Jaime Svart, Στο Αιγαίο

ANTEDILUVIAN OESTRUS

Α

Yesterday I was in a country

that I had never experienced

though it existed there all along

like a promise that mailed me

letters with the light.

I was listening to a singing voice

— a bit of a troubadour, a bit of a Greek —

and I entered the forest.

Ah, the forest with its clogs

houses! Soon the little red riding hood

will appear and the evil wolf after her,

I said, but the wolf wasn’t as evil

and the grandmother hadn’t vanished.

She organized festivities among

the celebratory leaves and indulged

in the life of a woman like a she-wolf.

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Jens Peter Jacobsen, Ελλάδα

Ειρηναίος Βρούσγος, Τρία ποιήματα

Katerina Gogou, May 25th

Denial

Hesitant moonlight entered

to sit on the night table

outline of her conflagrated body

lain on the deserted bed

autumn breeze

a shameless raider

sneaked through

the half open window

to observe her two thighs

softly rubbing against each other

two fingers travelled over

her wet mound

involuntary conspiring wind

and window shutter

created the sorrowful creak

that brought her to consciousness

heart pulse bounced off

the gleaming mirror to fall

dead onto the carpet crying

unfair life even this dreamy

pleasure you denied me.

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Lighthouse Keeper

Other times, during the night, after I light the lamp,

I stand out on the balcony waiting for a ship not that

it was to see the lighthouse, or change its route, but

a ship that was coming here, to moor here, and not

to avoid a great danger; but with a clear destination

here; and to hear its anchor, as if a door was opening,

after being closed for a long time and into which I too

was locked; and I didn’t know how to discern the creak

of the door; I didn’t know what gesture my hands

might make, what expression my face might have. 

I already imagined the masts of the ship in balance

              with the lighthouse;

the passengers with their suitcases who jumped on

these rocks; their talk addressing me, equal to mine,

not any admiration or thankfulness at all, especially

not any gratitude, with their foreign accent, with that

foreign flair just to save ourselves; not that.

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Ράινερ Μαρία Ρίλκε, Γράμματα σε έναν νέο ποιητή

Poem by George Seferis

STROPHE

Moment, sent by a hand

that I had so much loved

you reached me almost at dusk

like a black dove.

The road shone before me

soft breath of sleep

at the end of a secret feast

moment, grain of sand,

that you alone kept

the tragic clepsydra whole

silent, as though it had seen Hydra

in the heavenly orchard.

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Justification

I strode over

fallen branches

victims of last night’s

merciless wind

I listened to music in tune

with endless perfection

when I heard

the chirp of the bird

raised my head

saw it, a chickadee

shivering, singing, laughing

on the tree limb

justification

that I was alive

this morning

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