The Soul of Odysseus
I invented myself
the native of immenseness
gravity exiled me here
as if life is a path of ignorance
what can I do with Odysseus now
conscious of a tribe that commits suicide
as it stands and listens to
the echo of oars on the horizon
the miracle that endlessly
collects the dust of dreams
when the untouched diaphaneity of myths
reaches us away from him and Ithaca.
twenty-one
Initiations, conniving
division of the land
soft rocks on your path
someone squares three stones
two down, one up
to steady it
a rectangular hole in the middle
vision
the first Mason
is born inside him:
the first window to the future
Φραγή εισερχομένων κλήσεων
Η Πύλη είναι ο δικός μου Πόνος.
Δεν σου αρμόζει πια να μπεις.
Θα κλείσω τα ποιήματα για σένα
και όσο για το φιλί κλειδί
να μου το δώσεις πίσω,
γιατί το Μουσείο είναι κλειστό Παρασκευές
κι εκείνο το αρχαίο σκουλαρίκι
που αιώνες πριν μου κρέμασες στ’ αυτί
(ένα δελφίνι που κολυμπάει στο χρόνο)
πνίγηκε μες τα δάκρυα
που ποτέ δεν έχυσα για σένα.
Block Incoming Calls
The Gate is my Pain.
You’re not allowed to enter anymore.
I’ll lock up the poems about you
and that kiss key
give it back to me,
because the museum is closed on Fridays and
that ancient earring you hang
on my ear eons ago
(a dolphin swimming in time)
drown in the tears
I never shed for you.
Triangle
In the crystal night I’ll find you
again in the plaza by the same
statue that saw us separating
that cold October morning
you to the west I to the east
from the merging point
of two lives like triangle
lines and I’ll come to you
holding a book in my left
hand and a carnation in the
other just in case you come
looking to stir my emotions
just in case you come yearning
for kisses like that cold
October morning we separated
Excerpt
…the pharmacist — to her name-day celebration, and alongside the
many exquisite dishes she played the piano beautifully. She also
took in her two sisters, who passed the time with card games and
reading. I found the endless solitaire and other card games played
for hours beside tables laden with pastries and tea — in winter in
the parlor, in summer on the terrace — unbearably boring.
Between the identical walls of the dormitory rooms I learned to
pay attention to others and to myself, to write amid silence and
noise alike. I tried fitting words together so they might express me,
preserve me. My young literature teacher read and evaluated my
writings in her apartment; the situation was at once embarrassing
and liberating. It was as though the boundaries between text and
life had blurred. That was the first time I understood literature was
not merely abstract curriculum but could become an intimate bodily
experience as well.
I founded a literary circle attended not only by students but by
teachers too. We did not merely dissect our own writings; we immersed
ourselves in literary history and theory, argued, doubted,
reread everything that until then had seemed certain. Meanwhile I
danced in a folk-dance ensemble wearing traditional costume, and
played bass guitar in a successful pop band where rhythm held
us together even when direction often remained uncertain. And
like local stars entertaining the student audience, we enjoyed the
special attention of girls, which manifested itself sometimes in shy
smiles, sometimes in stolen glances, sometimes in laughter too
loud to be natural, and although we accepted this innocent admiration
with confident ease, in truth all of us longed for the same
thing: that one day someone might notice not merely the role in us,
but the human being as well.
Even then the prankster in me resurfaced. Back then there were
no text messages, no instant communication; communication possessed
its own slow, paper-scented magic. At the Ditrău grammar
school — I do not know whether such a thing existed elsewhere —
there operated a peculiar institution called Flash Mail.
Glory of the Ptolemies
I am Lagidis, King, absolute possessor
(with my power and my wealth) of carnal delight.
Neither a Macedonian nor a barbarian
can equal me or even come close. The son
of Seleucus is absurd with his vulgar hedonism.
But if you search here for other things, these are clear.
This city is the teacher, the center
of the Panhellenic world,
in every word, in every art, the wisest.
Daily Use
Of course, all these were somehow vague, perhaps even inexplicable for the ones who raise their glass emphatically over the table without seeing who holds it, until slowly the everyday use makes us mortal.
Thus, I always tried to look elsewhere when the doorbell rang and when everything was quietened: where is the host? Why is he hiding? I leaned on the table so that I wouldn’t fall; then, bowing my head.
I opened the door and followed my path.
And at night, at dinner, in horror, I listened as they narrated their stories, which, in a way, silenced the dark, remote outside—there, where we had lived.
Peace of a Full Stomach
Citizen watches TV ordinarily
beer belly exposed
tight T-shirt
jogging pants
fluffy comfort
mind mutated by fat
extreme superiority
over masses of colourful citizens
of the faraway places where beasts live
mind mutated by the notion of entitlement
revisionists accentuated
underscore the importance
of new smart bombs
that outsmart foreign defences
calculations, exact results
deleting hypotheses and estimates
The unprecedented precision
of missiles controlled by a computer
dark green glow of a screen
fingers manipulate the Enter button
boom
