How can I tell this barrel-chested jogger,
This charming intruder,
That each evening, at duskās hem,
Iām drawn (as if by silent command)
To Heraās dilapidated templeā
So help me, in hot-to-the-touch July,
Whatever my island plans,
My hopscotch, rather stop-start tourism,
I always wind up here,
In the shady villa of Mon Repos,
Beyond the shuttered pre-Victorian mansion,
Always at the selfsame hour,
Musing among the toppled, ancient stonesā
Kalispera: Good evening!
May I join you in your meditation?
Being more or less a fan
Of charismatic Mediterranean men,
In no time flat, I surrender
To this semi-formal joggerās
Straight-off-the-bat request:
Yes, of course, be my guest.
Feel free…
For most of us, the meddling gods,
The lulling nymphs, and sage centaurs
Seem long goneāso Iām startled,
When I suddenly reveal to him,
In this tumbledown archeological site:
Sometimes when I close my lids,
I can almost spot the imposing dragon,
Rumored to be the Greek goddessā
Unfailing guardian.
Oh yes, Iāve read about the beast
At Heraās beck and call:
I believe his unsettling, not-so-friendly name
Was Python.
Suddenly, I tease this well-built stranger,
(Who unveils his own name as Yorgos,
Whose English is clear, carefully parsed,
And quite passable):
Perhaps youāre the dragon,
Changed to a handsome human form?
Thatās just the sort of thing a poet would ask!
Believe it or not, Yorgos, Iām actually a poetā
Perfect! Bingo, as you say!
Iāve spotted you before
And desired to meet youā
I like to jog here on summer evenings,
When the island cools down,
So I pushed past the shyness
That so often plagues me
About my inferior spoken English
(Though, Iām proud to declare, dear Americanā
Youāre American, yes?ā
My reading ability is good).
Iām not a cosmopolitan,
A modern EU sort of Greek;
Iāve only known this island
And nearby Paxi, and Cephallonia;
Believe it or not, Iāve never even seen
Athensās busy chaos;
Iām always reluctant to leave Corfuā
Soon, as if on cue, we both
Slip into an expanding silence,
A not counterfeit yogiās calm, chockablock,
To my surprise,
With showering sparks and vast colors ā
Until I hear a soothing Yorgos announce:
And now that weāve paid
Homage to our still viable goddess,
Let me lead you
From these sacred columns,
To a cleared path
Through purple cyclamen
Down to the hidden beach:
A delightful and special one, known
Only to longtime islandersā
A little spellbound, intrigued
By our out-of-left-field meditation,
Our odd and lovely talk,
But tranquil, utterly tranquil,
I descend with this mesmerizing jogger
To the glittering beach,
But donāt feel in the least bit startled
When he nimbly dispenses
With his batik tank top, pulling me
To his remarkable chest
With its appealing, runaway fur…
*
When hardy, easy-to-adore Yorgos and I
Climb back to the stones, I confess:
When you were making your moves,
Dear Corfiat, I swear I could sense
The busybody dragonās wings
Hovering above the beachā
How is that possible?
Donāt get me wrong:
So help me, Iām no voyeur,
But once upon a time, I heard
The subtle music of your sighs,
On the beach at Mirtiotissaā
In a state of wonder,
I stumbled onto the cave
Where two powerhouse men (a swimmer
From Thessaloniki, I believe,
And his bearded lover,
A Cypriot painter)
Were indeed adoringā
In fine, muscled fashionā
The showcase of your sun-golden
Limbs and torso,
Filling you in unison
Just as the foraging tide
Ambushed the cave and gripped
Your supple wrists and ankles ā¦
And from my secret post,
My dragonās perch,
I vowed to have you for myself,
So, in a match-burst, I transformed
Into a masterly lover,
A perfectly alluring mortalā
Dear Dallying Jogger,
Or, to absolutely blast the bullās-eye,
Dear Temple Dragon:
You tricked me!
My sweet, dreamy bard, wouldnāt you say
Thatās just the sort of thing
Irreverent dragons do:
A timeless recipe of lusty fire
Mixed with a pinch of mischiefā
Besides, Yorgos insists,
Hera heard your summer prayer,
Your subterranean request
For the nuzzle and thrust
Of a more attentive lover;
Here in this ruined temple on Corfu,
Youāve been faithful
To the eavesdropping goddess
In the steadiness of your evening visitsā
A form of reverence and praise,
So the cloud-borne sponsor
Of sweethearts, brides, and lissome lovers,
Zeusās long-suffering wife
Summoned meābut donāt fret,
My delectable poet:
With one dragonās purposeful breath,
I can banish, abracadabra, the joyous
Memory of our beach-time
And fireworks meditationā
When I open my eyes,
The ancient, reliable sunās setting,
The immense parkās ready to close:
Iām sitting, blissfully cross-legged,
In the disheveled temple,
Alone among the slipshod columns,
The gorgeous, wrecked pediments:
Yorgos, what? What did you say?
—
Cyrus Cassells is the author of eight books of poetry, including The World That the Shooter Left Us (Four Way Books, forthcoming 2022) and The Gospel according to Wild Indigo (Southern Illinois University Press, 2018). He is the translator from the Catalan of Still Life with Children: Selected Poems of Francesc Parcerisas (Stephen F. Austin University, 2019), which won the Texas Institute of Lettersās Souerette Diehl Fraser Award for Best Translated Book. His honors also include the Balcones Prize, a Lannan Literary Award, a Lambda Literary Award, a Pushcart Prize, two NEA grants, an NAACP Image Award nomination, and the Poetry Society of Americaās William Carlos Williams Award. He was the 2021 Poet Laureate of Texas.
Cassellsās AGNI poem āElegy with a Gold Cradleā was chosen for The Best American Poetry 2017.