PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

[after Constantine Cavafy's poem, "In A Town Of

Osroini," trans. by Keeley and Sherrard]

You know, Remon, how we, your friends, worried about you that night:  the

injuries you received from the barfight in that sordidly cheap tavern

appeared for more serious than they really were.  A little wine and oil,

some protective gauze, carefully administered by the doctor, and the

healing process began at once, and concluded rapidly.  The attempt of

those crude, uncouth, unlettered haters and thugs (already besotted on the

cheap swill sold by the innkeepers who owned the place) to mar or even

destroy your beauty (the way assailants like them assaulted the flesh of

Matthias, that beautiful young man, and left him to die, bound to some

post on an abandoned Roman road outside Alexandria) did not succeed:  the

wounds were decidedly minor, and left no scar nor lingering mark whatsoever.

Jubilant at your recovery, we celebrated by purchasing, as a gift for you, a

pair of stockings (legend suggests this garment was invented by the last

Egyptian Queen, Cleopatra, mother of the exquisitely beautiful Kaisarion),

woven from the most expensive Koan silk, totally translucent, except for the

opacity of the doubled weave at the heels and toes (to prevent unraveling

caused by snags and runs).  We measured your legs precisely as you rested

(taking no chance with any interference or obstacle that might interrupt

completion of the gift), and commissioned the most cunning weaver in all of

Alexandria, a workman with consummate skill and careful attention to detail).

Your uninhibited delight to find and draw the stockings on to your feet and

legs (your body otherwise naked), as candidly expressed on your gorgeous

face; how memorable that moment was, Remon:  the starlit silence of the

sultry night around us, the fragrant candle's flickering glow, glancing off

your waist-length hair, the Stars'Watch obvious in your eyes, and your

seductive smile, so suggestive of subsequent sensual pleasures . . . .

J-Called