It pleased young Pushkin in Odessa once
To have a light of love, not quite a whore,
Who had shared Byron’s bed some years before.
Succession by the tralatition of cunts
Is, like Elijah’s mantle, rare enough;
Poets like Byron, Pushkin, rarer still;
Rarest of all, she had a name to fill
An exile’s heart even in Kishinëv:
Calypso Polychroni! When she sang
Some Turkish song, he heard from classic ground
Odysseus with his axe while her woods rang
And made his Bessarabian wastes resound;
What time his hero sailed for Greece, and there
Let fall Don Juan’s mantle unaware.