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The Complete Poems of C.P. Cavafy

Год написания книги
2018
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your “Where are the Greeks?” and “What’s Greek

here, behind the Zágros, beyond Phráata?”

Many, many others, more oriental than ourselves,

write it, and so we’ll write it too.

And after all, don’t forget that now and then

sophists come to us from Syria,

and versifiers, and other devotees of puffery.

Hence unhellenised we are not, I rather think.

[1906; 1912]

The Steps

On an ebony bed that is adorned

with eagles made of coral, Nero sleeps

deeply—heedless, calm, and happy;

flush in the prime of the flesh,

and in the beautiful vigor of youth.

But in the alabaster hall that holds

the ancient shrine of the Ahenobarbi

how uneasy are his Lares!

The little household gods are trembling,

trying to hide their slight bodies.

For they’ve heard a ghastly sound,

a fatal sound mounting the stairs,

footsteps of iron that rattle the steps.

And, faint with fear now, the pathetic Lares,

wriggle their way to the back of the shrine;

each jostles the other and stumbles

each little god falls over the other

because they’ve understood what kind of sound it is,

have come to know by now the Erinyes’ footsteps.

[1893; 1897; 1903; 1909]

Herodes Atticus

Ah, Herodes Atticus, what glory is his!

Alexander of Seleucia, one of our better sophists,

on arriving in Athens to lecture,

finds the city deserted, since Herodes was

away in the country. And all of the young people

followed him out there to hear him.

So Alexander the sophist

writes Herodes a letter

requesting that he send back the Greeks.

And smooth Herodes swiftly responds,

“I too am coming, along with the Greeks.”

How many lads in Alexandria now,

in Antioch, or in Beirut

(tomorrow’s orators, trained by Greek culture)

when they gather at choice dinner parties

where sometimes the talk is of fine intellectual points,

and sometimes about their exquisite amours,

suddenly, abstracted, fall silent.

They leave their glasses untouched at their sides,
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