Three Poems:

When the Watchman Saw the Light

Winter and summer the watchman sat on the roof
of the palace of the sons of Atreus and looked out. Now he tells
the joyful news. He saw a fire flare in the distance.
And he is glad, and his labor is over as well.
It is hard work night and day,
in heat or cold, to look far off
to Arachnaion for a fire. Now the desired
omen has appeared. When happiness
arrives it brings a lesser joy
than expected. Clearly,
we've gained this much: we are saved from hopes
and expectations. Many things will happen
to the Atreus dynasty. One doesn't have to be wise
to surmise this now that the watchman
has seen the light. So, no exaggeration.
The light is good, and those that will come are good.
Their words and deeds are also good.
And we hope all will go well. But
Argos can manage without the Atreus family.
Great houses are not eternal.
Of course, many will have much to say.
We'll listen. But we won't be fooled
by the Indispensable, the Only, the Great.
Some other indispensable, only, and great
is always instantly found.

                                                  [1900]
                                                  (Note)

Che Fece . . . Il Gran Rifiuto

A day comes to some people when
they must pronounce the great Yes or the great No.
It is instantly clear who has the Yes within,
ready; and by uttering it, he crosses over to

his honor and conviction. The one who
refuses has no remorse. If asked again,
he'd say no again. And yet that No —
the right No — weighs him down to his life's end.

                                                 [1901]
       Translated with Willis Barnstone
                                                 (Note)

Days of 1909, '10, and '11

He was the son of an oppressed, wretchedly poor sailor
(from an island in the Aegean).
He worked in a blacksmith's shop. He wore rags.
His work shoes were torn and pitiful,
his hands stained with rust and oil.

In the evening, after he closed the shop,
if there was something he particularly wanted,
some tie, a somewhat expensive one,
some tie for Sunday,
if he saw some beautiful blue shirt
in a shop window and yearned for it,
he sold his body for one or two crowns.

I ask myself if in ancient times
glorious Alexandria had young men more sublime,
a more perfect boy than him, who went to waste:
clearly, there is no statue or painting of him;
thrown into a blacksmith's shabby shop,
with the back-breaking work,
the vulgar orgies, the hardship, he was quickly spent.

                                                  [1928]
                                                  (Note)

C. P. Cavafy
Translated by Aliki Barnstone
The Collected Poems of C. P. Cavafy
W. W. Norton & Company

Copyright © 2006 by Aliki Barnstone.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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