much Cavafy love
Oct. 2nd, 2006 12:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amelia_petkovaI will later kick myself for not posting one of the sexy poems, but I just couldn't pass up this one.
The Inkwell
Constantine P. Cavafy
Honest inkwell, sacred to the poet,
whence a whole world emerges,
as each figure draws near you,
it returns with a new kind of grace.
Where did your ink discover such fabulous
wealth! As each of its drops falls
on the paper it sets one more diamond
among the diamonds of our fantasy.
Who taught you the words that you launch
into the world's midst, and they fire us?
Even our children's children will read them
with the same feeling and warmth.
Where did you find these words that though they echo
in our ears as if heard for the first time,
yet do not appear entirely strange--
our hearts must have known them in another life.
The pen you moisten resembles a hand
moving around the clock of the soul.
It counts and determines the moments of feeling,
it counts and changes the hours of the soul.
Honest inkwell, sacred to the poet,
from whose ink a world emerges--
now comes to mind how many people
will be lost in it if deep sleep
should overtake the poet some night.
The words will always be there; but what strange hand
will be able to find them, bring them to us?
You, faithful to the poet, will refuse it.
The Inkwell
Constantine P. Cavafy
Honest inkwell, sacred to the poet,
whence a whole world emerges,
as each figure draws near you,
it returns with a new kind of grace.
Where did your ink discover such fabulous
wealth! As each of its drops falls
on the paper it sets one more diamond
among the diamonds of our fantasy.
Who taught you the words that you launch
into the world's midst, and they fire us?
Even our children's children will read them
with the same feeling and warmth.
Where did you find these words that though they echo
in our ears as if heard for the first time,
yet do not appear entirely strange--
our hearts must have known them in another life.
The pen you moisten resembles a hand
moving around the clock of the soul.
It counts and determines the moments of feeling,
it counts and changes the hours of the soul.
Honest inkwell, sacred to the poet,
from whose ink a world emerges--
now comes to mind how many people
will be lost in it if deep sleep
should overtake the poet some night.
The words will always be there; but what strange hand
will be able to find them, bring them to us?
You, faithful to the poet, will refuse it.
