One poem, five translations
by George Kalogeris
and yet such loud commotion on the stairs
could start the traffic passing overhead,
that vulgar singing troupe, so many figures
rising and descending the more you read
you weren’t sure if the drunken, laughing youth
outside your door was real, imagined—or both.
(Copyright © 1996 by George Kalogeris.
This poem first appeared in Partisan Review, Winter
1996).
His tunic’s made of finely-woven white silk
bordered with a red, oriental pattern;
but even though his speech is pure Attic,
still the slightest accent of native Latin
taints his flawless Greek with a trace of the Tiber.
Yet so quietly the Athenian listens
to this Horace, her eloquent new lover,
you might think a breeze had parted silk curtains
and new worlds of beauty were dawning on her,
so intently she listens to the great Italian.
(Copyright © 1996 by George Kalogeris.
This poem first appeared in Partisan Review, Winter
1996).
Let me stop long enough for a look at the waves,
as if I could see them for what they really are.
At least for more than the first few seconds
let me imagine that it’s just the sea,
the smooth backs of the waves, the surf foaming.
(Copyright © 1996 by George Kalogeris).
Just a quick sketch
made on the deck of a moving ship.
In the light of a quiet afternoon
spent on the Ionian Sea
with the waves all around us.
I seem to remember him, though, as more handsome.
Sensitive to an extreme,
his mood might change at any moment
and this heightened his expression.
He appears to me as more handsome
now that I see him on reflection,
without a trace of time.
Without a trace of time
all these things were drawn from the distant past:
the sketch, the ship, and the afternoon.
(Copyright © 1996 by George Kalogeris).
Guardians of the Minyai’s ancient race,
royal sisters, listen to my prayer.
Whatever we admire in the world is lost
without your gift. If someone is brilliant,
or lovely to look at, the center of attention,
your light is the source. Without the holy Graces
not even the gods in heaven can conduct
their bright festivals and circle dances.
Triple thrones have been set on Mount Olympus
where the glory of Zeus is praised to the skies
and the Graces sit next to golden Apollo.
The gleam of Aglaia, or a simple melody
from Euphrosyne is enough to warrant success,
daughters of divine power. And you, Thalia,
whose steps are always light, mark these dancers
who show their respect by keeping the line graceful.
Listen, I’ve come to celebrate Asopikos,
offspring of the Minyai, with songs of triumph
carefully measured in the Lydian way.
Go now, Echo, to Persephone’s dark-walled house:
deliver the winning message to his father.
When you find Kleodamos, tell him his boy
was crowned at the foothills of Olympia.
Then watch the dark wall suddenly brighten.
(Copyright © 1996 by George Kalogeris).
All day long warm water stands in the sun.
When I touch my lips to the stagnant pool
the yellow leaves that cling to the rim crumble.
Your face is mirrored, mother, in my reflection.
Beauty rubs off like the gold face on a florin.
(Copyright © 1996 by George Kalogeris).
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