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Kyriakos
10-20-2010, 07:02 AM
I decided to start a thread about this poet, who is my favourite.

He lived in Alexandria in the early 20th century, wrote of greek themes, symbolising his own life with passages reffering to ancient, hellenistic and Byzantine times.

Here are a few poems i selected from the site www.Cavafy.com:



Candles

Days to come stand in front of us
like a row of lighted candles—
golden, warm, and vivid candles.

Days gone by fall behind us,
a gloomy line of snuffed-out candles;
the nearest are smoking still,
cold, melted, and bent.

I don’t want to look at them: their shape saddens me,
and it saddens me to remember their original light.
I look ahead at my lighted candles.

I don’t want to turn for fear of seeing, terrified,
how quickly that dark line gets longer,
how quickly the snuffed-out candles proliferate.



Walls

With no consideration, no pity, no shame,
they have built walls around me, thick and high.
And now I sit here feeling hopeless.
I can’t think of anything else: this fate gnaws my mind—
because I had so much to do outside.
When they were building the walls, how could I not have noticed!
But I never heard the builders, not a sound.
Imperceptibly they have closed me off from the outside world.



And, finally, here is my own translation into english of one of his poems:

The pawn

Many times, while watching others playing chess
my eye is following a pawn
which slowly finds the way
to reach the final square.

It reaches it with such willingness
that one thinks that there will be the start of
its pleasures, and its compensations.

It finds much unfortune while still on its way there.
Unmounted troops throw their blades to its side
the castles hit it with their broad lines
inside of their two squares fast riders
seek to make it get stuck, cunningly
and with the threat behind the corner,
and now and then also it finds on its path
another pawn, sent from the barracks of the enemy.

But it survives all those dangers
and it reaches the final square.

How thriumphantly it reaches there,
in the horrible final square
how willingly does it touch its death!

Because here the pawn will die
and all of its hardships were just for that.
For the Queen, which shall save us,
to ressurect her from the grave
it came to fall to the hades of the chessboard.

Gilliatt Gurgle
10-20-2010, 11:54 AM
Kyriakos,

I'm not familiar with Constantin Cavafy, but I do admire "The Pawn". Too bad monolinguists such as I, are unable to enjoy it in the native tongue.

Coincidentally, I am reading "Vidas Game of Chess" by Oliver Goldsmith.
My apologies for going off topic, but if by chance, you enjoy chess, you might enjoy this:

http://www.online-literature.com/oliver-goldsmith/2112/


Gilliatt

Kyriakos
10-21-2010, 03:47 AM
Thank you for the link Gilliatt, and i am glad you liked the Pawn :)

quasimodo1
10-29-2010, 12:50 AM
THE SATRAPY
Too bad that, cut out as you are
for grand and noble acts,
this unfair fate of yours
never offers encouragement, always denies you success;
that cheap habits get in your way,
pettiness, or indifference.
And how terrible the day you give in
(the day you let go and give in)
and take the road for Susa
and go to King Artaxerxes,
who, well-disposed, gives you a place at his court
and offers you satrapies and things like that—
things you don’t want at all,
though, in despair, you accept them just the same.
You long for something else, ache for other things:
praise for the Demos and the Sophists,
that hard-won, that priceless acclaim— ... {excerpt}

Kyriakos
10-30-2010, 12:36 PM
Nice :)

Kyriakos
11-01-2010, 07:45 AM
Another poem from the site, one of his most famous works:

Ithaca

As you set out on the way to Ithaca
hope that the road is a long one,
filled with adventures, filled with understanding.
The Laestrygonians and the Cyclopes,
Poseidon in his anger: do not fear them,
you’ll never come across them on your way
as long as your mind stays aloft, and a choice
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Laestrygonians and the Cyclopes,
savage Poseidon; you’ll not encounter them
unless you carry them within your soul,
unless your soul sets them up before you.

Hope that the road is a long one.
Many may the summer mornings be
when—with what pleasure, with what joy—
you first put in to harbors new to your eyes;
may you stop at Phoenician trading posts
and there acquire fine goods:
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and heady perfumes of every kind:
as many heady perfumes as you can.
To many Egyptian cities may you go
so you may learn, and go on learning, from their sages.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind;
to reach her is your destiny.
But do not rush your journey in the least.
Better that it last for many years;
that you drop anchor at the island an old man,
rich with all you’ve gotten on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.

Ithaca gave to you the beautiful journey;
without her you’d not have set upon the road.
But she has nothing left to give you any more.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca did not deceive you.
As wise as you’ll have become, with so much experience,
you’ll have understood, by then, what these Ithacas mean.