Deluge
Tears of my family filled
creeks and rivers that flowed
against the ancient balance
and suddenly what was valuable
turned into a consumeristic parody
deluge that roared along
evaluations of the ancient wisdom
and the gardenia’s faint smile
the finch’s soft murmur, scent
of the night flower became
their annulled paradise
and the peace of their souls
sunken deep in the deep bog
and in the shadow of illusion
Humbleness
II
Grief is welcomed from your hands, she wrote to him;
I kiss your empty cigarette packages stored in the good
side of the chest. I have kept a curly hair from your
underarm, my son, my master, and I place all my hardships
there and I relax, my boy and if it isn’t much to ask, please
send me a bag of sugar so I can bake the cookies you like
come Easter time.
ON AN ITALIAN SHORE
Kimos, son of Menedoros, a Greek—Italian youth,
spends his life having a good time;
as is customary for such young men
from Greater Greece who are raised in riches.
But today he is despite his nature
quite gloomy and disheartened. Near the shoreline,
in utmost melancholy, he sees the ships
unloading their spoils from the Peloponnese.
Loot from Greece; spoils from Corinth.
Ah, today, of course it is not expected,
it is not possible for this Greek—Italian youth
to desire any amusement at all.
Return of the Émigré
—My old friend, what are you looking for?
after years in foreign lands you’ve come back
with images you’ve nourished
under foreign skies
away from your country.
—I’m looking for my old garden
the trees reach to my waist
and the hills resemble terraces
yet when I was a child
I played on the grass
under the great shadows
and I ran for hours breathless over the slopes.
—My old friend, rest
little by little you’ll get used to it;
together we shall climb
on your well known paths
we shall rest together
under the dome of plane trees
little by little they’ll come to you
your orchard and your slopes.
—I’m looking for my old house
with the tall windows
darkened by the ivy
I’m looking for the ancient column
looked up by the seaman.
How can I walk into this sheepfold?
Roofs reach to my shoulders
and everywhere I look
I see kneeling people
as though praying.
—My old friend, don’t you hear me?
Little by little you will get used to it
your house is the one you see and
this door your friends will come and knock to
welcome you back tenderly.
—Why is your voice so distant?
Raise your head a bit that
I may understand you as you speak you gradually
grow smaller as though
you sink into the ground.
—My old friend, think a while
little by little you’ll get used to it
your nostalgia has created an nonexistent country, with laws
beyond the earth and people.
—I can not hear anything anymore
my last friend has sunk
strange how often enough everything around here sinks
here thousands of scythe chariots
run and mow everything down.
Billy Alexander, Vintage Envelope3
Αντρέ, εγώ δεν ήθελα να έρθω να μείνω στο διαμέρισμά σου στην οδό Σουιπάτσα. Όχι τόσο για τα κουνελάκια, μάλλον επειδή με θλίβει να εισέρχομαι σε μια τάξη κλειστή, εγκαθιδρυμένη ως τα πιο λεπτά πέπλα του αέρα, αυτά που στο σπίτι σου διατηρούν τη μουσική της λεβάντας, το φτερούγισμα μιας πουδριέρας σε σχήμα κύκνου, το παιχνίδι του βιολιού και της βιόλας στο κουαρτέτο του Ραρά. Με πικραίνει να μπαίνω σε έναν χώρο όπου κάποιος που ζει ωραία έχει τακτοποιήσει τα πάντα σαν μια ορατή επανάληψη της ψυχής του, εδώ τα βιβλία (από τη μια μεριά τα ισπανικά, από την άλλη τα γαλλικά και τα αγγλικά), εκεί οι πράσινες μαξιλάρες, σε αυτή τη συγκεκριμένη θέση στο τραπεζάκι το κρυστάλλινο τασάκι που μοιάζει με κομμένη σαπουνόφουσκα, και πάντα ένα άρωμα, ένας ήχος, φυτά που μεγαλώνουν, μια φωτογραφία του πεθαμένου φίλου, τελετουργικό δίσκων με τσάι και λαβίδες για τη…
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Catharsis
And time for my catharsis came
vague redeemer that I was holding up
my body erected next to the icons
before the whip took aim at my back
feeble churchgoers had kneeled
nightingale started its composition
no one ever knew what it meant
yet deep in their consciousness
a glimmer of hope shone
like a soul lost in darkness
and begged for its deliverance
when time for my catharsis came
Γράφει ο Bill Hunchback
Με τον Θεόδωρο Μπασιάκο γνωριστήκαμε ένα βράδυ «ποιήσεως στο δρόμο». Αυτό έγινε στο ουζερί της Τζένης στα κάτω Πατήσια κατά τη διάρκεια μιας βραδιάς που είχα οργανώσει εκεί πριν από 7-8 χρόνια βλέποντας ότι η ποίηση και γενικότερα η λογοτεχνία στη χώρα μας έχει εξοκείλει σε μια ακαδημαϊκού χαρακτήρα μικρο-ομάδα αλληλοχαϊδευόμενων αστών που προπληρώνουν τα έργα τους ώστε να μπορούν μετά να μιλούν για αυτά με μια ελαφρά (ή βαρύτερη) κομπορρημοσύνη και να χρησιμοποιούν δύσκολες, δήθεν, λέξεις ή συντακτικές κορδέλες για να δικαιολογήσουν την ομάδα και τον εαυτό τους εντός της.
Ό,τι πιο φρικτό για την τέχνη και τη Μούσα το βρίσκω αυτό. Την αγιαστούρα της συντεχνίας. Τους κύκλους…
Εκείνη η πρώτη βραδιά ήταν ένα σκληρό ρίσκο για το οποίο καλό ήταν να έχει κανείς χαλκό στα έντερα και στο στομάχι, καθότι εννοείται πως η επίθεση υπήρξε αμείλικτη, ειρωνική και, ως συνήθως, ψίθυρος από μακριά με…
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Separation
With teary eyes I stared
at the woman
dressed in black with
her well-made hair
silver pin holding it up
surprise of the day
my sigh in the air
when she came near me
with open arms
as if to embrace
the whole world
that imperceptible laughter
on her lips burnt me
when she leaned
to kiss me
for the last time
His Last Profession
This is it – he says – my last profession – one villager’s
handkerchief large with blue and white squares
I unfold it I fold it I wipe off my sweat
or even my eyes sometimes Here I gather my belongings
some books one armchair my cigarettes the lighter
the magnifying glass for shaving and the other one
a size reducer as if to look at unpleasant things
or those others that they call unachievable
In this handkerchief
exactly in the middle there is a hole Through there
during the darker nights the secret bird comes in
my bird hops on my shoulder or my knee
and feeds me with an ear of grain with a star or with a worm
Poem by Gesthemani Sideridis
ROUTINE
And the routine that wage war evaporates
naturally and without special choices
with coffee and cigarettes
the smoke comes from the East
like clacking
all the rest are from here, local
the television promotes our habits
what is blood, you may ask me
red fluid that makes a mess
therefore I see the messy landscape daily
as I have coffee and cigarettes
the lies smell through the windows here
and treason’s everywhere
it’s the same, you may say
here simply
the blood is messing noiselessly
Manolis Aligizakis 