LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS
VIOLIN FOR THE ONE-ARM MAN
7
A lot of these things, of course, or one part of the room
are imaginary since man prefers to be always sad and
don’t give me a hard time, I choose to be poor out
of respect (let us not to include all the Sundays);
though now I recuperate or iron old receipts or
I light the gas heater or I stand outside the Observatory
begging for some rain.
When it rains they all vanish and no one can see you
or better, I hold a newspaper so I don’t scare
the shadows,
and I always maintain my correspondence regarding
faraway issues;
it’s simple: you sit at the steps of the bridge in spite
of all dignity and finally it always appears, since
I had the strength not to defend myself, only just
a bit quieter, my God keep it a bit quieter,
and not that all these futile days ended.
I pretended to be indifferent while, on the side of my
eyes I observed the slip that lurks under the carpet,
however how can they see us clearly; us who search
for God
and this phrase is so good I must make a note of it;
and let every opportunist who insists my mother died
go to hell while I, each evening, sit quietly in the garden;
therefore I managed to live half of each day since I
was often all alone and again the victim or I was
chased by the milkman even after the nightmare
although they didn’t care for this which was a fantastic
indulgence like the smell of a drawer that is our most
personal history or like a lamp in an empty room is
the only witness of the deluge and no one will ever
find out why I sit here, behind this door for years,
wrapped with the bed cover, hiding my clumsy foot
that led me out of the world.
Manolis 