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rock-rex.bsky.social
"Recollections of a Byzantine Official".

#poem #petry #AmsterdamQuarterly
December 3, 2024 at 8:39 PM
rock-rex.bsky.social
"Recollections of a Byzantine Official".

(after Kavafis)

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #AmsterdamQuarterly
Symeon the Logothetis stood up from his desk and stretched; his neck was stiff, his eyes were sore and gritty, and his stomach rumbled. He had spent the morning calculating soldiers' pay, and tracking down corruption in the purchase of Greek fire, and now he needed food and rest. He ambled to the Neoríon, joined the throng that bustled through the gates, and bought some fresh-baked bread and Cretan cheese and wine at a taverna on the harbour front. A regular, he nodded greetings to the sailors, shipwrights, sutlers, and sawyers passing by, and one or two received a warmer, secret smile. Refreshed, he strode more briskly back to his expectant desk, and in the quiet of the Strategeíon (for the staff were napping through the drowsy afternoon) he laid out all his writing tools and his unfinished Chronicle. Sighing, then, he set to work where he'd left off the day before: the reign of Romanós Lekapenós, whose dark and liquid eyes he still remembered, gazing into his across a cushion of embroidered silk.
January 1, 2026 at 9:37 PM
rock-rex.bsky.social
In the style of Kavafis

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #promptcombo #inthestyleof #kavafis #sparksofcalliope #mediterraneanpoetry #amsterdamquarterly #artefactnouveau
@victoriaspires.bsky.social
@sparksofcalliope.bsky.social
The eldest son of Cleopatra stands upon the steps of the Gymnasium before the Alexandrians, his rich and royal clothing gleaming in the midday sun. Slightly to his rear, his brothers whisper jokes, but he can’t join them in their muffled laughter. Even when a soldier faints in the oppressive heat, Caeasarion stays solemn, not a flicker of a smile. A trumpet sounds. Antony declares that Cleopatra is the goddess Isis, Queen of Kings, the Queen of Egypt and of Cyprus. Their two young sons are named as Kings of Syria, Cilicia, of Parthia, Armenia, and Media, their daughter Cleopatra as the Queen of Libya and Cyrenaica. A pause. A drop of sweat begins to form above Caesarion’s right eye; he feels it trickle slowly down his cheek. The trumpet sounds. The voice of Antony, his mother’s husband, now goes up in volume but its pitch is lower. It declares Caesarion to be the son and rightful heir of Julius, who’s recently been deified in Rome. And, as the offspring of a god and goddess, he is therefore doubly divine, and made the King of Kings, joint ruler with his mother of the land of Egypt. The small boy, dressed as Horus, somehow stands erect and bears the cheering of the crowd, in which he thinks to hear an undertow of mockery. Some four years later, at the age of seventeen, the last of the unhappy line of Ptolemy, Caesarion lies dead in Alexandria, his crime: to be an excess Caesar. first published in Sparks of Calliope, 3 iii 21; republished in Mediterranean Poetry, 2 iv 21 If only, when you’d walked into that house, slowly climbed the stairs, ears pricked for muffled sounds, if only you had thought: ‘No, this is wrong’, and felt ashamed of your suspicious thoughts. If only you’d returned to work that day, and tried to put the whole thing out of mind; perhaps, then, you’d have left yourself with more than all these years of nothing but: “if only”. (first published Oxford Magazine 345, 2014) Symeon the Logothetis stood up from his desk and stretched; his neck was stiff, his eyes were sore and gritty, and his stomach rumbled. He had spent the morning calculating soldiers' pay, and tracking down corruption in the purchase of Greek fire, and now he needed food and rest. He ambled to the Neoríon, joined the throng that bustled through the gates, and bought some fresh-baked bread and Cretan cheese and wine at a taverna on the harbour front. A regular, he nodded greetings to the sailors, shipwrights, sutlers, and sawyers passing by, and one or two received a warmer, secret smile. Refreshed, he strode more briskly back to his expectant desk, and in the quiet of the Strategeíon (for the staff were napping through the drowsy afternoon) he laid out all his writing tools and his unfinished Chronicle. Sighing, then, he set to work where he'd left off the day before: the reign of Romanós Lekapenós, whose dark and liquid eyes he still remembered, gazing into his across a cushion of embroidered silk. first published in Amsterdam Quarterly 31, 2021 Desires (1904, K.P. Kavafis) Like beautiful bodies that never grow old tearfully sealed in a bright mausoleum, at their heads roses and at their feet jasmine — so look desires that grow cold unfulfilled, forever denied even one night of pleasure, or one of its light-filled mornings. Desires (a reply) As the bright thoughts of the blind from birth blossom ignorant of sunsets, building beauty from the bare accounts of drabness — so dance unfulfilled desires, imagination lending them the weight to balance wistfulness for what they never knew. translation of Kavafis © Peter J. King & Andrea Christofidou first published in Artéfact Nouveau 5:3, 2019 © Peter J. King
May 7, 2026 at 8:22 AM