The Kind-Hearted Girl

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Poseidippus, The Greek Anthology, v, 213

So poor, no more
than a hut she has.
Pythias is kind to strays.
Cats make a path
to her garden gate.
She names, and is known by
every dog outcast. I swear
she feeds the birds herself
from that dainty, open hand.

Is it any wonder
she seldom sleeps alone?
If no one is there tonight
I'd try my chances.
Invoking some god
or another for luck,
I'd tap at the entryway,
light as a hen-peck
or the faintest scratch
of a plaintive kitten.

Oh, she'd come running.
It's midnight out,
and raining, too.
I'd blurt some tale
of being tossed
from the tavern, and then,
the prey of thieves,
stripped to my last
farthing. See here,
even my sandal is torn!

With Eros behind me,
and Aphrodite before
to daze her eyes,
how can sweet Pythias
not open the door?

Oaks I Would Like to Know

Digital poster depicting King Offa's Oak

by Brett Rutherford

In Great Windsor Park,

King Offa's Oak

was said to shade

for rest and watering

a man and horse,

the latter unnamed,

the former a Norman

king called William.

A Flemish knight

named Ruderfyrde

brought news.

England was won.

Oaks big enough

in hollow trunk

to conceal a band

of outlaws.

The Major Oak

in Sherwood Forest

was one of these,

concealing, live,

one Robin Hood,

or dead, in larder,

the King's deer.

In Devon, nine dined

inside the Meavy Oak.

The self-same tree

at Wetherby

lets seventy men

and one distraught

old squirrel cram

into its dark insides.

Below the arms

of a Shelton oak,

a battle raged

between Prince Hal

and Hotspur.

One, Owen

Glendower, safe

in its leafy bower,

witnessed it all.

Oaks stout and fit

to serve as a gibbet.

Look there -- the Abbot

of Woburn dangled

at Henry VIII's order.

Oaks old and wise,

abundant with acorns:

what have they not seen,

what secrets not heard?

They lean, they bend,

they groan with cold and frost,

and yet they will not die.

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To Spring

Nature poems per se are rare in The Greek Anthology. This, one of Meleager’s longer poems, is an attempt at a nature poem, anticipating Virgil. It includes one biological error, the ancient belief that bees spring from rotting cow carcasses. I have done this up in blank verse, and if it mixes a little Shelley in, well, so be it. The Greek word “euoi” is  a variant of “evoe” or “evohe” and is a Dionysian cry of rapture. 

TO SPRING

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, I, 363

The Cynic, too, is happy in springtime.
How could it be otherwise? Departed
the howling winter is, and now the sky
gives way to smiling, purple-flowered days.

Out of dark earth a green garland rises
as dried-up meadows break out in tresses,
willow green-bud, the tender, up-sprouting grass
the emerald hair of the new season. 

What had been frost is now the dew of dawn,
laughing as the rose-bud in lurid red
blushes. Shepherds break out their shrill-toned pipes
trimming and tuning them to summon forth

The he- and she-goats and their new-born kids.
Already mariners, by tide and moon
called out, puff up their sails with Zephyr’s help.
Somewhere on distant slopes, the revelers,

heads wreath’d with berry’d ivy cry euoi!
to him who blesses grapes: Dionysus!
An old bull-carcass spews forth the black bees,
decay engendering intelligence

as the swarm swells and divides its labors
as wondrous as the pyramids in Egypt.
those ever-refilling white honeycombs.
Kingfisher and cormorant, the ibis

and crane, stern eagle and high-flying kite —
how all the birds exult and sing, down to
the humblest of sparrow. Swan glides, swallow
flits round to bless the homes of rich and poor.

The mournful nightingale, in gloom of grove,
takes up its station. Dire ravens roost there,
and crowds of crows await the crops to come.
O what a world for those with pinion’d wings!

If there is joy in all green uprising,
if there is joy as gold wheat flourishes,
if there is joy in the flocks’ frolicking,
and in those never-ending Pan-pipe calls,

if there is joy in sailing out to sea,
then somewhere always dances Dionysus.
Birds, bees, the swelling earth, the cloud-blessed sky,
how should a poet not sing of these, too? 

