ContEnt vs cOntent

A platform is a hard task master. “Get it done!” it cries. “Produce content!” it prompts. “Or they may forget all about you…” it whispers.

But writing is not a product. Unless it is monetized. One wonders what a writer such as Proust, or a poet like Cavafy might think, if they could travel in time and were faced with the relentless demand of the screen: “More, more, more, scroll, scroll, scroll!”

Proust would probably retire to bed early - de bonne heure - as was his way, as for Cavafy, he would direct everyone's attention to this poem below, Thermopylae, (so frequently translated by many, this platform included). The poem is an ode to those doing things their way, even if it is a lost cause. As writing feels, sometimes, in the sea of books we are currently swimming in. But one can't help soldiering on when a story has taken root. As I am currently doing with my WIP The Eyes of the Rock Partridge, a contemporary mystery set in Greece.

My own translation of the Cavafy poem in English follows. I have kept the original eleven syllable rule, and avoided any attempt at rhyming, since the author doesn't use rhyme in this particular poem. Furthermore, Cavafy is a frugal poet, so any flowery translation is inappropriate.

A picture of mini me from back when in the Ancient Agora of Athens is below.

Honour is due to those as in their lifetime determined to safeguard the Gates of Thermae.

Never, they, far from duty ever shirking;

both fair and square in each and every action,

with pensiveness and clemency moreover;

valiant whenever affluent they be might be; and paupers when they be, valiant in measure,

coming once more to rescue where they're able;

the truth in perpetuity attesting,

yet lacking any hatred for the lying.

And further honour unto them is proper

to those who augur (and so many augur) that Ephialtes shall be coming in the end,

and Medes, at last, the threshold will have passed.

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