there
not fair as a gold sunbeam?
See how the lines of eyes
all follow Heracleitus
until they can see no more?
Watch all heads turn
to the musical tenor
of sweet Dion there,
tuning his lyre for show.
Watch Uliades: he has
a way of making his chlamys
part just so: those thighs
will reach the Olympics!
Friend Philocles,
take your fill.
Soft flesh invites
the tribute of touch,
so long as good manners
and a compliment
accompany.
Look to your heart’s content
where all are looking. No lad
ever fainted from being stared at.
Speak if you have the courage
to that one, there, alone
in the shade of the portico.
He merits attention and might
be a poet someday. He might
say yes to you
since you have books at home.
See how free from envy I am.
I have had my share, some
more than once, some
I could hardly get rid of.
What’s that? Which one?
The sun’s too bright for me
in that direction. No,
Philocles, look not on him.
That is Myiscus. Off limits.
Don’t even think of it.
Avert your eyes. Not him.
Cast greedy eyes that way
and you’ll be as sorry
as one who saw Medusa.
by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from
Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 49
Unhappy lovers drink
their wine unwatered,
as if strong spirits washed
clean one’s memory.
Does Bacchus trade
in amnesia, then?
Is love thus quenched
entirely gone, or does
it come back bitter,
a dark bell hovering
above the hung-over head,
a low gong sounding,
not top of the day’s joy,
but the Beloved’s name
endlessly rung
in one’s ears? Pain,
like a jovial demon,
puts on the face
of the very boy one wants
to put out of mind.
Rise up to find a mess:
spilled cups at the bed’s foot,
the shards of a shattered cask,
unsent, that torn love-note,
a single sandal not your own,
crumbs everywhere.
The risen sun
mocks the drinker,
and the first word out
of the vinegar mouth
is the same moan
you went to bed with,
blankets and pillows
the sad sculpture
you wrapped your arms
around, pronouncing
one name, his name,
the same name. Wine
doesn’t help a bit.
by Brett Rutherford
Gossip among
young Asian men,
with whom I dine,
a guest, a stranger,
yet somehow as in
as they are out.
Outsiders always,
some seldom stray
North of Canal Street,
employment limited
to under-the-radar
exploited jobs, unless
the overseas mother,
the rich uncle,
paid one’s way
to a good school,
escape into
the melting pot.
Slowly, I learn
the pecking order:
the ABCs
(American-born Chinese),
rich Asians
on monthly checks
from anxious parents,
well-off Taiwan
or Singapore families;
“jump ships,” the
mainland arrivals
from Mao’s horrors,
cardless, furtive,
evading questions.
Americans see none of this,
each bowing waiter,
each unseen worker
in kitchen or sweatshop,
a Charlie Chan cipher.
Outcast among
a colony of outcasts,
I am at home here
at this round table whose
lazy susan rotates
a casserole of friendship.
From here, we head out
for the Chinese opera.
by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from
Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 468
Not eighty, not sixty, not forty,
not thirty even, fit age
for marrying, not even twenty!
Eighteen, Charixenus, dead!
Dressed in your chlamys
by your own mother, not
off for a prize, not off to a war,
not off to a wedding day:
instead a woeful gift
to hungry Hades.
I swear the earth shook,
the stones groaned
as all his best friends
bore out his body
and all the house wailed.
So grieved were they
who carried him,
their sobbing shook
the emblazoned bier.
Led by the baffled priests
his parents chanted
a song of mourning,
a plea for swift passage
to a blessed place.
No one glanced up
as though to see the shame
of the indifferent sky
would drive all mad.
Alas for the mother’s breasts
that suckled in vain,
for the father whose line
might now be extinguished.
Did some old oath
bring Furies here,
three evil maids
who revel in death?
Or, born of Night
and Erebus
did Fates foredoom
this unhappy youth?
O Fates implacable,
barren yourselves you spit
to four winds the love
of mother for her first-
and only-born.
How can the morrow
resemble the yesterday?
Friends, parents,
(and one, an unknown
lover, who pines for him),
their futures canceled.
Who will not hear
this tale and pity
the left-behind?
Grief pulls all down
to a common grave.
by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from
Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 204
Long in the tooth for love you are.
Those men have worn you out,
Timo, your timbers split
by the oar-beat of passion.
Hunched now you walk,
like a slack-wind yard-arm.
Parts of you flap
alarmingly,
those famous breasts
now sagging low.
Wave-tossed, your belly
warps and wrinkles.
This ship has borne
too many passengers —
for shame, old courtesan,
give it up now. Instead
of perfume, bilge-water’s scent
precedes you. Retire now.
Invest your hard-earned coins
in something decent. Be gone
before your creaking bones collapse
and salvagers make off
with what is left of you.
I hear you plan to take
just one more lover on.
