Κανένας δεν ψάχνει για τις λέξεις.
Μία εύκολη ρίμα, ένα πρόχειρο ρήμα.
Σχέσεις πριν γίνουν υπόσχεση.
Άνθρωποι πριν γίνουν τοπία.
Αφρικάνικα σύνορα, ανταλλάξιμες μοναξιές.
Τσιγάρα πριν γίνουν φεγγάρι.
Δεν είναι πια μυστικό.
Κάτω από όλους αυτούς τους τόνους
καθημερινής τρέλας και αηδίας
κρύβεται μια σπαρακτική σιωπή.
*Πάρθηκε από εδώ: https://enaetsi.wordpress.com/2023/06/21/7325/#like-7325
Poem by Chloe Koutsoubelis
Penelope
She knows by now
the Sirens are not fools
they sing thinking of creating art
nor the old Circe
in her lust
hidden in windbags forever sealed
nor the misbehaving Nausica
trapped in the wrong age
in white socks and childish dresses.
Nor the Lestrygonians nor the lotus
that keep him away from her.
Nor Poseidon’s petty angers
and the mix-ups with his old companions.
Penelope knows by now
her last message will remain unanswered,
they’ll never talk to each other again,
logic compels him to stay away from her,
all over her
suitors drink raki
and roll like lions in the arena
males who sniff lust
and with their arrows define space.
And Odysseus?
Penelope doesn’t remember of him anymore.
Only that one night she slept with a stranger
and when she asked of his name
he answered: ‘I’m No one’
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Possible Deformities
They placed the mirror inside the box
They covered the box with a blanket
Now they could move around freely
they could cough gesture kneel
pour water convincingly in the vase
with large paper flowers However they stayed silent
weak-willed sorrowful motionless from fear that perhaps the
mirror spied on them intensely from depths presenting
their idols as gigantic disproportional upside down
with gigantic feet and without any heads
ΟΝΕΙΡΑ ΣΤΟΝ ΑΔΗ
Το άδειο ποτήρι του νεκρού είναι·
μην τσουγκρίζεις μαζί του.
Σταγόνα δεν πέρασε ποτέ
Νέκυια σε ονόμασαν παλιά και Άδη
και Τάρταρα της Γης έγκατα λυώνοντας
τα κόκκαλα όσων έζησαν στο πάνω Φως·
Ου Τόπος
που με πουλιά κι ανθούς
χαράματα και δειλινά και νύχτες μαγικές
τον τραβούσαν κάτω – όλα πονούν εδώ μονολογούσε
(υπάρχουν πετούμενα στον Άδη; Γιατί
δεν απαντούν οι λέξεις;)
Αν πρόλαβε κάποιο κερί ν’ ανάψει
λίγο κατόπιν έσβησε στον άνεμο
τρεμούλιασε η λάμψη του και χάθηκε οριστικά
από ανίκητο μαύρο του θανάτου.
…Καιρός των θηρίων πάλι.
(Θεσσαλονίκη, 22.2.2016)
~~..~~
ΤΟ ΧΙΟΝΙ
Φαρμακωμένα τα γηρατειά ψέματα λένε
Δεν άνοιγαν τα χείλη του πώς να μιλήσει
σαν κάτι μεταξύ ζωής και θανάτου –
κοσκίνιζε το χιόνι ο ουρανός
χειμώνα καιρό δίσεκτα χρόνια
το φόρτωνε στα μονοπάτια της σιωπής
τώρα λευκά τα ρόδα τ’ ουρανού στο χώμα
κάτω από το πέλμα της περαστικής ζωής
εκεί που…
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17th DAY or ANOTHER DAY
Quietness on the first line today
only they didn’t mention how many
scorched bodies they buried in the sand.
I wondered whether the desert
rejects corpses of foreigners
like our desolate bodies.
Twilight. I read letters from
the days between the two World Wars.
Pasternak, Rilke, Tsvetayeva
correspond and kiss each other with words
not knowing whether they’ll ever meet.
Owls
He climbed up stairs
wearing an empty saucepan
on his head he wanted to call
the muses over let them
spread benevolence and arts
to rabble but the gardenias
folded up and the finches balked
so without any followers
he stood
looking down as less and less
men remained in the plaza until
he plied his speech and rats
started dancing and the owls
who know wisdom shut
their eyes in embarrassment
SOPHIST LEAVING SYRIA
Distinguished sophist you, who are now leaving Syria
planning to write about Antioch
it is commendable to refer to Mevis in your work.
The famous Mevis who is undeniably
the handsomest young man and most loved
in all of Antioch. No other young man
leads the same life, none is paid
as much as he is. To have Mevis
only two, or three days often they give him
as much as one hundred staters.— I said, in Antioch;
but also in Alexandria, even in Rome
there is no young man as desired as Mevis.
ΑΠΝΟΙΑ
Στον πάπυρο της πεταλούδας
Η απόσταξη των τοπίων.
ΣΑΡΚΩΣΗ
Σε χάδι μωβ κυλά η Άνοιξη
Και στης καρδιάς το φύλλο
Ανεμοπύρωμα η βροχή
Βαθύ πουλί
Χώμα το χώμα
Σπόρο το σπόρο
Κραυγή την κραυγή
Καρφώνει στεφάνι.
ΑΚΟΥΩ ΤΟ ΚΡΙΘΑΡΙ ΤΗΣ ΓΗΣ
Ακούω το κριθάρι της γης
Στις καλύβες του κάμπου.
Ας πιούμε τη μοσχοβολιά μιας μέρας
Σ’ αυτό το καταφύγιο της λυχνισμένης νύστας.
ΓΥΜΝΟ ΠΟΔΙ, ΦΥΛΛΟ ΕΞΟΧΙΚΟ
Ω γυμνό πόδι, φύλλο εξοχικό,
Πώς ξεδιψάς το καλοκαίρι στο κορμί,
Σε θαλασσινό αφρό
Πουρπουρίζει το στήθος σου.
Μη μου μιλήσεις! μη σε τελειώσω.
*Από τη συλλογή “Η γραφή και το μαχαίρι” που συμπεριλαμβάνεται στο συλλογικό “Ποιήσεις 1963-2003”, εκδ. Γαβριηλίδης, Αθήνα 2004.
GYPSIES
The gypsies live next to the cemetery,
with no horses, moulded
with this soil which they don’t desire.
Funeral processions pass by their tents
the trees point to the same sky
and the creek where they meet is a rubbish dump.
What happened to the guitars
the river, the horse rider?
Something flashes, two knives, two bodies
the cop whistles — no, it’s nothing.
The gypsies have regular ID papers these days.
They talk their language around
the heating bucket every evening:
how was the day, what they bought,
what they sold and the dead
in their graves don’t understand them.
The dead speak the language of the dead
they want someone to tell their future
no one understands them.
What happened to the guitars,
the river, the horse rider?
Each of us wants something
while we speak our own language.
POEM BY IOULITA ILIOPOULOS
LONG BED
A line of baby cribs. Large windows properly shut.
Dim light. Neither my baby nor lullaby.
Only some older people whisper under the blankets
there was a ship, there was a ship that never travelled
under the mattress and in the place of a talisman
the yearning of a mother who, may still come.
To bring the hug. To bring the true home in his embrace.
Manolis Aligizakis 