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 Κωνσταντίνος Πέτρου Καβάφης

 Konstantínos Pétrou Kaváfis

Cose nascoste

Dalle cose che ho fatto o detto

non cerchino d’indovinare chi fui.
C’era un impedimento a trasformare
il mio modo di vivere e di agire.
C’era un impedimento che m’interrompeva
molte volte che stavo per parlare.
Dalle mie azioni meno appariscenti
e dai miei scritti piú velati –
da questo solo mi conosceranno.
Anche se forse non varrà la pena
facciano tanti sforzi per capirmi.
Piú avanti – in una società perfetta –
apparirà di certo qualcun altro
che mi somigli e come me sia libero.

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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.

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As much as you can

And if you can’t shape your life the way you want, at least try as much as you can not to degrade it by too much contact with the world, by too much activity and talk. Try not to degrade it by dragging it along, taking it around and exposing it so often to the daily silliness of social events and parties, until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

(C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Edited by George Savidis. Revised Edition. Princeton University Press, 1992)

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The ships

prose poems

From Imagination to the Blank Page. A difficult crossing, the waters dangerous. At first sight the distance seems small, yet what a long voyage it is, and how injurious sometimes for the ships that undertake it.      The first injury derives from the highly fragile nature of the merchandise that the ships transport. In the marketplaces of Imagination most of the best things are made of fine glass and diaphanous tiles, and despite all the care in the world, many break on the way, and many break when unloaded on the shore. Moreover, any such injury is irreversible, because it is out of the question for the ship to turn back and take delivery of things equal in quality. There is no chance of finding the same shop that sold them. In the marketplaces of Imagination, the shops are large and luxurious but not long-lasting. Their transactions are short-lived, they dispose of their merchandise quickly and immediately liquidate. It is very rare for a returning ship to find the same exporters with the same goods.      Another injury derives from the capacity of the ships. They leave the harbors of the opulent continents fully loaded, and then, when they reach the open sea, they are forced to throw out a part of the load in order to save the whole. Thus, almost no ship manages to carry intact as many treasures as it took on. The discarded goods are of course those of the least value, but it happens sometimes that the sailors, in their great haste, make mistakes and throw precious things overboard.      And upon reaching the white paper port, additional sacrifices are necessary. The customs officials arrive and inspect a product and consider whether they should allow it to be unloaded; some other product is not permitted ashore; and some goods they admit only in small quantities. A country has its laws. Not all merchandise has free entry, and contraband is strictly forbidden. The importation of wine is restricted, because the continents from which the ships come produce wines and spirits from grapes that grow and mature in more generous temperatures. The customs officials do not want these alcoholic products in the least. They are highly intoxicating. They are not appropriate for all palates. Besides, there is a local company that has the monopoly in wine. It produces a beverage that has the color of wine and the taste of water, and this you can drink the day long without being affected at all. It is an old company. It is held in great esteem, and its stock is always overpriced.      Still, let us be pleased when the ships enter the harbor, even with all these sacrifices. Because, after all, with vigilance and great care, the number of broken or discarded goods can be reduced during the course of the voyage. Also, the laws of the country and the customs regulations, though oppressive in large measure, are not entirely prohibitive, and a good part of the cargo gets unloaded. Furthermore, the customs officials are not infallible: some of the merchandise gets through in mislabeled boxes that say one thing on the outside and contain something else; and, after all, some choice wines are imported for select symposia.      Something else is sad, very sad. That is when certain huge ships go by with coral decorations and ebony masts, with great white and red flags unfurled, full of treasures, ships that do not even approach the harbor either because all of their cargo is forbidden or because the harbor is not deep enough to receive them. So they continue on their way. A favorable wind fills their silk sails, the sun burnishes the glory of their golden prows, and they sail out of sight calmly, majestically, distancing themselves forever from us and our cramped harbor.      Fortunately, these ships are very scarce. During our lifetime we see two or three of them at most. And we forget them quickly. Equal to the radiance of the vision is the swiftness of its passing. And after a few years have gone by, if—as we sit passively gazing at the light or listening to the silence—if someday certain inspiring verses return by chance to our mind’s hearing, we do not recognize them at first and we torment our memory trying to recollect where we heard them before. With great effort the old remembrance is awakened, and we recall that those verses are from the song chanted by the sailors, handsome as the heroes of the Iliad, when the great, the exquisite ships would go by on their way—who knows where.