Unhappy he, unless he wants
to make love to his own
demise, riding you out
across Acheron, a skeleton
astride a coffin-galley.
by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from
Meleager, The Greek Anthology, v, 182
Dorcas, take this! A note
to Heliodora, who else?
Be not content to hand
it to her dull servant,
illiterate, who might just use
my love-note to wrap
chopped vegetables.
Into her own hands
you must place this,
and wait to be sure
she unseals and opens it.
And bring it back to me,
answer or not. Paper
is not cheap, you know.
Wait — don’t hurry along
so fast. So just in case,
recite it back to her
just as I did for you,
and as she wakens late
and may not be alert,
repeat it twice; three times
is not too much
and might exert
a spell’s effect. So, go now!
That way! I’m off on other
errands. Oh, wait, come back!
Here in my pocket, Dorcas,
here is a poem. Add this
and say — where are you running to?
It’s hard for me to keep up
as my legs are so much shorter
than your sprinting bean-poles.
I’ve not yet finished. There’s more.
Don’t walk so fast, my friend.
Oh, what a fool I am. Perhaps
the note reveals too much. Stay,
hand it back a moment. Why must
you walk so fast, anyway? Ah,
take it back, Dorcas, say everything
I told you — mind not my doubts.
So hurry and tell her everything.
What’s this? Why send you
on this errand when here we stand
before her door. Short-cut, you say?
How could we be there already?
So do me one last favor
and knock. I just can’t do it.
My arms feel paralyzed. My heart
has stopped. My message sinks
like a stone cast down a well.
My poem is a lead sinker.
Someone is at the door,
unlatching!
Ye gods, where is my voice?
Should I just slide the paper
under, and run?
by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 165
The words for “black” and “white”
are on my tongue each time
I say my name, black “melas”
in pair with “argos” white.
Is it then any wonder
that I pursue Cleobulus,
pale as a white blossom,
and also dark-haired
Sopolis, sun-tanned
the hue of fresh honey?
Fools say that opposites
attract, but what of me,
locked in a duality?
Nothing and everything
are my opposing forces,
female and male,
tawny or white as chalk,
and everywhere I turn,
Beauty stuns me.
LES ANCIENS BUVANT
by Brett Rutherford
Si le monde se terminait,
ils ne le sauraient pas.
Haut sur le versant
d’une montagne sacrée,
six érudits mortels
se réunissent
dans le jardin d’un manoir.
Maître Liu a tout arrangé
pour atténuer la chaleur
du mois d’août.
Un paravent dissimule
l’éblouissement du soleil
et ombrage la table,
là où quatre amis
dégustent du vin froid,
que l’hôte verse
d’un drapeau antique.
Ma main fait
tourner le vase
décoré de figures bleues.
Gao, le haut fonctionnaire exilé,
arrive avec un livre interdit
qu’il tient près de son cœur.
Son neveu,
jeune et beau,
est trop habillé.
Il préfère faire une sieste
dans un vallon ombragé,
sans chapeau,
le col ouvert.
Un petit garçon,
un autre participant,
semble submergé
par la chaleur et l’ennui.
Celui-ci préfère jouer
avec son arc
et ses flèches,
ou regarder courir
les chevaux sauvages,
mais ici, le rythme lent
des vieillards rappelant
leurs poèmes,
et feuilletant les pages
pour trouver un dicton
confucéen —
elle doit suffire.
L’honneur c’est
d’être avec les sages.
Ma main fait
tourner le vase
décoré de figures bleues.
Un serviteur se penche
pour ajouter des charbons
à un brasero enflammé.
L’eau est ici
pour les théières brunes
d’argile yi xing.
Les murets
zigzaguent le bord
du domaine de Liu.
Des arbres surplombent
l’écran peint.
Leurs branches
sont identiques
à ce que l’artiste
y a peint.
Quelle audace
de placer une forêt peinte
devant une vraie!
Ma main fait
tourner le vase
décoré de figures bleues.
Dans le brouillard
de la montagne,
les sommets lointains,
et même le bord
d’un précipice voisin,
se perdent
dans la blancheur,
pâle comme de la porcelaine.
Tout est au premier plan,
et une main tendue
pourrait toucher la glaçure froide,
traçant la courbe
des limites de l’existence.
Figés une fois
et figés pour toujours,
les vieillards débattent
des mérites
des styles poétiques.
Ils délibèrent
sur la question de savoir
si les objets sont permanents
ou s’ils s’effacent
vers le néant.
Vin frais,
thé chaud,
la montée et la chute des tons
d’une chanson mémorable;
étouffé,
le faible rugissement
des eaux qui tombent
calligraphie
appelée de rien
pour tomber
sur une page blanche.
Ma main fait
tourner le vase
décoré de figures bleues.
La journée est trop chaude
pour toute autre diversion.
Le monde se terminerait
si les yeux cherchaient
profondément
dans la brume plus dense.
