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Best Famous Constantine P Cavafy Poems

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Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Priest At The Serapeum

 My dear old father,
who always loved me the same;
my dear old father I lament
who died the day before yesterday, just before dawn.
Jesus Christ, it is my daily effort to observe the precepts of Thy most holy church in all my acts, in all words, in all thoughts.
And all those who renounce Thee I shun.
-- But now I lament; I bewail, Christ, for my father although he was -- a horrible thing to say -- a priest at the accursed Serapeum.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

The Windows

 Lord, how can man preach thy eternall word?
He is a brittle crazie glasse:
Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford
This glorious and transcendent place,
To be a window, through thy grace.
But when thou dost anneal in glasse thy storie, Making thy life to shine within The holy Preachers ; then the light and glorie More rev'rend grows, & more doth win: Which else shows watrish, bleak, & thin.
Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one When they combine and mingle, bring A strong regard and aw : but speech alone Doth vanish like a flaring thing, And in the eare, not conscience ring.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

The City

 WHAT domination of what darkness dies this hour,
And through what new, rejoicing, winged, ethereal power
O’erthrown, the cells opened, the heart released from fear?
Gay twilight and grave twilight pass.
The stars appear O’er the prodigious, smouldering, dusky, city flare.
The hanging gardens of Babylon were not more fair Than these blue flickering glades, where childhood in its glee Re-echoes with fresh voice the heaven-lit ecstasy.
Yon girl whirls like an eastern dervish.
Her dance is No less a god-intoxicated dance than his, Though all unknowing the arcane fire that lights her feet, What motions of what starry tribes her limbs repeat.
I, too, firesmitten, cannot linger: I know there lies Open somewhere this hour a gate to Paradise, Its blazing battlements with watchers thronged, O where? I know not, but my flame-winged feet shall lead me there.
O, hurry, hurry, unknown shepherd of desires, And with thy flock of bright imperishable fires Pen me within the starry fold, ere the night falls And I am left alone below immutable walls.
Or am I there already, and is it Paradise To look on mortal things with an immortal’s eyes? Above the misty brilliance the streets assume A night-dilated blue magnificence of gloom Like many-templed Nineveh tower beyond tower; And I am hurried on in this immortal hour.
Mine eyes beget new majesties: my spirit greets The trams, the high-built glittering galleons of the streets That float through twilight rivers from galaxies of light.
Nay, in the Fount of Days they rise, they take their flight, And wend to the great deep, the Holy Sepulchre.
Those dark misshapen folk to be made lovely there Hurry with me, not all ignoble as we seem, Lured by some inexpressible and gorgeous dream.
The earth melts in my blood.
The air that I inhale Is like enchanted wine poured from the Holy Grail.
What was that glimmer then? Was it the flash of wings As through the blinded mart rode on the King of Kings? O stay, departing glory, stay with us but a day, And burning seraphim shall leap from out our clay, And plumed and crested hosts shall shine where men have been, Heaven hold no lordlier court than earth at College Green.
Ah, no, the wizardy is over; the magic flame That might have melted all in beauty fades as it came.
The stars are far and faint and strange.
The night draws down.
Exiled from light, forlorn, I walk in Dublin Town.
Yet had I might to lift the veil, the will to dare, The fiery rushing chariots of the Lord are there, The whirlwind path, the blazing gates, the trumpets blown, The halls of heaven, the majesty of throne by throne, Enraptured faces, hands uplifted, welcome sung By the thronged gods, tall, golden-coloured, joyful, young.

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Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |


 If you place a fern
under a stone
the next day it will be
nearly invisible
as if the stone has 
swallowed it.
If you tuck the name of a loved one under your tongue too long without speaking it it becomes blood sigh the little sucked-in breath of air hiding everywhere beneath your words.
No one sees the fuel that feeds you.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |


 Our efforts are those of the unfortunate;
our efforts are like those of the Trojans.
Somewhat we succeed; somewhat we regain confidence; and we start to have courage and high hopes.
But something always happens and stops us.
Achilles in the trench before us emerges and with loud cries terrifies us.
-- Our efforts are like those of the Trojans.
We believe that with resolution and daring we will alter the blows of destiny, and we stand outside to do battle.
But when the great crisis comes, our daring and our resolution vanish; our soul is agitated, paralyzed; and we run around the walls seeking to save ourselves in flight.
Nevertheless, our fall is certain.
Above, on the walls, the mourning has already begun.
The memories and the sentiments of our days weep.
Bitterly Priam and Hecuba weep for us.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |


 Ideal and beloved voices
of those who are dead, or of those
who are lost to us like the dead.
Sometimes they speak to us in our dreams; sometimes in thought the mind hears them.
And with their sound for a moment return other sounds from the first poetry of our life -- like distant music that dies off in the night.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |


 The Poseidonians forgot the Greek language
after so many centuries of mingling
with Tyrrhenians, Latins, and other foreigners.
The only thing surviving from their ancestors was a Greek festival, with beautiful rites, with lyres and flutes, contests and wreaths.
And it was their habit toward the festival's end to tell each other about their ancient customs and once again to speak Greek names that only few of them still recognized.
And so their festival always had a melancholy ending because they remebered that they too were Greeks, they too once upon a time were citizens of Magna Graecia; and how low they'd fallen now, what they'd become, living and speaking like barbarians, cut off so disastrously from the Greek way of life.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Morning Sea

 Let me stop here.
Let me, too, look at nature awhile.
The brilliant blue of the morning sea, of the cloudless sky, the yellow shore; all lovely, all bathed in light.
Let me stand here.
And let me pretend I see all this (I really did see it for a minute when I first stopped) and not my usual day-dreams here too, my memories, those images of sensual pleasure.
by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |


 Return often and take me,
beloved sensation, return and take me --
when the memory of the body awakens,
and an old desire runs again through the blood;
when the lips and the skin remember,
and the hands feel as if they touch again.
Return often and take me at night, when the lips and the skin remember.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |


 I do not question whether I am happy or unhappy.
Yet there is one thing that I keep gladly in mind -- that in the great addition (their addition that I abhor) that has so many numbers, I am not one of the many units there.
In the final sum I have not been calculated.
And this joy suffices me.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Manuel Komninos

 One dreary September day
Emperor Manuel Komninos
felt his death was near.
The court astrologers -bribed, of course- went on babbling about how many years he still had to live.
But while they were having their say, he remebered an old religious custom and ordered ecclesiastical vestments to be brought from a monastery, and he put them on, glad to assume the modest image of a priest or monk.
Happy all those who believe, and like Emperor Manuel end their lives dressed modestly in their faith.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Neros Term

 Nero was not worried when he heard
the prophecy of the Delphic Oracle.
"Let him fear the seventy three years.
" He still had ample time to enjoy himself.
He is thirty.
More than sufficient is the term the god allots him to prepare for future perils.
Now he will return to Rome slightly tired, but delightfully tired from this journey, full of days of enjoyment -- at the theaters, the gardens, the gymnasia.
evenings at cities of Achaia.
Ah the delight of nude bodies, above all.
Thus fared Nero.
And in Spain Galba secretly assembles and drills his army, the old man of seventy three.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

On An Italian Shore

 Kimos, son of Menedoros, a young Greek-Italian,
devotes his life to amusing himself,
like most young men in Greater Greece
brought up in the lap of luxury.
But today, in spite of his nature, he is preoccupied, dejected.
Near the shore he watched, deeply distressed, as they unload ships with booty taken from the Peloponnese.
G r e e k l o o t: b o o t y f r o m C o r i n t h.
Today certainly it is not right, it is not possible for the young Greek-Italian to want to amuse himself in any way.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Dangerous Things

 Said Myrtias (a Syrian student
in Alexandria; in the reign of
Augustus Constans and Augustus Constantius;
in part a pagan, and in part a christian);
"Fortified by theory and study,
I shall not fear my passions like a coward.
I shall give my body to sensual delights, to enjoyments dreamt-of, to the most daring amorous desires, to the lustful impulses of my blood, without any fear, for whenever I want -- and I shall have the will, fortified as I shall be by theory and study -- at moments of crisis I shall find again my spirit, as before, ascetic.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |


 Like beautiful bodies of the dead who had not grown old
and they shut them, with tears, in a magnificent mausoleum,
with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet --
this is what desires resemble that have passed
without fulfillment; with none of them having achieved
a night of sensual delight, or a bright morning.