HANDS OF THE COMRADES

Our hands remained empty;

they have rubbed on the unshaven chin

of the wind a thousand times

they have grasped the barbwire a thousand times

they have touched the frozen railings of death

a thousand times.

Our hands grew knots from using the spade, from

pounding the rocks, from battle and

more so from handshaking;

they now grasp things with certainty.

The wind of the house and mother’s shadow

were two soft gloves, two woollen gloves

that warmed our hands, didn’t let us

grab flesh to flesh the hands of others.

Now the gloves ripped, we use them

to make gauzes to cover the wounds

        of our comrades

we use them to wash and clean our plates,

utensils and mess cauldrons.

Our hands remained empty;

got used to work, silence, aiming;

they held the cock of anger up and down many

          a time

they cut and cut again the bread of patience with

          a pocket knife

they hit face on the wall and the night.

Now our hands, totally empty, rest on our knees

like the sun over the mountain

like the mountain over the sea

like the comrade’s heart over its resolve.

These are the hands of the communists.

When they squeeze your hand you know that all

the world capitals are lighted behind the night

when they carry buckets of sea water up the hill

you know that tomorrow the sun and the sea are theirs

you know that the heavy sack with the stones feels

           light in their hands

because, always, Freedom carries half of the weight.

These are the hands of the comrades.

Empty hands, exposed veins of naked hands

like the railroad rails on the world map.

Empty hands, the line of night was erased in

          their fists.

They hold the fate of the world in their fists.

These are the hands of the comrades.

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Δικαίωση

     Ανάμεσα σε δυο παλμούς ο χώρος έπαιρνε το σχήμα του,

λες κι από κάποιον περίμενε οδηγίες. Μετά απλώθηκε το φως

πάνω στα δέντρα για πρώτη τους φορά που μάθανε

το σ’ αγαπώ εκτός κι αν μάταια είχαμε `ρθει στη ζωή.

     Το παραθυρόφυλο άνοιξε γαλάζια μάτια προς τη θάλασσα

ενώ ο σπουργίτης πέταξε πάνω απ’ το άγαλμα του Ερμή

κι αυτό ήταν μονάχα απ’ την ανάγκη του να βρει ένα σπίτι

υπαίθριο στο κίτρινο χωράφι του αγρότη.

     Ανάμεσα σε δυο φιλιά, δυο σιωπηλά στίγματα, έρχονταν

ο έρωτας να παγιδεύσει δυο κορμιά τότε που το φεγγάρι

ξεσηκώθηκε να ζητήσει συγνώμη για την τόλμη του  

και τ’ άγαλμα του Ερμή ανατρίχιασε που `δε την κοντή

φούστα της μαθήτριας, συναισθήματα στο δέρμα

που υπερέβαιναν κι η πέτρινη μορφή του αγάλματος

τις ανεκπλήρωτες επιθυμίες του εμαρτυρούσε.

~Μου αρέσουν αυτοί που σκορπάνε πριν από τα λόγια τους

 τα έργα και κάνουν πάντα πιο πολλά απ’ όσα έχουν υποσχεθεί.

Justification

Between two heart beats the space took its shape as if

it waited for guidance. Then light spread its arms over

the trees that for the first time learned to love, unless

they had come to earth in vain. The window shutters

opened their blue eyes toward the sea while a sparrow

fluttered over the Hermes statue and this was because

of its need to find a country home in the yellow field

or in the farmer’s barn.

Between two kisses, the two silent stigmata, Eros came

to trap two bodies while the moon rose and begged

for our forgiveness. The statue of Hermes shivered

when it saw the short skirt of the school girl, emotions

transcended its skin and its stony face gathered all

its unrealized longing.

I like those who gift their deeds before their words

and always do more than they promise.

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UNCLE KARAS AND HIS SON

Uncle Karas has been sick for a few days;

his moustache drooped, wilted.

A Thessaly sundown drizzles in his eyes,

a Brallos cloud crawls on his forehead.

His arms, crossed on his chest, resemble

two cut spruces in the morning mist.

Uncle Karas has a son made of flint stone.

His son has two black pigeons hidden in his

         mended shirt

for this, sometimes his smile resembles a col

         after the rain

while a broom of rays sweeps the fresh grass 

and four buffalo and a colt with its light-blue

bead and bell graze in his eyes.

We hear this bell at dawn when uncle Karas’

son boils his father’s tea or when  he takes

his father’s hand and guides him to the sunshine.

This son wraps his old father in his woollen blanket,

tidies his bed, like a young shepherd cares for his

         old sheepdog

replenishes the water in the dog’s cup

gets off the ticks and thorns.

Uncle Karas is better now

since he hears that bell in his son’s eyes and

it’s because his son hears the bell of the evening star

         behind the mountains

it’s because we are all uncle Karas’s sons, his son’s

          brothers

it’s because we’re all comrades.

Every evening the shepherd’s bell rings in the tent

and the mountain bells echo under the tents  

and uncle Karas sleeps in peace

and we’re all peaceful

only Karas’s son leans over his old father

and lights the lamp of doves over the rocks of our sleep.

Uncle Karas, don’t be afraid of anything as long as

            this lamp keeps burning.

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Flame

Moth plays

with the flame of the candle

his fingers feathery sensation

touch her fiery skin

game of entering

and exiting begins

body heat entrapping

the unsuspected visitors

enamored moth

dancing with the flame

and his soft blow

onto her feminine lips

captivate moments as

the light breeze enters

to erase the mark his tongue

left on her clit

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Poem by Dionysios Solomos

MEMORY

Stop the melodious chords

of the guitar.  

They remind me of my youth

and grieving heart,

my youth that passed

so fast before me

and left behind

not one consoling thought.

The traitor only left

a wretched meditation

that expertly foretells 

the hour of my death.

Here is the eye that craves

to see the sun again,

here the mouth that yearns

to take its final breath.
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UNCLE MITSOS

Uncle Mitsos passed.

The flashlight of Virgin Mary lights

over his rough moustache.

Uncle Mitsos sacrificed his three sons to the struggle

and his hut and his grapevine;

uncle Mitsos had nothing left: he had sacrificed his life;

he had a joy too: his sons were members of the Party.

Uncle Mitsos had a sadness too: he wasn’t a member

           of the Party,

he never signed a confession paper. They killed him.

Uncle Mitsos passed

with a big red bird in his dream

with the holy talisman of the struggle sewed on the lining

          of his coat.

If we searched his pockets we may find

a small field of wheat ears and

the shade of a poplar next to the river.

In a knot of his kerchief he had kept his

wedding ring and a cut up piece of paper

with the announcement of his son’s execution.

Uncle Mitsos, tell your son to rest in peace

you know how to tell him with your accent

tell him to rest in peace; everything leads to where

          we’ve planned.

You don’t need much, just a little stirring of

           your moustache and

he’ll know. Goodbye uncle Mitsos.

He’ll understand. Goodbye uncle Mitsos.

Leave your cane here. We need it.

We’ll make a staff for our red flag;

uncle Mitsos rest assured, a fiery red flag.

Goodbye uncle Mitsos, the flag will be red

we tell you like the blood of your children

who the fascists killed, like the blood

of all the fighters of the world.

Goodbye uncle Mitsos

goodbye comrade uncle Mitsos, don’t worry

your application was accepted by the Party.

And the light was so bright today,

strong like the oath of our Revolution

that you swear once and forever.

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