Redemption

Excerpt

He walked back to the rented room and settled in his new home. It was
a small room with a table, a chair, a closet for his clothes, and a single
bed. The size of the room was no more than three by four meters,
with paint cracks all over; some paint had peeled right off the walls.
He didn’t really care about its condition. It was a very cheap room.
A small window with shutters opened to the street, and Hermes
saw a small garden. He took out his clothes from the suitcase and
hung them with care in the closet. He, then, sat down on the bed and
thought it would be a good idea to write home and let them know he
had arrived and was okay, three letters to three different addresses.
Realizing he had no paper, he walked out to the closest corner
store, where he bought some paper, a small jar of coffee and a small
rectangular box of sugar cubes, which he encountered for the first
time in his life. He went back to his room and sat at the desk to write
his first letter to his uncle and untie. He described in detail that his
trip was very good, the city was beautiful, and he felt enthusiastic
about the university. He wrote with intense feelings, particularly
in the second letter, addressed to Magdalene. He signed the letters
and sealed the envelopes. He would post them first thing tomorrow
morning. Hunger took over him. He got up, knocked at the
door of his landlady and asked where he could find a restaurant to
eat something. She informed him that “Black Cat” was the closest
restaurant to the house and told him how to get there. Hermes got
out and walked the few blocks to the restaurant. The server brought
his coffee. Hermes understood that coffee was served each time, even
before an order was given to the servers. He looked at the menu, but
he couldn’t understand the words; therefore, he didn’t know what to
order. He had his coffee and a cigarette. The girl refilled his cup and
looked at him with questioning eyes. He pointed to the menu and
said, “I don’t know what these are…” his finger travelling down the
list of food items. The young server asked him,
“What language does he speak…” He said, “Greek,” she called
him to follow her. He got up and followed the girl through a hallway
to an opening that connected the restaurant to the kitchen.

https://draft2digital.com/book/4172538#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763858

Twelve Narratives of the Gypsy

Thus I became a copper-smith.
The furnish gleams as
the breeze blows in it
the insatiable fire is ready
to consume everything
flame embraces the steel
its echoing roar springs out
of its hungry teeth like
a tamed lion like a sprite
and the immovable anvil
and the fast pounding hammer
commence a thunderous battle
hammer becoming the creator.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D3LP7NW6

Hours of the Stars

Libra
Solemn and beautiful stranger
you who undress
the salute and the sun to the bone
who sow the side of a daydream
as our hours unfold
and salute you
with feathers of winds they gleam
with songs for the sea’s birthday
they salute you
as our lust sinks
shooting stars seagulls
in the hourglass of your laughter
volunteers of the ancient epic
with its circular returns.
Solemn and beautiful stranger
you are welcome till you exhaust yourself.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562939

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763408

Wheat Ears

Phone Call
Your voice sounded abrupt
echoing strangely on the other side
of the telephone line
you rekindled our last conversation
reminded me of our last meeting
during that autumn
brown leaves over
the lone grave site as
I was disturbed with
the red carnation on your lapel
didn’t expect your phone call
your voice obviously hesitant
while your laughter roared
through the wire like
the cold sweat poured
over my whole body.
Strange, I didn’t expect you
to call so soon: it was day
before yesterday
when we buried you

https://draft2digital.com/book/3748127#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKHW4B4S

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

Without Counterweight
Disgust, he said, disgust; seal your ears, your nostrils,
your eyes. To hear what? To see what? Seven bullets, eight
bullets.
And the killer killed, same as the other, here and there.
Where can you look? What can you juxtapose?
All the flags are torn to the whole length of time and
there isn’t one on a balcony to lower half mast.
Old newspapers float on the water next to the drown men.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763815

Titos Patrikios – Selected Poems

To a Comrade

You were a seed, an acorn;
other times a huge oak tree
when you spoke
you became the path
from the seed to the tree
and from the tree
to the forest.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562972

