Straits and Turns

Excerpt

The Dancer
It was a cloudy April day; one could hardly discern the mountains to the north shore, where two mountain peaks resembling lions stood facing each other as if they were playing a good game of chess without any concern for the people of Vancouver, down by the shores. These two lions were so symbolically attached to the lives of Vancouver citizens that they had named the bridge which connected the Lower Mainland with the North Shore ‘Lion’s Gate Bridge’, the same way the Hellenes had the Lion’s Gate at Mycenae.
Costa was sitting by the window of his one-bedroom suite and kept writing a few lines of the novel he had started a few months earlier, as his eyes suddenly left the paper and gazed at the expanse towards the North Shore, on the other side of the harbour. Indeed, Vancouver was a beautiful city situated on the edge of the land by the Pacific Ocean, on the west side of which the lands of the Orient were located, including Japan, Korea, China, Vietnam, and, to the south, Australia.
He got up to refill his coffee mug and lit a cigarette. It was Tuesday, his day off, so he didn’t have much to do other than write a few lines and perhaps go to Stanley Park for a stroll until his wife came home. His mind ran to the nasty letter he got from his father when he disclosed to them that his girlfriend from Athens had joined him in Vancouver and that they lived together and perhaps they’d get married soon so she could stay permanently; his girlfriend had come with a visitors visa which meant she had to leave in three months unless Costa married her thus making her wife of a legal immigrant.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763866

Neo-Hellene Poets: An Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

SPRING
This the way I see the gardens
A new sadness talks to me tonight in the garden
an almond tree drives its smiling blossom
deep down to the bog’s thick water, and
memory of my youth battles the sick acacia
cold breeze awakes in the broken container
every rose is dead in the flowerpot-coffin
the cypress, endless martyrdom, star bound
uplifts its darkness thirsting for air
and they go, a sorrowful procession the pepper tree
treeline dragging along their green hair.
Two palms raise their arms in desperation
the garden is a melancholic place.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562959

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763513

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume III

THE EXILE DIARIES

6th of January
The moon has many
vacant rooms.
Why then?
Because of this.

8th of January
I left everything half done, he said
leave me alone.
Remember:
my hands don’t obey me.
I left everything half done,
have mercy on me.
Animals and chairs
have four legs
I have one.

10th of January
You have to tie your hands on your own.
You do.
The night cuts the bounds.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B096TLBNFK

Introspection

The Enemy
He not only fought against loneliness and isolation, but against his whole identity, been in constant rupture and orgiastic sectoral emotions that couldn’t settle in his pneumatic completeness, but always took him to the immense void, lurking behind every set concept, that rendered him unable to position one against the other or choose one so he could annul the other; his vision was multifaceted and plethoric opposite the metallic and unbendable silence which destroyed every effort for relaxation and acceptance of the regular, the common-sensical with his pride unable to settle down, as he was not only against the world but against his viscera that demanded the impossible of him

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763777

Swamped

Excerpt

Reason intervened at last and yanked their wild thoughts back
to reality at almost the same moment. As suddenly as they started,
they both stopped and stepped apart. Frances quickly fixed her clothing
and hair, took a deep breath, and walked out of Eteo’s office. Helena
and Logan noticed her brusque, nervous manner as she passed
them on the way to her office and thought their different thoughts
about what might just have taken place in their boss’s office.
Meanwhile Eteo’s mind ran back to the VSE annual gala the previous
November. Pacific Trends had reserved three tables and invited
its top twenty brokers and the four big wigs of the firm to occupy the
twenty-four seats. Before the dinner, people gathered, mingled,
talked, exchanged ideas, laughed, and gossiped. Eteo always attended
these events—he was always among the ten top producers in his
firm—but that year he had truly paid attention to Frances Woodruff
for the first time. She was also a perennial big producer, and on that
occasion she had been seated with Bradley and the other big wigs.
Eteo was at the adjacent table with seven other brokers. It was shortly
after his divorce, something all his colleagues had known about, and
when Eteo was at the bar getting a drink, Frances came up behind
him, rubbed her beautiful, lush breasts lightly against his back, and
then hugged him from behind. In front of everybody else at the bar
she said, “Hello, handsome Cretan,” her voice resonating with everything
Eteo was tuned to at that moment.
When Eteo told Logan about this startling show of affection the
next day, his son had said, “Be careful, dad, take precautions. She’s
known to sleep around.” Eteo had laughed and assured him he would
be careful, but he had never pursued the affair even though he had
often imagined it. He promised himself that this time he would not
fail to visit Frances soon and light his devotional candle on her altar,
as he put it to himself. Pleased with that image, he turned to his
screen and the behavior of the stocks in his accounts. The performance
was good on every front except Golden Veins, where he remained
exposed without any reasonable exit. He called Richard.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Titos Patrikios – Selected Poems

