But deep inside me sings
the Fury's lyreless threnody;
my heart, self-taught, has lost
the precious confidence of hope ...
"That's the Cape of Cats ahead," the captain said to me,
pointing through the mist to a low stretch of shore,
the beach deserted; it was Christmas day--
"...and there, in the distance to the west, is where
Aphrodite rose out of the waves;
they call the place `Romios's Rock.'
Left ten degrees rudder!"
She had Salome's eyes, the cat I lost a year ago;
and old Ramazan, how he would look death square in the eyes,
whole days long in the snow of the East,
under the frozen sun,
days long square in the eyes: the young hearth god.
Don't stop, traveler.
"Left ten degrees rudder," muttered the helmsman.
...maybe my friend was close by,
now between ships,
shut up in a small house with icons,
searching for windows behind the frames.
The ship's bell struck
like a coin from some vanished city
that brings to mind, as it falls,
alms from another time.
"It's strange." the captain said.
"That bell--given what day it is--
reminded me of another, the monastery bell.
A monk told me the story,
a half-mad monk, a kind of dreamer.
"It was during the great drought,
forty years without rain,
the whole island devastated,
people were dying and snakes were born.
This cape had millions of snakes
thick as a man's legs and full of poison.
In those days the monastery of St. Nicholas
was held by the monks of St. Basil,
and they couldn't work their fields,
couldn't put their flocks to pasture.
In the end they were saved by the cats they raised.
Every day at dawn a bell would strike
and an army of cats would move into battle.
They'd fight the day long,
until the bell sounded for the evening feed.
Supper done, the bell would sound again
and out they'd go to battle through the night.
They say it was an impossible sight to see them,
some lame, some twisted, others missing
a nose, an ear, their hides in shreds.
So to the sound of four bells a day
months went by, years, season after season.
Fiercely obstinate, perennially wounded,
they annihilated the snakes; but in the end
they vanished; they just couldn't take in that much poison.
Like a sunken ship
they left no trace on the surface:
not a meow, not even a bell's sound.
Steady as you go!
Poor devils, what could they do,
fighting like that day and night, drinking
the poisonous blood of those snakes?
Generations of poison, centuries of poison."
"Steady as you go," indifferently echoed the helmsman.
Wednesday, 5 February, 1969
[Essentially as in Keeley & Sherrard's George Seferis, Collected Poems]
[ -- or so says this email here (adds AJ), rededicating this to his friends
in the army of cats. ;) ]