Hands joined, come one and all, and dance! Euoi!

On the Porch

Ruins of Cyzicus in present-day Turkey.

by Brett Rutherford

     From Anon., The Greek Anthology, vi, 341

A ship-mast on a temple porch —
what business has it here?
Does the hill-top intend
a sea-voyage? No, citizens,
this antique jigger-mast
once stood at the rear
of a great trireme,
sail shading the rows
of sun-burnt oarsmen.

Warriors it carried
to glory and fame. Athena
herself designed it,
and thus, Cyzicus ranked
first in ship-building.

Rewarded this temple was,
first ever consecrated
this far to the East
to the Tritonian maid.

The ship, and drawn plans
for more like it, sailed
to Apollo in Delphi,
with offerings of gold.
Spartan ships splintered
before its thrust,
and Persians trembled
to see it coming.

Solider or sailor, nod
to the well-crafted ship
that brought your forebears
home in safety. Garland
the deck and give thanks
for safe passage
of Poseidon’s dark
and roiling sea.

 

 

The Tea-Pet Toad

by Brett Rutherford

The carved red toad,
mouth open just enough
to hold a single dime,
is a harbinger of wealth,
slow-earned, a tenth
of a dollar doled
out a thousand
thousand times,

the kind of fortune
earned only
by making, by hand,
ten thousand dumplings.

The poor batrachian,
I did not notice
until yesterday,
has only two legs,
a bit of tail
for a tripod
solidity. What of
his other legs?

For lack of dimes
did he sell them off
to a street vendor
whose frog-leg dainties
please the crowd?

That string of coins
slung over his shoulder
implies he should not be
that desperate.

His gem eyes glitter
a greedy ruby and say,
“No need for legs.
I need not leap at all.
Coins come to me,
and pale tea pours
from the heavens
to pool around me.”

Serene as Buddha,
wrinkled as sage,
squat on his I Ching
pedestal, King Toad
rules the tea table.

Night Torment

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Asclepiades, The Greek Anthology, v, 189

A fool’s watch
on one of the year’s
longest nights, endless,
in winter weather, too!

I’m drenched with rain.
There’s no reward
for pacing back and forth
before a door
that never opens — hers.

Morning comes soon.
The mocking Pleaides,
warm in the arms
of one another,
are halfway up
from the horizon,
humming on through
the holes in the clouds. 

I know she is in there,
the sly deceiver.
Someone already came
and lies entwined
with her soft limbs.

What would I do,
anyway, if I saw
him leaving? Accost,
or slink away, or,
worst of all, knock
at her door and beg
my turn?

I know I am mad.
This is not love;
no honor here
for Aphrodite, not
the kind of affection
the gods bless. Lust,
simple and searing,
a hot arrow,
drives me on,
amid the winter chill,
tormenting fire.

An Unholy Trio

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Asclepiades, The Greek Anthology, v, 161

Euphro, Thais
and Boidion, three hags
who once were courtesans
at Diomede’s tavern,
who formerly took on,
like a twenty-oared transport,
the desperate arriving captains,
have cast ashore now
three ruined men, stripped
to their sandals and worse off
than shipwrecked sailors.

Poor Agis,
poor Cleophon,
poor Antagoras:
the rocks of divorce
await them, and all
because those creatures
posed as respectable
women and lured them
to home and hearth.

Back at their old trade,
corsairs of Aphrodite,
they shriek like Sirens.

Snuff Out the Lamp

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Asclepiades, The Greek Anthology, v, 150.

She made an oath one ought
not take in vain: Demeter’s
name she invoked in promising
to come to me tonight.
So much for Nico’s word.
The famous one is faithless,
it seems. It’s almost three
and I grow sleepy waiting.
Why did she promise so
earnestly? Do words
mean nothing at the end?

Go servant, and snuff out
the lamp left by the garden gate.
Now it would serve only thieves,
and there is no use wasting oil.

The Evil Song

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

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.]

  

Line Up the Young Men of Kos

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.

 

Oblivion

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.

Chinatown, 1975

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.