UNKNOWN
The mountain, light-blue at the distance, rolls down
to the sea;
two horses rest in the shade of the church building;
the endless day vanishes in its light.
When you clapped your hands five birds flew away
from the trees;
you looked at them and forgot why you clapped:
perhaps in despair or was it perhaps a lone
clap for what you didn’t know?
Then, looking for what was to follow, you didn’t clap
again. Therefore is death so natural?
Κάποιοι διαρρηγνύουν τα ιμάτιά τους φωνάζοντας
άθλιοι της γραμμής
άθλιοι φτωχο-υπάλληλοι
ταυτοχρόνως τινάζουν την ευθύνη απ’ το παλτό τους
που τραντάζει με σεισμό τα σύμπαντα
Ξεστομίζουν τη λέξη άθλιοι
και τα δυο τους χέρια τόσο βαθιά στο σύστημα…..
Καραδοκούν με λύσσα
και φανατισμό
τελείως να ξεπλύνουν τους φόνους
σαν να μην υπήρξαν
Ας γκρεμίζει γέφυρες τ’ όνομά τους
_ ποιος είπε ότι ένα στήθος φτάνει τον κόσμο να δολοφονήσει; _
ας σωριάζονται σπίτια
ας γίνεται ως πέρα μια μαύρη κατάμαυρη γραμμή
ο ουρανός
Άθλιοι βρωμεροί εξακοντίζω την κραυγή
που φτάνει ως το Χριστό
σκάστε
άθλιοι δολοφόνοι τόσων τρυφερών καρδιών
δεν ακούτε πένθιμο της σημαίας το τραγούδι;
Μαζέψτε τα κοπρόσκυλα
των εικοσιτεσσάρων ωρών
κάψετε τελείως τα υπουργεία δολοφονίας
ω βρωμερά πλυντήρια αυτών
οι σκοτωμένοι σαν αστακοί αρματωμένοι
ανοίγουν το χορό
προτού………………….
Summer Solstice
7
The poplar in the little orchard
its breath counts your hours
day and night;
clepsydra filled by the sky
.n the moonlight’s strength its leaves
create black footprints on the white wall.
Along the border a few pine trees and
then marble and beams of light
and people the way people are created.
Yet the blackbird sings
as it comes to drink
and sometimes you hear the voice of a pigeon.
In the little orchard just ten yards
you can see the light of the sun falling on two red carnations
on an olive tree and a bit on the honeysuckle.
Accept who you are. Don’t
drown the poem in the deep plane trees
nourish it with the soil and the rock you have.
The rest of them—dig in the same place and
you may find them.
Stop
The reflection of dusk slowed over the seashore;
a dark boat, the silent fisherman, two cats of the café;
the shadow that takes the place of things; a Thursday,
a Friday, loneliness;
Saturday is defined by the same repetition.
The anchor fell at the edge of the quay noiselessly
and with a wide gesture as if to stop the stopped.
The reflection of the sea flashed for the last
time on the ring of the old woman.
Three Poems About Sorrow
III
People with age resemble stones
less sculptured
more and more of faded color.
Passing by among them
I get emotional as long as
I can help finish my day.
I pass, I hardly touch anything;
only the birds get startled
by the movement and
fly away to the blue.
I survive in compassion
dreams give me shivers
I feel numb.
And all my plans
turn into reality
what little choice I have
when I think of all
the shapes spring takes
all the possibilities of my birth
with little imagination!
Οι Πυθαγόρειοι είχαν όλα τα «κλειδιά». Στο ρυθμό της κοσμικής μουσικής που πρώτοι «άκουσαν» οι μαθηματικοί του 6ου π.Χ. αιώνα εξακολουθεί να χορεύει η σύγχρονη Κοσμολογία.
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POEM BY NANOS VALAORITIS
I’M TIRED OF LOVING YOU
I want them to auction me
I want them to put me in jail
I want to be like Sunday
when all of us eat a sweet
I want to become a goldsmith
to cover you in gold dust
I want us to go to America
to meet with Mr. Croesus
I want to travel to India
to get burnt into a deathly pyre
chanting a Buddhist sutra
to throw my bones into the Ganges
I want to travel up the Amazon
against the current — to be eaten
by a flesh eating tropical plant
chanting a magical chant
I want to look deep into your eyes
to beg you to stop
and to be bathed for the second time
in the Niagara waterfall
I want to compete with the shadow
that always follows you
I want to sail with white sails
to Europe with the unions
I want to ascend to heaven
not to think of you ever again
to sit next to the Archangel
and we both read cheap romance magazines
Breath of the Sea
It was a hot high noon. The window shutters were closed.
If the water was cool, everyone thought,
if we were naked, if the boat with its wet rope, with
strong arms on the oars, passed along the hallway
the sea breath would had already freshened them
to the edges of their ears. They undressed at once.
Sadness
He took his place among us
and locking eyes
he said: I have nothing but
a small blue window
on the bay where sheer fancy
grabs moonlit waves
star bursts laughter while
you have nothing that I want
I ferret to escape
it prods me to the exits
to the gate to chase down
crave during those days
that last twelve hours
Summer Solstice
3
And yet in this kind of sleep
the dream so easily turns
into a nightmare.
Like the fish that shone under the waves
and buried itself in the mud of the seafloor
or the chameleon when it changes color.
In the city that turned into a brothel
pimps and harlots
sell rotten charms;
the kore who came from the sea
wears the cow’s hide
to be mounted by the young bull;
the poet
ruffians throw dirt on him
as he sees the statues dripping blood.
You have to escape this sleep;
this whipped skin.
Manolis Aligizakis 