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08L1TJNNF

An Essay on the Structure of the Human Imaginative

Excerpt

Having reached this point, we shall attempt to establish the connection
with the other assertion according to which the vast majority
of aestheticians believe that poetry, as fiction, may disregard truth
as correspondence with reality, and consequently may also disregard
the world and reality themselves as Imaginative possibilities. As we
have already indicated, this assertion is broadly correct and contains
a certain apparent degree of veridicality (sic!); nevertheless, it is fundamentally
false. This falsehood stems, specifically, from a mistaken
understanding of the notion of truth–an error perpetuated ever since
Aristotle and finding its definitive expression in the Thomistic formula
adequatio rei ad intellectum.
It is no longer a bold claim to state that Europeans employ the
concept of truth in a manner that might be regarded as arbitrary,
totalizing, and one-sided. Over time, the Thomistic definition has
gained increasing ground, eventually imposing itself almost completely.
In this respect, the example of the sciences is more than revealing.
As a consequence, we now think of truth only formaliter, that
is, as the correspondence of the intellect to the thing, to empirical
factuality and objectively available reality. Yet truth must instead be
thought on the basis of that which is true. Our discussion of this
concept will begin with the Greek word Aletheia, drawing support
from Heidegger’s interpretation, in which Aletheia is understood as
unconcealment, the state of being disclosed.
Is it necessary to reactivate the Greek philosophical concepts
concerning truth? “Not at all. A reactivation, even if such an impossibility
were to become possible, would be of no help. For the hidden
history of Greek philosophy consists from the very beginning in the
fact that it turns away from the essence of truth–which announces
itself in a flash through the word aletheia–and finds itself increasingly…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763890

Nostos and Algos

Avoidance
Comfortable, cozy you are
in the safety of four walls
pasted in lavish satin
soft hues, golden threads
and exquisite embroidery
far away from risk of battle
hammering just outside
your front step, always
calculating ifs and whys
falling or losing
fear controlling, mind abusing
your logic, yet when
love beckons you
you don’t embrace it
and when affection
dwells in your heart
you don’t bestow it
unto the dry petals of your life
why are you still breathing?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763920

In Turbulent Times

Excerpt

Last year at Brodick was a disaster. It should have literally been the last. But back they came.
‘This year will be even better than last,’ his mother had written. ‘Morag is her old self again after that awful experience in August and Rowena is just such a sweet little doll. We are going to be so happy showing her off to all the other guests and visitors. She will be the Little Belle of Brodick this year. If only your dear father could be there in flesh instead of in spirit. But how proud he must be in any case, as I am. Hamish has continual headaches these days and Alec is pale and liverish from working so hard. They both need the holiday at Brodick, as you must too. Could you not take the earlier week off and be with us the whole time? After all, you are the boss of that firm of yours. And Morag never sees you through the year. She misses you. She says you are becoming more a stranger than a brother.’
This year the changes of last year were twelve months worse. Mrs Anderson’s whole body was turning to steel, like her tiny, ball-bearing eyes. Morag was no longer pregnant. She was anaemic and tired and bitchier than ever. Rowena ran away every time Ian approached and screamed that he was going to beat her. This invariably brought Morag or her mother or both of them running to the child’s side, yelling at Ian to leave the little dote alone, to act his age and stop bullying a mere infant. Hamish and Alec sat all day every day in the stuffy sitting room, playing cribbage almost interminably. There were no walks, no golf, no drinks. Only the boat-trips were continued, apparently for Rowena’s sake, but Ian had missed those during the first week of the holiday.
‘Never mind, Ian; we’ll all enjoy the return trip to Gourock at the end of the week,’ his mother said. ‘It’ll be so lovely to have us all together again, the whole family, sailing up the Clyde towards home. I bet your dear father is sighing so contentedly if only we could hear him.’
‘I won’t be going back with you at the end of the week.’
‘What do you mean, Ian; you won’t be going back with us at the end of the week? Of course you will.’ His mother’s voice grew shrill, like the high-pitched squeal of scraped metal.
‘I won’t be. I’m leaving this morning. I’m catching the boat back to Belfast tonight.’
‘But Ian, it’s only Tuesday,’ Morag pointed out. ‘I’ve hardly seen you.’
‘Look your fill,’ said Ian, glancing at his watch. ‘You’ve got one hour and thirty-five minutes.’
‘Oh you insufferable, inhuman monster,’ Morag yelled. ‘You’re making a mockery out of family feelings and affections.’

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

Tasos Livaditis – Poems, Volume II

Long-listed for the 2023 Griffin poetry Awards

And so is this one who has aged and whose sin
and regret don’t keep her awake beyond herself
and who doesn’t care for gossip and such
These are today’s women, one of them says,
their husband is never enough and how can
he be enough when he’s old? The other said, and
compassion, standing erect, shines like a shield
in the sundown with Justice hanging onto it
like a thousand-year-old toothless mast, still
shivering in its anger. The third maid, the wisest,
kept her mouth shut and her eyes were blind and
floating in dreams.
Truly strange: people talk about everything foreign
and distant to them
while they experience all other burning things
which keep them awake during the night
in their silence
and when they die they take them to their grave;
for this reason the dead are silent since they live
their true life in the grave.
In fact the clerk was ready to read the daily police
reports in the tomorrow news. Indeed he was on time:
certainly five years in jail.
He didn’t know, perhaps because he always hated
the keys,
that each person keeps the key to their prison in
their pocket
and pretends to have forgotten it, and this is
their prison.

https://draft2digital.com/book/4051627

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763564