POEM BY ALEXANDRA BAKONIKA

MY BAGGAGE

Violent acts and tragedies

aren’t foreign to me

I’ve lived them as if

through fire and steel

if you search my body you will

discover their deep scars

I carry in my baggage

darkness, shadows and grief

I have certificates

introductory letters

and trials I have endured

and I can claim and enjoy

the sunlit and joyous events

the encounters and my immersion into joy

rarely experienced

become a right and gained time

I never feel guilty for euphoria felt

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Three Riders

The red horse, the white, and the jet-black.

The blonde rider with wide forehead rode

the first horse; the brunette rider with his long

eyelashes rode the second; the dead man with

his stony knees rode the third horse; They left

and the cloud was left amid the poplars.

When night fell, only the dead man returned

with a red scarf tied around his head.

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INCIDENTALLY

Exchanges and repayments. We didn’t cheat anyone.

We weren’t cheated either, no. We read clearly all

our history in the passing of a bird.

Then, of course, as always, we needed bread and

salt, the smile of a sensible woman to add

to our evening sleep in a temporary house with

three strayed dogs which barked all night long

guarding not us but the house.

That way we were guarded too until next dawn.

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Visitor

He always came

unannounced

tattering thoughts

vague smile

turning the dead

into fairies

sharpened axe

behind door

ready to severe

head from walking corpse

unless they kept secret

the name of one woman

they both once loved

before the wrath of autumn

brought the inconsolable

sobs of separation

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LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS

2023 Longlist Announcement

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.

‘Tasos Livaditis- Poems Volume 2’ – Translated by Manolis Aligizakis

POEM BY NIKIFOROS VRETTAKOS

AN ALMOND TREE AND YOU NEXT TO IT

An almond tree and you

next to it

but when did you blossom?

I stand by the window

and seeing you I cry

my eyes can’t take all

this joy

oh God, please give me

the cisterns of the sky

that I fill them all

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