ponytails

I stand corrected: there are good poems about soccer. eccentric_hat (who has exceptional taste in poetry) shared this one with me and it is so good that I need to post it today! But since it is quite short, and because I feel like it, I am posting a second poem, which is also short (and gay) and packs a punch.

girls' soccer practice:
they are running so hard
and shouting so strong with
ponytails ponytails ponytails
backlit and leaping
they are not afraid of you

—Jenna Jaco, "11/8/16," published in the Sweet Tree Review (Summer 2017, Volume 2, Issue III).

*

And if I cannot speak of my love—
if I do not speak about your hair, your lips, your eyes;
yet your face that I keep within my soul,
the sound of your voice that I keep within my brain,
the days of September that dawn in my dreams,
mold and color my words and phrases,
in whatever theme I get into, whatever idea I utter.

—C. P. Cavafy (1863-1933), "December 1903," translated by Rae Dalven; this is one of Cavafy's unpublished poems.

a little of the city that I loved

I love Cavafy, and I love this poem. I had several different Cavafy poems in the possible rotation for this month, but when it came right down to it, I think it had to be this one, this year.

Anyway those things would not have lasted long. The experience
of those years shows it to me. But Destiny arrived
in some haste and stopped them.
The beautiful life was brief.
But how potent were the perfumes,
on how splendid a bed we lay,
to what sensual delight we gave our bodies.

An echo of the days of pleasure,
an echo of the days drew near me,
a little of the fire of the youth of both of us;
again I took in my hands a letter,
and I read and reread till the light was gone.

And melancholy, I came out on the balcony—
came out to change my thoughts at least by looking at
a little of the city that I loved,
a little movement on the street, and in the shops.

—C. P. Cavafy (1863–1933), "In the Evening," 1917, translated by Rae Dalven (San Diego: Harcourt, 1948/1976).

above all do not be fooled

When suddenly at the midnight hour

an invisible troupe is heard passing

with exquisite music, with shouts—

do not mourn in vain your fortune failing you now, 

your works that have failed, the plans of your life

that have all turned out to be illusions. 

As if long prepared for this, as if courageous, 

bid her farewell, the Alexandria that is leaving. 

Above all do not be fooled, do not tell yourself

it was only a dream, that your ears deceived you; 

do not stoop to such vain hopes. 

As if long prepared for this, as if courageous, 

as it becomes you who are worthy of such a city; 

approach the window with firm step, 

and listen with emotion, but not

with the entreaties and complaints of the coward, 

as a last enjoyment listen to the sounds, 

the exquisite instruments of the mystical troupe, 

and bid her farewell, the Alexandria you are losing. 

—C. P. Cavafy (1863-1933), "The God Forsakes Antony," 1911. Translated by Rae Dalven (San Diego: Harcourt, 1948/1976). This is a sad poem, but I also find it really beautiful—which is a combination and a mood that Cavafy completely excels at, both here and elsewhere.

a citizen of the city of ideas

For reasons that don't really need exploring at this juncture, I totally failed to post any Cavafy while I was actually in Greece. (Mostly, I couldn't decide what the right poem was, and then I gave up and decided to save him for later.) I want to remedy that now, however, because Cavafy is wonderful.

The young poet Eumenes
complained one day to Theocritus:
“I have been writing for two years now
and I have done only one idyll.
It is my only finished work.
Alas, it is steep, I see it,
the stairway of Poetry is so steep;
and from the first step where now I stand,
poor me, I shall never ascend.”
“These words,” Theocritus said,
“are unbecoming and blasphemous.
And if you are on the first step,
you ought to be proud and pleased.
Coming as far as this is not little;
what you have achieved is great glory.
For even this first step
is far distant from the common herd.
To set your foot upon this step
you must rightfully be a citizen
of the city of ideas.
And in that city it is hard
and rare to be naturalized.
In her market place you find Lawmakers
whom no adventurer can dupe.
Coming as far as this is not little;
what you have achieved is great glory.”

—C. P. Cavafy (1863-1933), written sometime before 1911. In this case translated by Rae Dalven, and from The Complete Poems of Cavafy, expanded edition (San Diego: Harcourt, 1976).

pray that the road is long

When you start on your journey to Ithaca,
then pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
Do not fear the Lestrygonians
and the Cyclopes and the angry Poseidon.
You will never meet such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your body and your spirit.
You will never meet the Lestrygonians,
the Cyclopes and the fierce Poseidon,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not raise them up before you.

Then pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many,
that you will enter ports seen for the first time
with such pleasure, with such joy!
Stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and corals, amber and ebony,
and pleasurable perfumes of all kinds,
buy as many pleasurable perfumes as you can;
visit hosts of Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from those who have knowledge.

Always keep Ithaca fixed in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for long years;
and even to anchor at the isle when you are old,
rich with all that you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would never have taken the road.
But she has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not defrauded you.
With the great wisdom you have gained, with so much experience,
you must surely have understood by then what Ithacas mean.

—C. P. Cavafy (1863-1933), "Ithaca," 1911. Translated from the Greek by Rae Dalven, from The Complete Poems of Cavafy (Harcourt, 1976).

gabbysilang introduced me to Cavafy, and this was the first poem of his that got under my skin. I like a lot of his poems, although as always with things translated I wish I could read them in the original (which I may be able to do after I take six weeks of intensive Greek this summer, although that is Ancient Greek, so maybe not), and I especially like the blend, in his poems, of the ancient world and modern poetry, of politics and eroticism and mythology and history. This poem is less sexy and less queer than many of his poems, sadly, but I like its quietness, and I like what it has to say. (I also like that it is both very like and very unlike my usual favorite poem on this topic that is not by Homer. One equal temper of heroic hearts. Can you go home again?)