Thanks for sending these on, Mark! and thanks to George too! now to read them
with the attention they deserve,
best,
Rebecca
---- Original message ----
>Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2005 19:12:59 -0500
>From: Mark Weiss <[log in to unmask]>
>Subject: Cavafy Economou versions
>To: [log in to unmask]
>
>George Economou sent me a few poems from his book of Cavafy translations.
>The files were somewhat confused, so be aware that stanza spacing may be
off.
>
>George says that the selection was the publisher's not his. It looks likely
>that there will be another book, this time of George's choosing.
>
>He threw in his translation of "Ithaca," which has never been published.
>
>There are three other Cavafy translations in George's book Century Dead
>Century, buried, with the rest of my belongings, in storage.
>
>
>DAYS OF 1908
>
> That year he found himself out of work,
> and so he lived off of card games,
> backgammon, and loans.
>
> He was offered a job at a small stationery
> at three pounds a month.
> But he didn't hesitate at all to turn it down.
> It wouldn't do. It was not a salary for him,
> a fairly well educated young man of twenty-five.
>
> Some days he won two or three shillings, others none.
> What could the boy make out of cards and backgammon
> in the working-class cafés of his social level,
> no matter how smartly he played, or picked dull opponents?
> As for his loans, they didn't amount to much.
> He rarely came up with a crown, usually half,
> at times came down to a shilling.
>
> Some weeks, sometimes longer,
> when he escaped the hideous late nights,
> he refreshed himself at the baths, with a morning swim.
>
> For a week
> His clothes were in a terribly sad state.
> He always wore the same suit, a suit
> of extremely faded cinnamon color.
>
> O summer days of nineteen hundred and eight,
> from your view, in the best of taste,
> the faded cinnamon colored suit is missing.
>
> Your view has preserved him
> as he was when he removed them, threw them off,
> those unfit clothes and mended underwear,
> and stood completely naked, perfectly handsome, a miracle,
> with his uncombed hair swept back,
> with his limbs lightly tanned
> from his morning nakedness at the baths and on the beach.
>
>
>
>IN AN ANTIQUE BOOK
>
> In an antique book--about a hundred years old--
> forgotten between its pages,
> I found an unsigned watercolor.
> It must have been the work of a mighty artist.
> It was entitled, "Presentation of Love."
>
> "The utmost sensualists' love" would have been more apt.
>
> Because it was obvious as you looked at the work
> (it was easy to get the artist's idea)
> that the young man in the picture had not been cut out
> for those who love in more or less healthy ways,
> staying within the limits of what can be
> allowed--with his deeply dark chestnut eyes,
> with that exquisitely beautiful face of his,
> the beauty of abnormal enchantments,
> with those ideal lips that bear
> sensual delight to the beloved body,
> with those ideal limbs of his framed for beds
> that current morality calls shameless.
>
>
>
>AT THE COFFEEHOUSE DOOR
>
> Something they said beside me
> turned my attention to the coffeehouse door.
> And I saw that lovely body that looked
> as if Eros had made it at the height of his powers--
> joyfully molding its elegant limbs,
> sculpting its stature tall,
> excitedly molding its face
> and leaving by the touch of his hands
> a certain feeling in the brow, the eyes, the lips.
>
>
>
>PRAYER
>
> The sea took a sailor down to her depths.--
> His mother, not knowing this, goes and lights
> a tall candle before the Virgin Mother
> for his quick return and for good weather--
>
> His mother, unaware
>
> and ever towards the wind she cocks her ear.
> But while she pleads and says her prayer,
>
> the icon listens, sad and solemn,
> knows the son she awaits will never come.
>
>
>
>IN THE TWENTY-FIFTH YEAR OF HIS LIFE
>
> He goes regularly to the taverna
> where they had met the month before.
> He made inquiries, but they had nothing to tell him.
> From what they said, he understood that he had met
> a completely unknown individual,
> one of the many unknown, questionable
> young sorts who happened by there.
> He still goes regularly to the taverna, at night,
> and sits and looks in the direction of the door,
> looks in the door's direction until he's worn out.
> Perhaps he'll come in. Perhaps tonight he'll come.
>
> He does this for almost three weeks.
> His mind becomes sick with lust.
> The kisses remain on his mouth.
> He suffers in all his flesh unrelieved longing.
> The touch of the other's body is upon him.
> He wants to be reunited with it.
>
> He does not want to betray himself, of course.
> But sometimes he's almost indifferent.
> Besides, he knows what he's getting into,
> he's made up his mind. It's not unlikely this life of his
> will lead him to a disastrous scandal.
>
>
>
>
>THE MIRROR IN THE VESTIBULE
>
> The grand house had in its vestibule
> a colossal, extremely old mirror,
> bought at least eighty years ago.
>
> A very handsome boy, a tailor's helper
> (on Sundays an amateur athlete),
> stood there with a package. He gave it
> to a member of the household, who took it in
> to bring back the receipt. The tailor's helper
> was left alone, and he waited.
> He approached the mirror, looked at himself,
> and straightened his tie. After five minutes
> they brought him the receipt. He took it and left.
>
> But the old mirror that had seen so much
> during the many years of its existence,
> thousands of things and faces,
> that old mirror was now overjoyed,
> and filled with pride at having taken into itself
> perfect beauty for a few moments.
>
>
>
>WHEN THEY STIR IN YOUR MIND
>
> Try to watch over them, poet,
> however few there are that can be stayed.
> The visions of your erotic life.
> Slip them, half-hidden, into your phrases.
> Try to hold on to them, poet,
> when they stir in your mind
> at night or in the noonday blaze.
>
>
>ITHACA
>
> As you begin the journey to Ithaca,
> hope for a road that will be long,
> full of adventures, full of lessons.
> Of Laistrygonians, of Cyclopes,
> and livid Poseidon have no fear,
> you'll never encounter such things on your course,
> provided you hold your thoughts high, and a rare
> kind of excitement touches your body and mind.
> Laistrygonians and Cyclopes,
> savage Poseidon you'll not meet up with,
> unless you bear them in your soul,
> unless your soul stands them up before you.
>
> Hope for a road that will be long.
> Let there be many a summer morning
> in which with what pleasure, what joy
> you'll enter harbors seen for the very first time;
> may you stop at Phoenician marketplaces,
> and acquire beautiful things,
> mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
> and delightful perfumes of every kind,
> delightful perfumes as profusely as you can;
> may you go to many Egyptian cities,
> to learn and learn from their scholars.
>
> Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
> Getting there is your destiny.
> But by no means rush the journey.
> Better to let it hold on for years;
> and as an old man to drop anchor at the island,
> rich with all you've won on the road,
> not expecting Ithaca to make you wealthy.
> Ithaca gave you the beautiful journey.
> Without her you wouldn't have taken the road.
> She has nothing more to give you.
>
> And if you find she's poor, she hasn't deceived you.
> In the way you have become wise, full of experience,
> you'll understand now what Ithacas mean.
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