Outside the House
Walking yesterday in an outlying neighbourhood,
I went by the house
I used to go to when I was very young.
There Eros with his wonderful power
laid hold of my body.
And yesterday
when I walked down the old road,
shops, pavement, stones,
walls and balconies and windows-
all were suddenly made beautiful by the spell of love:
there was nothing ugly left there.
And as I stood staring at the door,
stood lingering outside the house,
my whole being radiated
the sensual passion stored up inside me.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Next Table
He must be barely twenty-two years old
yet I'm certain just about that long ago
I enjoyed the very same body.
It isn't erotic fever at all.
And I came into the casino only a few minutes ago,
so I haven't had time to drink very much.
I enjoyed that very same body.
And if I don't remember where, this one lapse of memory doesn't mean a thing.
There, now that he's sitting down at the next table,
I recognize every motion he makes -and under his clothes
I see again the limbs that I loved, naked.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Passing Through
The things he timidly imagined as a schoolboy
are openly revealed to him now. And he walks the streets,
stays out all night, gets involved. And as is right (for our kind of art)
his blood -fresh and hot
offers itself to pleasure.
His body is overcome
by forbidden erotic ecstasy; and his young limbs
give in to it completely.
In this way a simple boy
becomes something worth our looking at, for a moment
he too passes through the exalted World of Poetry,
the young sensualist with blood fresh and hot.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Thermopylae
Honour to those who in their lives
are committed and guard their Thermopylae.
Never stirring from duty;
just and upright in all their deeds,
but with pity and compassion too;
generous whenever they are rich, and when
they are poor, again a little generous,
again helping as much as they are able;
always speaking the truth,
but without rancor for those who lie.
And they merit greater honor
when the foresee (and many do foresee)
that Ephialtes will finally appear,
and in the end the Medes will go through.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Pictured
My work, I'm very careful about it, and I love it.
But today I'm discouraged by how slowly it's going.
The day has affected my mood.
It gets darker and darker. Endless wind and rain.
I'm more in the mood for looking than for writing.
In this picture, I'm now gazing at a handsome boy
who is lying down close to a spring,
exhausted from running.
What a handsome boy; what a heavenly noon
has caught him up in sleep.
I sit and gaze like this for a long time,
recovering through art from the effort of creating it.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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And I Lounged and Lay on Their Beds
When I went to that house of pleasure
I didn't stay in the front rooms where they celebrate,
with some decorum, the accepted modes of love.
I went into the secret rooms
and lounged and lay on their beds.
I went into the secret rooms
considered shameful even to name.
But not shameful to me -because if they were,
what kind of poet, what kind of artist would I be?
I'd rather be an ascetic. That would be more in keeping,
much more in keeping with my poetry,
than for me to find pleasure in the commonplace rooms.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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In The Harbor
Emis - young, twenty-eight-
reached this Syrian harbor in a Tenian ship,
his plan to learn the incense trade.
But ill during the voyage,
he died as soon as he was put ashore.
His burial, the poorest possible, took place here.
A few hours before dying he whispered something
about 'home', about 'very old parents.'
But nobody he called home
in the great pan Hellenic world.
Better that way; because as it is,
though he lies buried in this harbor,
his parents will always have the hope he's still alive.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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In Alexandria, 31 B.C.
From his village near the outskirts of town,
still dust-covered from the journey in,
the peddler arrives. And "Incense!" "Gum!"
"The best olive oil!" "Perfume for your hair!"
he hawks through the streets. But with all the hubbub,
the music, the parades, who can hear him?
The crowd shoves him, drags him along, knocks him around.
And when he asks, now totally confused, "What's going on here?"
someone tosses him too the huge palace lie:
that Antony is winning in Greece.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Following the Recipe of Ancient Syrio-Greek Magicians
Said an aesthete: "What distillation from magic herbs
can I find—what distillation, following the recipe
of ancient Greco-Syrian magicians—
that will bring back to me for one day (if its power
doesn't last longer) or even for a few hours,
my twenty-third year,
bring back to me my friend of twenty-two,
his beauty, his love.
What distillation, following the recipe
of ancient Greco-Syrian magicians, can be found
to bring back also—as part of this return of things past—
even the little room we shared."
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Hidden Things
Let them not seek to discover who I was
from all that I have done and said.
An obstacle was there that transformed
the deeds and the manner of my life.
An obstacle was there that stopped me
many times when I was about to speak.
Only from my most imperceptible deeds
and my most covert writings--
from these alone will they understand me.
But perhaps it isn't worth exerting
such care and such effort for them to know me.
Later, in the more perfect society,
surely some other person created like me
will appear and act freely.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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