In the Manner of Cavafy

Approaching the end of the multiplying
Line of somber burnt-out candles lengthening 
Behind him, he recalls their first light before 
Turning ahead to the diminishing 
Row of lively little lit ones waiting, 
All the while quivering himself 
And tries—how hard it must be 
To keep looking firmly ahead—to snuff out 
That still-flickering thought, the one
That will certainly engulf him 
Should he wilt and turn back. 

Poetic Vessel

Before you find yourself haplessly
Maneuvering between the two 
Black Clashing Rocks 

On the way to your next port of call, 
Stop over at one called Ithaca and stay long 
Enough to find out what it means— 

It’s either that or it’s time 
To give up the ship.

On the Style of a Certain "Decadent" Alexandrian

(after E.M. Forster’s famous description of C.P. Cavafy) 

Don’t look away, philistine—he looks 

To be bending 

His frame of reference slightly 

Aslant to the world’s 

Universal decadence. 

An Epic, More or Less

He who hopes to grow in spirit. . . . 

will not be afraid of the destructive act: 

half the house will have to come down. 

—Cavafy, “Growing in Spirit” 

If that’s what the old man believes

Muse, keep piling on the detritus— 

Then have caterpillars tread on me, 

Mopping up the mess.