IN ATHENS WITH MARGUERITE
Connie Soper
As daylight faded and before evening breezes
gifted relief, we climbed rickety stairs to the roof.
I could say we were wicks on candles anticipating
the match: spark to flame, the future
all around us no matter where we looked.
You might remember it differently; how we rose,
rung by rung, to escape the miserable heat,
weight of air suffocating and still above dull
blocks of buildings, cacophony of taxis and cats
that never stopped yowling. Athens without doors;
nothing to lock, no reason for a key.
There was a coarse bread with honey, figs,
the scent of oregano where steps cut into the hill.
We carried words like bells
on our tongues. Lalouthia: flowers
hawked from flatbed trucks in the plaza below.
Bougainvillea a tangle of magenta, scarlet, purple
spilling from broken pots, poppies sprouting atop rubble
in the alley. Little faces of joy, despite themselves.
Every night widows slow-walked to the domed church
on the corner. Veiled illusions, black
as phantoms, they found holy comfort
in the sway of incense, votives offered to dead saints.
We would never be like them. When finally
it was cool and late and dark, tiny stars winked
through the brown haze, tremulous beacons guiding
us, inviting us to come down from the roof,
to enter that magnificent city of ruins.
Judge’s Comments – John Brehm
Each of the top three poems for this year’s OPA contest has so much of what I love about poetry. I heard in each a sureness and freshness of voice that felt both original and strangely familiar, and that engaged my full attention from the first line to the last. Each has remarkable, memorable lines: “I could say we were wicks on candles anticipating / the match: spark to flame, the future / all around us no matter where we looked.”
And each was filled with surprises, large and small, that kept me on my toes and delivered the sense of unexpected delight that make poetry such a joy to read.
What makes “In Athens with Marguerite” especially appealing is the way it so vividly evokes the rich textures of a particular evening in Athens. Nothing dramatic happens but the poem is keenly attuned to the ordinary magic all around: “the cacophony of taxis and cats,” “the scent of oregano where steps cut into the hill,” “poppies sprouting atop rubble / in the alley,” and the nightly widows slow-walking to the domed church like “veiled illusions.” The poem ends with a call to “enter that magnificent city of ruins,” but by that point, we as readers need no further invitation—we’re already there.
“In Athens with Marguerite” is a wonderful poem—full of wonder and of wonders—and very deserving of this prize.
I felt like I was there with Marguerite.