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DOWNLOAD ï The Selected Poems of Cavafy ß ➨ The Selected Poems of Cavafy Ebook ➮ Author Constantinos P. Cavafy – The Greek poet C P Cavafy 1863 1933 is one of the most singular and poignant voices of twentieth century European poetry conjuring a rich interior world through lyrical evocations of rCentury European poetry conjuring a rich interior world through lyrical evocations of remembered passions. Part of The City so far my most favorite poem in the book You will find no new land; you will find no new seasThis city will follow you You will wander the samestreets and grow old in the same neighborhoods;your hair will turn white in the same housesAnd you will always arrive in this city Abandon any hopeof finding another place No ship no road can take you there For just as you've ruined your life herein this backwater you've destroyed it everywhere on earth I rejoiced in poems in which he recollects memories of previous lovers filled with explicitness with passion and desire and regret and longing and secrecy with admiration for beauty both physical and emotional no wonder i enjoyed so many of his works not the ones that are solely historical either because i found them cold or for my lack of knowledge as they mix reality and imagination and memory a city on decline and people living in this city and himself observing and mingling with these people

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Imagined monologues and dramatic retellings of his The Selected Kindle native Alexandria's ancient pas. I have gazed so much on beautythat my eyes overflow with itI enjoyed Cavafy far than I anticipated and I expected to like him This book is organized chronologically and I admired the early poems the best Almost every one of the early ones I marked or annotated in some way for a great phrase image or impactful totality All of the poems are well executed and fall along a couple of themes glorying in the long rich history of the Greeks and celebrating male beauty Of course I delighted in the latter poems Sub themes include aging and memory and the contrast between Christian and pagan in Greek culture I believe this is a volume I will return to and cherish

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The Selected Poems of CavafyPoems of ePUB #180 The Greek poet C P Cavafyis one of the most singular and poignant voices of twentieth. Great poems A few that I liked a lotVoicesIdeal voices the beloved voicesof those who have died or of those who arelost to us as if they were deadSometimes they speak to us in dreams;sometimes in thought the mind hears themAnd with their sounds for a moment returnsounds from our life’s first poetry –like music at night far off fading out CandlesThe days of the future stand before uslike a line of burning candles –golden candles warm with lifeBehind them stand the days of our pasta pitiful row of candles extinguishedthe nearest still sending up their smokecold and melted withered sticksI don’t want to look; their image makes me sadit saddens me to recall their kindlingI look ahead at the ones still burningI don’t want to turn and see with horrorhow uickly the line of shadow lengthenshow uickly the number of snuffed candles grows PrayerThe sea’s taken a sailor to her depths below –his mother still unaware rushes to golight a narrow candle before the Virgin’s shrinefor his swift return good weather or a signthat she struggles against the wind to hearBut as she bows and reiterates her prayerthe icon listens sorrowful and glumuite sure that her son will never come The Year 31 BC in AlexandriaFrom his small village on the city’s outskirtspowdered in dust from the journeythe peddler arrived ‘Frankincense’ and ‘gum’‘the finest oil’ and ‘perfumes for your hair’he cries through the streets But amid the tumultthe bands playing and the parades he can’t be heardHe is bumped jostled by the crowds untiltotally confused he asks ‘What is this madness’Then someone tosses him the palace’s gigantic lie –that Antony is victorious in Greece Of Coloured GlassI am uite touched by one detailin the coronation at Blachernai of John Cantacuzenusand Irene daughter of Andronicus AsanBecause they had only a few precious stonesthe poverty of our wretched kingdom being so greatthey wore artificial gems hundreds of pieces made of glassred green and blue There is nothingbase or undignified in my viewabout these little bitsof coloured glass On the contrary they seemlike a sorrowful protestagainst the undeserved misfortunes of the crownThey are the symbols of what should have been wornof what assuredly ought to have been wornat the coronation of Lord John Cantacuzenusand his Lady Irene daughter of Andronicus Asan Anna ComnenaIn the prologue of her AlexiadAnna Comnena laments her widowhoodHer soul is awhirl ‘And with rivers of tears’ she tells us‘I bathe my eyes in sorrow for the tempests’ of her life‘sorrow for the insurrections’ she faced The grief burns‘in the very marrow of my bone in the rending of my soul’But the truth is there was but one griefthat this ambitious lady ever knew;only one profound regret did she feelthis haughty Greek lady even though she will not admit itshe never managed for all her cunningto take possession of the empire She watched as it was takensnatched from her very hands by the insolent John Nero’s DeadlineNero was not particularly concerned when he heardthe Delphic oracle’s prophecy‘Years seventy and three beware’He still had plenty of time to enjoy himselfHe is only thirty The deadline appointedby the god seems far enough awayto take precautions about any future dangersHe will return to Rome now a bit fatiguedbut fatigued in a delicious way from this journeywhere every day provided some new delight –in the Greek theatres the gardens and gymnasiathe evenings spent in the towns of Achaeaand yes above all the joy of those naked bodiesSo much for Nero Meanwhile in Spain Galbasecretly recruits and trains his forcesan old man aged seventy three The FootstepsOn an ebony bedsteadadorned with eagles made of coralNero lies deep in sleep – uiet unconscious happyin the prime of his body’s vigour;in the beautiful ardour of his youthBut in the alabaster hallthat holds the ancient shrine of the Ahenobarbithe Lares of his house are anxiousThese minor household gods are tremblingtrying to conceal their already negligible bodiesFor they heard a terrible noisea deadly sound spiralling up the staircaseiron soled footsteps shaking the stepsThe miserable Lares near fainting nowhuddle in the corner of the shrinejostling and stumbling over each otherone little god falling over the nextfor they knew what sort of noise it was;they recognize by now the footsteps of the Furies