CRAFTSMAN OF WINE BOWLS

On this wine bowl,    made of pure silver 

for the house of Heracleides,

where excellent taste    reigns—

look, here are elegant flowers    and streams and thyme,

and in the middle I placed    a beautiful young man,

naked, erotic;    he still has one of his calves

in the water—.    I prayed, Oh Memory,

to find you as my best    helper, so that I might make

the face of the young man    I loved as it was.

It was very difficult though    as it has been

almost fifteen years   since the day

he fell, a soldier,    in the defeat at Magnesia.

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Sunrise

Suddenly it was sunrise

a new day

full of vigor and stamina

all comrades woke staring

at each other, counting bodies

that moved instead of the motionless,

let them be cursed  

let them keep away from us;

then the sergeant came

and called our names

it wasn’t strange that we answered

except the dead laid in the ditch

in gray sacks like rotten potatoes

no one dared deal with

and the sun, unerring

overlooking, stood high up

in the horizon like a mother

who counted one by one her children

she hid her eyes from

this unspeakable spectacle

then a moment

of silence was called for

the ones who could no longer breathe

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12

Judgement Hour

So many dead people

while they’re alive.

So many alive

while they’re dead.

You sit on the chair

you count your buttons.

To whom do you belong?

Who are you?

What are you doing?

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V

Finally, could it be

an unfamiliar mechanism

or shall we remember the beginning

as we return to the exit?

Perhaps like the water,

the soil, the sperm, necessary things,

which because of their exaggeration

they might choke you,

you die

when your life becomes excessive?

The young man laughed

and it was like all His promises

in a moment of weakness

God

looked at him.

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ΦΑΙΔΡΑ/PHAEDRA

(Απόσπασμα-Excerpt XXXΙΙ)

Έχω συχνά διακρίνει πρόσωπα νεκρών, γδαρμένα,
όχι αιμάτινα πια, αλλά κατάχλωμα,
αμαρτωλά, κι αδιάφορα τώρα, να επικάθονται
επάνω στην ψυχρή τους χρυσή προσωπίδα.
Αυτά
που ’χαν πολύ μαρτυρήσει και πολύ ψευστεί (για ν’ αποφύγουν ίσως
να ομολογήσουν το μαρτύριό τους), αυτά
είναι τα πρόσωπα θαρρώ των Αγίων.

Α, μη νομίσεις πως ζητώ να μπω και γω στη χορεία τους
και πως γι’ αυτό τους εγκωμιάζω. Όχι, όχι. Εγώ ομολόγησα. Το άγιο,
το ταπεινό το ψεύδος δεν το κράτησα. Το προσωπείο
το ’σκισα και το πέταξα μπροστά στα πόδια σου· δεν το διατρύπησα,
δεν το υπερκάλυψα με το πρόσωπό μου. Ωστόσο και τώρα
θα ’θελα να σ’ το ξαναπώ: την αγιότητα πριν απ’ την αμαρτία δεν την πιστεύω.

I have often discerned faces of dead persons, scratched,

not bloodied anymore, very pale though, sinful, indifferent,

that sit over their frozen, golden mask.

These,

who had suffered a lot and had lied a lot (in order to avoid,

perhaps, to disclose their suffering), I believe these are

the faces of Saints.

Ah, don’t think that I praise these so I can be in their

company, not at all. I just confess. I haven’t retained any

sainthood, humbleness, or lies. I ripped and threw 

the mask in front of your feet; I didn’t perforated it,

I didn’t cover it with my face. Yet I’d like to repeat:

I don’t believe in sainthood before the sin.

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POEM BY CHLOE KOUTSOUBELIS

THE TICKET

I purchased a train ticket

to come and find you.

So simple to get onto a train

with the operator, the money collector, other passengers

rails touching the ground

and all stops pre-announced.

I forgot how black the train of love is.

It burns coal and every hope

with a blind eye and a gaping mouth

an orchid engine forever hungry

it groans rhythmically

like a gigantic serpent

in and out the fearful tunnels. 

I forgot how lonely the train of love is.

The inspector often

validates the tickets

and the money collector

a wax resemblance

always waiting at the station.

I purchased a train ticket

to come and find you.

As if I didn’t know the voyage is always the same

and who to look for in the deserted station.

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