Athenian Interlude

“With a fortunate shot on a powder-store,
An inextinguishable fire spread this way and that,
Demolishing the houses through two whole days,
Causing the enemy considerable damage
And grievous affliction.
Thus the greatly famed and celebrated fortress of Athens
Has fallen under the sway
Of Your Serenity’s domination.”
Such was the proud dispatch sent by Captain-General Morosini
To the Venetian Senate,
After his forces had bombarded the Parthenon.

In the Acropolis Museum,
I stand before a kòre
Sculpted by Antenor,
Exquisite, enigmatic,
The serene beatific smile
On those silent lips,
Extending her hand
To offer a pomegranate.

Acropolis-side,
On a cypress terrace,
Asclepion’s scant ruins...
Here sufferers would sacrifice to the god,
Bathe in the sacred spring,
And sleep, praying for therapeutic dreams.
O, staff of Asclepius, two serpents winding round,
Draw out evil from the wound,
As doctors would extract a guinea worm
By cutting slits in the patient’s skin
Then coiling the parasite round a stick.

Ambling past kiosks selling postcards
Of sexual intercourse in the ancient world,
I look up and behold a billboard
Advertising Olympic Airways:
MAKE THE MILES YOU TRAVEL EARN FOR YOU!
JOIN THE ICARUS FREQUENT FLYER PROGRAM!

Down in the metro station,
A giant advertisement on the wall:
A tanned female bottom, smooth as a statue’s,
Proclaiming the benefits of depilation.
Around the walls glass cases display
Discoveries from the excavations,
The skeleton of a man.

Ambling through the Plaka,
I imagine the vanished Theseion,
Where the King’s bones, recovered
From Skyros, were interred,
Its walls frescoed with his feats,
Battles with Amazons and Centaurs.
Am I not still that boy
Who first thrilled, so long ago,
To the tales of gods and heroes,
Sailing ever since by those stars?

Dry bone of a city,
Where now your famous rivers and springs?
Buried underground.
On a hot day the tongue longs for their spray.
I stand in the dried-up riverbed
Of the Ilissus, amongst the miniature gorges
Through which water once tumbled,
This spot sacred to Achelous and the nymphs,
Cherished by lovers and philosophers,
The air throbbing with cicadas;
Hollyhock, acanthus and mullein flourish
Under overhanging fig, chestnut, olive and plane,
Agnus castus still grows here,
Purple-flowered and bee-beloved,
Famed since antiquity
As a remedy for excessive lust.
And in the secretive thickets
Discarded condom wrappers lie.

In the cemetery black crowds of mourners
Silently pass to and fro
From chapels to gravesides,
Eating koliva, burning incense for the dead
Among the cypresses and pines.
Schliemann lies like a hero
In a classical mausoleum,
Carved with reliefs of his Trojan exploits.
Outside the cemetery gates
Old ladies sell votive candles
And in the window of the cake-shop “Mnemosyne”
Stand ornate creations for funerals,
Sparkling with marmoreal icing,
Exquisite borders with crystalline roses
Enclosing the names of the dead.