Ionic, by C. P. Cavafy

[rejectomorph]

Ionic

That we’ve broken their statues,
that we’ve driven them out of their temples,
doesn’t mean at all that the gods are dead.
O land of Ionia, they’re still in love with you,
their souls still keep your memory.
When an August dawn wakes over you,
your atmosphere is potent with their life,
and sometimes a young ethereal figure,
indistinct, in rapid flight,
wings across your hills.


Constantine P. Cavafy

translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

Request + Poem

[shinjiko.livejournal.com]

Request: I'm searching for a poem that was posted here a few weeks ago, but I unfortunately can't remember the name or the poet! It's contemporary and is told from first person. In it the poet mentions peeling an orange, and ends with a line similar to: 'I love you/I'm glad I'm alive.' Very vague, I know, but any help would be appreciated!

Poem:

I like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
I like your body. I like what it does,
I like its hows. I like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, I like kissing this and that of you,
I like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh… And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly I like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

- E. E. Cummings

edit: found it!

The Orange


At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.

- Wendy Cope

Rainier Maria Rilke, 'Falconry'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Falconry

A prince survives by unseen acts.
At night the chief advisor knocked
at Frederick's workroom in the tower
and found him formulating facts
for treatises on wingèd power
while his penman turned out text.

It was in this aerie room
he'd walked all night with her on arm,
turbulent and barely fledged.
Whatever plans then sprang to mind,
whatever fondness deeply chimed
in recollection he would trash
and tend the frightened and impassioned
thing he wished to understand.
Every night he made a time
for nothing but the young unhandled
animal. It was her staring
inborn mind he'd worked to learn,

so he was lofted with her grace
when she, the bird that nobles praise,
thrown gleaming from his hand (her wingbeats raised
into the heartfelt morning air)
and diving like an angel struck the hern.

by Rainier Maria Rilke