Saving Fall

You’ll carry on with the conversation – you who so often

stopped at the meaning of pause or pauses carrying on

the old dilapidated pushcart (with the dignity of a responsible

day laborer of course)

the furniture of the poor student (who honored you with his

choice)

from one basement to the other or the loft on Periandros Street

being careful as you carried down the narrow rotten stairs

the two unmatched chairs so that they wouldn’t scratch the wall

because the stony merciless landlady stood at the top

behind the railing with crossed arms observing you

when you tumbled down the stairs and landing on the ground you

simply sat on one chair having the other chair on your head

upside down like a strange impenetrable helmet

with four antennae or four legs raised in the sun

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WHAT POETRY GIVES, WHAT IT TAKES

What does poetry give and what does it take?

When under the weight of a cloud

all your internal body parts lean sideway

when one glance scratches old wounds

when a new handicap opens new wounds

when the sky’s lanterns shine

at a close distance to your future

and when the pieces of life you’ve saved aren’t enough

when a sorrow that hasn’t yet come tyrannizes you

when pain has neither name nor color

then poetry touches your forehead like a soft hand

and convinces you of your special purpose

that your verse won’t end with your life

that poetry if the accountability of your soul.

Then you take the pen

and you think of being one

with beauty and immortality.

But what sacrifice is poetry asking of you?

What does it want in return?

Only one thing.

Don’t demand anything

of the soil you walk on

you don’t expect reality to reward you

nor to enrich you

with infinite ties nor to become

the way you wish it to be.

You better crave only one thing:

that reality will remain around you and that

you’ll love it being there

even if it is frowning, even if it is grumpy.

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Execution Squad

Since everyone always liked to know

where they belonged, the Fates played their role:

not only they embroidered everyone’s history

but they also helped externalize one’s true self

that stood opposite the Abyss and we took

up arms to fight against our virtues, to obliterate

all our golden grace that we would stand naked

before the intuition that sprang up from deep

within us and from the lips of our initiate.

And since the desperate were afraid of inexistent

ghosts, new curses and dirty etiquettes,

we drew images of the Inferno on snow white pages

and we presented the gleaming Purgatory to keep

them eager to learn and blindfolded before

the execution squad.

And this, He said, was good and just.

I like those who resemble heavy drops of rain that

slowly fall from the black clouds which cover men.

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AFTER THE DEMONSTRATION

Protect yourselves from the panic that

spreads soon after blood stains the asphalt

protect yourselves from the club of the cop

the accusation of the informer

from the indifferent crowd

who will fill the streets again

protect yourselves from the spring, the following summer

the travel arrangements and personal reveries

from the two future husbands 

who argue where the dead people were laid

protect yourselves from the poets

who steal verses from graves of the unknown.

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Poem by George Vizyenos

ANEMONE

A boulder on the hill

alone can see

the creek that flows

before it sings its song.

The anemone that blooms

rooted firmly on the rock

attempts to grasp

the meaning of the song

and down it bends to hear,

leaving its rocky anchor

to know what song is sung

by that fast-flowing creek?

It sings of an embrace

that waits with open arms

to hold a lover ardently

at night on a golden shore.

If only, said the flower,

that embrace were mine,

and leaning further down

to touch the rapid current

as it leaned enough to see

the water in its speed

stripped it of its petals

and down the stream it went.

Now without petals

the stem stands in loneliness.

Ah, why, ah, why did that anemone

deserted its anchor in the rock?

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REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES

Many Men

This year the judges lost it — they don’t know who

          to recognize —

(wasn’t the same other years?) surprised, naked bodies

gleam in the sunshine and the sweat adds beauty and shine

as it rolls down the chin and temples, the legs, the belly and

          the chest.

To whom the bull or the wreath belong? this thigh, these

knees, the ischium; this panel of judges measure, weight,

search, become absentminded and this sun strikes with

power, it blinds you. To resort to the solution of a draw

        or a tie?

The marble sparkles, the toenails of men, the nipples;

the temples buzz. A broken water pitcher. The flowers

of the wreath at the podium already wilted. The tied bull

moos. The twilight comes. The judges delay a lot.

However the people don’t seem to mind — they observe

silently and as if saddened. At one point they come to

their senses, they exchange a couple of words — an

out of tune, forced laughter is heard, then it stops abruptly.

Oh, we understood well: the embarrassment was justified;

no worries; let’s postpone all other disciplines for

tomorrow of the day after tomorrow, or let’s cancel them

        all together —

all the events stop here.

                                   And we should, ah, yes, with no

delay; the city will declare a new order: the burial processions

will be forbidden from passing in front of the Stadium because,

thus, death loses its force and its right analogies — no one

pays attention to the dead anymore and perhaps the dead

        might get angry.

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Πώς επηρεάζει η ομορφιά τη ζωή μας

Poem by George Vizyenos

PARABLE

The morning star can never shine

as you when you appear, joy-giving lass

nor does the green clover have as much

as you have freshness on your sweetened lips

nor do the flowers of narcissus have

such fragrance as your lightest breath

nor does the bird know how to sing such

sweet songs as your inventive lips.

One only it can’t learn—to sing I love you—

and for this, I dare to say, another soul may die.

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Lighthouse Keeper

Quite often I imagine the passengers’ hands lighted

by my lamp as if they were turned golden from

the breath of a distant friendship. I also imagine, when

they jump onto the quay and their relatives greet them,

that some of them squeeze my hands; and more so, that

the small locks of their suitcases have retained the light

of this lighthouse like small icons, beautiful and well

kept because of my care and vigil.

There’s always a way for us to give something and

perhaps we might identify with what we give: there

will always be a colour that will blend in our glance

each morning. This is what I wanted to emphasize

and sign like a letter without any date and with no

                 recipient.

Now, I’ll better keep quiet and light our lamp.

Wait for me. Two minutes. I won’t be long.

Wait.

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Whispers

Whispers

their song silking through

maiden pubic hair

their lust searching for

tender vulva

Whispers

rhythmic resonance

in kiss of fingers

and their excitable hunt for

youthful consummation

Whispers

movement of legs

under the light bed sheet

impelling space between

a raised leg and the angled one

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