Voices

Don’t trust these wild,
glorifying voices. Perhaps there’s
something rotten they want to hide:
an ulterior motive of self-justification.
However don’t doubt completely
those who unfold their rotten gauzes;
one always needs strength
to be able to show his wounds.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562972

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

Antony Fostieris – Selected Poems

Avenue
I walk alone in the dark avenue
holding a black cat in my arms
(Perhaps my soul or my fear
perhaps my boredom or my craziness
perhaps this poem
that jumped off the shrubs to my chest
like a wildcat).
Alone and gigantic on the dark avenue
like a hollow bell over the sea of my mind
metaphysical flower of my internal garden
that is leafed in the darkness aimlessly.
I hear the screeching of wheels behind me
afraid to look
perhaps God is on his bicycle having his evening stroll
perhaps the tank of time that flattens me
I feel the words melting in the intense fire
my past days melt inside of me
and I
who loved the deepest beauty of life
saunter alone in the dark road of my hours
smoking the subterranean sorrow of this world
that kills itself because of boredom or craziness
with a big jump in the gorge of this earth —
burning its name in a reverie
incising the veins of its hope
that water with their most precious blood
the leaves of the tree
Desperation.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763653

Rendition

Are you riding your agile mustang
dark against dying sun?
Rose sky makes a flag of your
black hair arms raised in
elation as your horse and
you jump across the
ravine How deep
it is holy ancestor
how do you fly?
Enclave of reserve rears up and gallop
of the agile horse creates
its periphery outside the fence in the
fresh air of the plains now fences deeds
break continuity of rolling fields
The bison galloping freedom
before the cattle fence severs plains
from nowhere tunnels
destiny and your concerns

https://www.amazon.com/dp/098107359X

The Gospel of Silence

excerpt

The sandy stretch beneath the Mureş River embankment served
as the beach. In summer we went there every day on foot, enjoying
the water, the sunlight, watching the girls and women as though
the order of the world might remain unchanged forever. Back then
the watermill still functioned for a while, the one that had once
belonged to my maternal grandparents. And the Rákóczi-Kornis
castle had not yet collapsed into ruin — it operated as an agricultural
school.
At school we committed every prank imaginable. Teachers were
still permitted to use corporal punishment. We received hard slaps.
Șerban’s method was the cruelest: he grabbed the hair beside one’s
ear and lifted until the tuft remained in his hand. Others struck our
palms with rulers. If we jerked our hand away, we had to stretch it
out again until the blow landed properly. Our hands throbbed for
days afterward. That was why the favorite punishment was being
thrown out of class. Then at least we could find something to occupy
ourselves with.
It was a mixed-language school, with Romanian and Hungarian
classes. Back then the balance was still more or less even. Later the
proportions shifted; the Hungarian secondary school disappeared,
and even in the elementary school fewer and fewer Hungarian
pupils remained. At that time there were no dramatic ethnic tensions.
It amounted to little more than the strongest Hungarian boy,
Józsi Türke — who later became my brother-in-law — testing his
strength against Grecu, the Romanians’ muscular champion. The
children circled around them, each camp proclaiming its own warrior
the victor.
Church holidays meant something slightly different to us children
than to the devout believers. At Christmas we went caroling.
For weeks beforehand we practiced Christmas songs, sometimes at
our house, sometimes at my friend István’s. Amid the many false,
whining voices filling the streets, our singing was beautiful, and
those who welcomed our carols praised us for it.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763874

Twelve Narratives of the Gypsy

excerpt

…And I discovered something,
amid the buzz and clatter
of the world, which I grasped
and which had kept me over
the tempest of the people;
it wasn’t work of any feather
nor a hand’s waving sign
nor was it a castle or any peak
stairway is one and climbing
is another since the heights
existed elsewhere and it was
like the unclear waking up
from a golden dream that
had never stepped on earth
and had its source far away
spreading further and rising
turning into a newborn ghost
like ether amid the ether
thus I existed on a feather’s
lightness and height among
the exceptional a special
all my youth and my old age
exceptionally matching with
all seeds and uteri.

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