This week: Constantine P. Cavafy Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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Since Nine O'Clock
by Constantine P. Cavafy
Half past twelve. Time has gone by quickly
since nine o'clock when I lit the lamp
and sat down here. I've been sitting without reading,
without speaking. Completely alone in the house,
whom could I talk to?
Since nine o'clock when I lit the lamp
the shade of my young body
has come to haunt me, to remind me
of shut scented rooms,
of past sensual pleasure - what daring pleasure.
And it's also brought back to me
streets now unrecognizable,
bustling night clubs now closed,
theatres and cafes no longer here.
The shade of my young body
also brought back the things that make us sad:
family grief, separations,
the feelings of my own people, feelings
of the dead so little acknowledged.
Half past twelve. How the time has gone by.
Half past twelve. How the years have gone by.
Konstantinos Petrou Kavafis was born April 29, 1863 in Alexandria, Egypt. Cavafy later used the nameConstantine P. Cavafy. He was from a wealthy merchant family that originated from Turkey. His father died when Cavafy was eleven years old. This forced his mother to move Liverpool England, where they lived for the next five years. Then he spent a short time in Istanbul before returning to Alexandria. When his families business took a turn for the worst Cavafy turned to journalism.
His time as a journalist was short lived and he took another job working in Irrigation Services, Public Works. Cavafy worked there for thirty-four years. He took holidays to Athens, France England and Italy but other than that he lived a very routine and uneventful life. Cavafy's book of poems was published when he was forty-one years old. He was a perfectionist and had to oversee everything himself. He printed his own poems and personally delivered them to a close friend.
Several of his poems were printed in pamphlets and sent out for circulation over the years, but he never again published a new book. Cavafy's first book was republished five years after it first came out, with an additional seven poems added to it. Cavafy died on April 29, 1933 in Alexandria.
"PIIMATA" was published posthumously in 1935 in Alexandria. Over the years Cavafy's poetry has been translated into English, German, French and many other languages. He has been admired by the likes of George Seferis, E.M. Forster and T.S. Eliot who published several Cavafy's lyrics in "The Criterion," in 1924.
The Windows
by Constantine P. Cavafy
In these darkened rooms, where I spend
oppresive days, I pace to and fro
to find the windows. -- When a window
opens, it will be a consolation. --
But the windows cannot be found, or I cannot
find them. And maybe it is best that I do not find them.
Maybe the light will be a new tyranny.
Who knows what new things it will reveal.
Candles
by Constantine P. Cavafy
The days of our future stand in front of us
like a row of little lit candles --
golden, warm, and lively little candles.
The days past remain behind us,
a mournful line of extinguished candles;
the ones nearest are still smoking,
cold candles, melted, and bent.
I do not want to look at them; their form saddens me,
and it saddens me to recall their first light.
I look ahead at my lit candles.
I do not want to turn back, lest I see and shudder
at how fast the dark line lengthens,
at how fast the extinguished candles multiply.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
I watched my Christmas cactus blooming in the window
In its glorious color of red for the season
In the background I watched it snowing outside
The biggest flakes I’d ever seen floating in the air
landing wherever the wind took them
I floated off mesmerized by the snow
Fantasizing I was one of those big flakes
The lights twinkled along the bushes and the house
Giving it that glow of ambiance the season brings
Embers crackled in the fire as I melted into a puddle on the floor.
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: December 30, 2020 Issue [#10541]
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