2 X Kavafis

 

The Afternoon Sun

 

This room, how well I know it.

Now they’re renting it, and the one next to it,

as offices. The whole house has become

an office building for agents, businessmen, companies.

 

This room, how familiar it is.

 

The couch was here, near the door,

a Turkish carpet in front of it.

Close by, the shelf with two yellow vases.

On the right—no, opposite—a wardrobe with a mirror.

In the middle the table where he wrote,

and the three big wicker chairs.

Beside the window the bed

where we made love so many times.

 

They must still be around somewhere, those old things.

 

Beside the window the bed;

the afternoon sun used to touch half of it.

 

. . . One afternoon at four o’clock we separated

for a week only. . . And then—

that week became forever.

 

 

               

 

Half an Hour

 

I never had you, nor I suppose
will I ever have you. A few words, an approach,
as in the bar the other day—nothing more.
It’s sad, I admit. But we who serve Art,
sometimes with the mind’s intensity,
can create—but of course only for a short time—
pleasure that seems almost physical.
That’s how in the bar the other day—
mercifully helped by alcohol—
I had half an hour that was totally erotic.
And I think you understood this
and stayed slightly longer on purpose.
That was very necessary. Because
with all the imagination, with all the magic alcohol,
I needed to see your lips as well,
needed your body near me.

(Thanks, Vera.)