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Dimitri Gondicas

(The Essential Cavafy. Selected and with an Introduction by Edmund Keeley. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Notes by George Savidis. The Ecco Press, New Jersey 1995)

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Garments

In a container, or in a chest of precious ebony, I will place and preserve the garments of my life.       The clothes in blue. And then the clothes in red, the most beautiful of all. And then the clothes in yellow. And lastly the clothes in blue, again, but these much more faded than the first ones.       I will preserve them with reverence and with great sorrow.       When I will be wearing clothes in black, and I will be living in a house clothed in black, in a dark room, I will sometimes open the chest with elation, with longing, and with despair.       I will gaze upon the clothes and reminisce of the great feast – which by then will be completely over.       Completely over: furniture scattered haphazardly in the halls. Broken glass and china underfoot. All the candles burned out. All the wine drunk. All the guests departed. Some weary persons will be sitting all alone, like myself, in dark houses – others, wearier still, will have gone to bed.

Translated by Manuel Savidis

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In despair

the canon

He lost him completely. And he now tries to find his lips in the lips of each new lover, he tries in the union with each new lover to convince himself that it’s the same young man, that it’s to him he gives himself. He lost him completely, as though he never existed. He wanted, his lover said, to save himself from the tainted, unhealthy form of sexual pleasure, the tainted, shameful form of sexual pleasure. There was still time, he said, to save himself. He lost him completely, as though he never existed. Through fantasy, through hallucination, he tries to find his lips in the lips of other young men, he longs to feel his kind of love once more.

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One night

the canon

The room was cheap and sordid, hidden above the suspect taverna. From the window you could see the alley, dirty and narrow. From below came the voices of workmen playing cards, enjoying themselves. And there on that common, humble bed I had love’s body, had those intoxicating lips, red and sensual, red lips of such intoxication that now as I write, after so many years, in my lonely house, I’m drunk with passion again.

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To sensual pleasure

My life’s joy and incense: recollection of those hours when I found and captured sensual pleasure as I wanted it. My life’s joy and incense: that I refused all indulgence in routine love affairs.

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

(C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Edited by George Savidis. Revised Edition. Princeton University Press, 1992)

The regiment of the senses

Speak not of guilt, speak not of responsibility. When the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners; when the senses shiver and shudder, it is only a fool and an irreverent person that will keep his distance, who will not embrace the good cause, marching towards the conquest of pleasures and passions.       All of morality’s laws – poorly understood and applied – are nil and cannot stand even for a moment, when the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners.       Do not permit any shadowy virtue to hold you back. Do not believe that any obligation binds you. Your duty is to give in, to always give in to Desires, these most perfect creatures of the perfect gods. Your duty is to enlist as a faithful footman, with simplicity of heart, when the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners.       Do not confine yourself at home, misleading yourself with theories of justice, with the preconceptions of reward, held by an imperfect society. Do not say, Such is my toil’s worth and such is my due to savor. Just as life is an inheritance, and you did nothing to earn it as a recompense, so should Sensual Pleasure be. Do not shut yourself at home; but keep the windows open, open wide, so as to hear the first sound of the passing of the soldiers, when the Regiment of the Senses arrives, with music, and with banners.       Do not be deceived by the blasphemers who tell you that the service is dangerous and laborious. The service of sensual pleasure is a constant joy. It does exhaust you, but it exhausts you with inebriations sublime. And finally, when you collapse in the street, even then your fortune is enviable. When your funeral will pass by, the Forms to which your desires gave shape will shower lilacs and white roses upon your coffin, young Olympian Gods will bear you on their shoulders, and you will be buried in the Cemetery of the Ideal, where the mausoleums of poetry gleam conspicuously white.

Translated by Manuel Savidis

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