Poems from After Callimachus By Stephanie Burt

(Aetia,?book 1, frag. 1: proem)

Ο?δ? ?τ]ι μοι Τελχ?νε? ?πιτρ?ζουσιν ?οιδ?

So reactionaries and radicals complain

???that I have no proprietary mission,

no project that’s all mine;

???instead, I am like a child flipping Pogs

or building in Minecraft, although I’m past forty.

???To them I say: keep rolling logs

for one another, but don’t waste my time

???on your ambition:

marathon runners and shock jocks gain

???by going as far as they can, but the sublime,

the useful, and the beautiful in poetry

???are all inversely correlated

with size. Shorter means sweeter. I’ll be fine.

???When first I rated

myself as a writer of some sort,

???wolf-killing, light-bearing Apollo came to me

as a ferret. Stay off crowded trains, he said; never resort

???to volume where contrast will do. Imitate

Satie, or Young Marble Giants. The remedy for anomie

???lies in between the wing slips of the cicada.

If I can’t be weightless, or glide among twigs, or sate

???myself on dew, then let

my verses live that way,

???since I feel mired in age, and worse for wear.

It might even be that when the Muses visit

???a girl, or a schoolboy, they intend to stay,

or else to come back, even after the poet goes gray.

(Aetia,?book 3, frag. 67–75)

Α?τ????ρω? ?δ?δαξεν ?κ?ντιον, ?ππ?τε καλ?

This is a story with a happy ending.

???If you met Aaron early enough in his life

you might have wondered who taught him the arts

???of conversation, he who could put anyone,

adult or child or

???in between, at ease,

yet got tongue-tied when he brought up Cydippe,

???he who wanted nothing more than to see her,

in fact, to spend the rest of his life beside her,

???so that the world would see him as her husband.

They had a lot in common. The two of them met

???at Delos, at the big sacrifice; he came

all the way from Iulis. They would talk

???about how both of their mothers were engineers,

how both had family in the islands,

???about the races outdoors, about where to stand

to avoid the crowds at the temple.

???But already other sons’ mothers regarded her

as the prize, bringing bride-gifts, bringing whole oxen,

???although, in her own eyes, she was far too young.

Nobody else stood out in the morning dances;

???nobody else reminded

so many observers of the rose-gold dawn.

???He stood out too, but frankly

it made him uncomfortable.

???More than uncomfortable. You might have heard

he spelled his name differently then. People singled him out

???in school, and at parties, back home. He liked the attention,

but only at first. He got really into archery,

???and all of us thought he just liked spending time in the sun.

In fact he was praying

???to Artemis, to the thin moon

he observed after dawn, and right before sundown:

???praying she might see him,

that Cydippe might see him, the way?

???he so badly wanted to be seen.

That the proverbial archer might strike her too—

???not Artemis nor Apollo: the other one. That it might hurt

just a little. That they could talk about his prayers.

???And that’s just what happened. “I think you’re brave,” she said.

“I don’t think you deserve to be afraid.”

???Bad news: by then her mother had arranged,

of course,

???for Cydippe to marry someone else.

Good news: our heroes got to spend

???the night together first, because the cult

of Hera insists—

???I’m going to get in trouble, serious trouble,

if I go into detail here. Just know

???that families in Hera’s cult insist

on this kind of bridal evening. For the education

???of daughters, who will then make better wives.

Next morning the families led

???two oxen to the pool where they would see

the point of the blade that would tear their hearts out that night.

???That’s part of the Hera cult too. But that afternoon

Cydippe had a fit. A literal fit,

???the kind that makes people behave like wild goats,

flailing and barking. They thought she was going to die,

???and canceled the ritual. And then she got better.

And then the ceremony was back on,

???at which point she came down with a boiling fever,

which lasted seven months. As if she had worked for it.

???And then she could breathe again, so they set the wedding

for a third date, and then she came down with a chill,

???more than a chill: a frost fever, so her very lips

and eyes seemed to congeal, as if she could not

???remain for long in this cold world …

At this point Cydippe’s father knew enough

???to pray to Apollo, who came to him that night.

“My sister will not permit this marriage,” said the god.

???“She was right there in her shrine, though you did not see,

at the festival in Delos,

???when your child swore that Aaron, and nobody else,

would be her husband. Yes, her husband.

???And now, if you care for your daughter, you’ll listen to me.

For one thing, she swore an oath, and she’s bound to keep it,

???and my sister agrees.” The god

reached over his shoulder, grasping

???one of his sun-bright arrows. Artemis, too,

can shoot such radiant arrows with perfect aim,

???though hers look more like moonlight. “For another,”

the sun god went on, “if you let her marry Aaron,

???you will not blend lead with silver,

but rather mix your silver with his gold.

???You know your own stock. He comes from mountain climbers,

and from wind tamers; his family taught

???their island to catch quail in wind-borne nets.”

So Aaron came back to Naxos, and the girls

???whom Artemis befriended said their hymns,

including the marriage hymn, over both of them,

???and Aaron, for all you love to hunt and sprint

and shoot, I know you would not

???have traded that night for anything: neither the sandals

of Aphra, so fast

???she covered a whole field of wheat

by running across the crests of the wheat-ears,

???nor everything Midas owned.

For people are not possessions.

???Lovers are not possessions,

neither each other’s, nor their families’. If

???you have known love you should know that,

especially if you serve Artemis, whose brother

???told the truth. Cydippe’s family

still lives, with many children, up at Iulis;

???their story came down to us in Zeno’s collection,

the one with the islands’ tales.

(Galatea, frag. 378)

? μ?λλον χρ?σειον ?ν ?φρ?σιν ?ερ?ν ?χθ?ν

That island feast

???was more than a feast; there Kyra and Kassandra

met us, and there was golden-broiled giant bream with coriander,

???pounded with a mallet until tender,

green olives and capers and garlic and tiny lemons,

???and while I felt like a sleek finch on a sleek perch

while taking part in that repast,

???afterwards I just wanted to take a nap;

so we did, together,

???and when we woke it was dark, the moon scattered

her glitter all over the brine, and we were already

???entangled in each other, or rather

in one another,

???and so we decided to stay that way (letting Kassandra

take down her soft and complicated hair,

???and letting comfort alter

our positions as we chose, neither seeking

???nor finding much sleep),

and we stayed that way till the sun came up

???in the East.

About the Author

Stephanie Burt?is a poet and critic and professor of English at Harvard University. Her books include?Don’t Read Poetry,?Advice from the Lights: Poems, and the essay collection?Close Calls with Nonsense, which was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. Her work has appeared in such publications as the?London Review of Books?and the?New York Times Book Review. She serves as poetry coeditor for the?Nation.