Il y a un éblouissement jaune,
moucheté de moucherons.
Deux papillons y planent.
Ils sont en apesanteur,
immobiles
et terrifiés.
Quelle est cette tache
sur la blancheur pure:
le soleil brûlant
qui a envie de se montrer?
une ville lointaine
en feu, envahie?
le cri
qui explose
d’un atome fendu?
Gao, apportez-moi le livre!
Soyez rapide,
mon amie.
Trouvez la bonne page,
les mots à lire,
les noms
des dieux —
si les dieux existent —
que nous devons invoquer.
Ici,
dans la clarté du thé,
mille ans de sagesse
adhèrent.
Si longues sont les après-midis,
si courtes sont les nuits
d’août,
rongées par les insectes.
Ici,
ils sont tous en sécurité:
érudits, neveu,
garçon et serviteur.
Ma main fait
tourner le vase
décoré de figures bleues.
Les Anciens buvant.
Ils n’ont pas à craindre
la fin du monde.
[Un vase peint à la main en bleu et blanc représente des
érudits dans un Jardin. Derrière quatre érudits assis, un paravent peint les
protège du soleil et du vent. Les arbres peints à l’écran sont les mêmes que
ceux qui les entourent. Tout est au premier plan – aucun paysage lointain n’est
visible, comme si la scène était entourée de brouillard. Sous la glaçure du
vase, un grand espace ouvert a une légère fonte jaune, et le peintre de vase a
dessiné de petites taches de poussière autour du bord de la lueur mystérieuse,
et a placé deux papillons qui y planent. Ce qui ressemble à un défaut de
couleur de l’argile semble intentionnel, et on nous demande d’expliquer sa
cause, et pourquoi les savants semblent suspendus au premier plan.]
by Brett Rutherford
The world might end
and they would not know it.
High on the slope
of a sacred mountain,
six mortal scholars gather
in a mansion garden.
Master Liu
has arranged everything
to mitigate
the heat of August.
A folding screen
conceals sun’s glare
and shades the table
where four enjoy
cold wine
from an antique flagon.
Hand turns around
blue-figured vase.
Gao, the exiled
high official, arrives
with a banned book
close to his heart.
His nephew, young
and handsome, feels
overdressed, and would
prefer a shady glen
to nap in, hatless
with collar undone.
A small boy, restless,
another bored
participant,
would rather be at
his bow and arrow,
or watching the play
of wild horses, but here
the slow pace of old men
calling to mind a poem,
leafing the pages to find
a Confucian dictum,
must suffice.
Honor it is
to be with the wise.
Hand turns around
blue-figured vase.
Crouching, a servant
adds coals to fire
beneath the brazier
meant to refresh
brown yi xing teapots.
Low walls zig-zag
the edge of Liu’s estate.
Trees overhang
the painted screen,
branches identical
to what the artist
painted there.
How daring to place
a painted forest
before a real one!
Hand turns around
blue-figured vase.
In mountain fog
the distant peaks,
even the edge
of a nearby precipice
are lost in white
as pale as porcelain.
All is foreground
and an extended hand
might touch cold glaze,
tracing the curve
of the limits of existence.
Frozen this once
and forever, the old men
debate the merits
of poetic styles,
deliberate
on whether things
are permanent
or fade to nothing.
Cool wine, warm tea,
the rise and fall
of a remembered song;
muffled, the dim roar
of falling waters;
calligraphy called up
from nothing to drop
upon a blank page.
Hand turns around
blue-figured vase.
A day too hot
for any other purpose.
The world might end
if eyes sought deep
into the denser mist,
a yellow glare,
gnat-flecked, in which
two butterflies hover,
weightless, immobile,
and terrified.
What is this blotch
upon pure whiteness?
The burning sun
craving to show itself?
A distant city
ablaze, invaded?
The exploding scream
of a split atom?
Gao, the book!
Be quick, my friend!
Find the right page,
the words to read,
the names of gods,
if gods there are,
we need invoke.
Here in the clarity
made plain by tea,
a thousand years
of wisdom adheres.
So long, the afternoons,
so short the nights
of bug-bite August.
Here they are safe,
scholars, nephew,
boy, and servant.
Hand turns around
blue-figured vase.
They need not fear
the world might end.
[A hand-painted blue-and-white vase depicts scholars in a
garden. Behind four seated scholars, a painted, folding screen protects them
from sun and wind. The trees painted on the screen are the same as those around
them. All is foreground – no distant landscape is visible, as though the scene
were surrounded by fog. Under the vase’s glaze, a large open area has a slight yellow
cast, and the vase painter has drawn little dust-flecks around the edge of the
mysterious glow, and placed two butterflies hovering there. What looks like a defect
in the color of the clay seems purposeful, and we are asked to explain its
cause, and why the scholars seem suspended in the foreground.]
