REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES

We and Hercules

Great and glorious, they tell you, son of God, and a lot

       of teachers over him,

old Linus, son of Apollo, to educate him, Eurotos who

taught him the art of archery, Eumolpus, son of Philemon

taught him to sing and play the lyre but most important,

Hermes’ son, Arpalycos, with half of his forehead covered by

his thick, huge eyebrows, taught him the art of the Argeans:

tripping, with which he could win most things, in wrestling,

        boxing, even in the Letters.

 However, we, sons of mortals, without teachers, only with

        our own will

with patience and struggle became who we became. We haven’t

felt inferior we never lowered our eyes. Our only diplomas three

words: Makronisos, Yaros, Leros. And if one day you find our

verses clumsy, remember they were written under the noses

of the guards, and with the spear always poking our side. Our

verses don’t need any excuses either, take them as they are, naked.

A dry Thucydides will touch you more than the artsy Xenophon.

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THE BRIDGE (Excerpt)

But then you feel how suspicious this movement appears

             to be

in the darkness nailed by stars, with the metallic sound

             of keys

like swords clashing high up in the air of invisible gladiators

             or horsemen

with this dark, huge mouth of the safe

that gapes open in the night while piles of coins, from

strange places and time shine in its bottom,

gold bars like huge nails for a crucifixion; stacks of paper bills

like secret playing cards of Fate. And all those who for

a moment accepted your offer, will throw their coins

on cobblestones soon after you turn your head, yet the coins

don’t make any sound; they’ll try to decipher the numbers

and seals of the bills, but they can’t be deciphered in

            the amazing darkness,

so they throw them back at your feet again and leave.

And you remain alone with all your trampled wealth

alone in front of the magnetic open mouth of the empty

             safe

alone before the uncovered hole of chaos,

one of your arms half-raised,

in a half-completed pose of theatrical generosity,

like the statue of a hero whose heroism

proved to be wrong after his death — or like an

         endless effort

to become a statue that you won’t collapse on the ground;

a statue that in vain keeps, like a cluster of grapes,

the unacceptable keys of a paradise.

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