REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES

The Apples of the Hesperides I

We never liked the demi-gods, the gods, the super-heroes,

         the over-complicated myth

with the many angles, we couldn’t get to its meaning.

We simply guessed it hid many trivial things; it lacked

that clear nakedness of the unknown and inexplicable. But

we liked the locale, where the day meets the night and

the apple trees, full of blossoms, turn white in the twilight

or get heavy with their golden apples. We also liked how

the Argonauts saw from their ship a bit beyond the lake

Tritonida, the corpse of the Dragon and the sad Hesperides.

         But most of all

we liked that little pillow which Hercules asked to rest

his head from the weight of the Cosmos; this little

cunningness, so human, that had defeated the ill-will

of Atlas, revealed all the myth to us and graced it with

such a vague, familiar, an almost esthetic brilliance.

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OCEAN’S MARCH (Excerpt VII)

Venerable heart

unsuspecting childish heart

who never refuses

We were stretching our arms

to gather star flowers

to gather the stars of our pulse

replying to the sea voices

to hold onto Beauty’s dress

traveling toward infinity

through the path designed on the pelagos

by the immense summer moon

At noon we wrestled naked on the sand

with the wet bodies of twelve-year-olds

more for embracing than for the win

more for the wresting than the win

only for the victory

Salty hair

sunburned thighs

waves splashing on a kiss

the sea just further than a spasm

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RECIPE FOR LIFE

I thin up the ancient horror

in dreams that last seconds

the daily panic

with a momentary heaven.

I systematically hate the excess:

let me miss the train, I say

but running careful not to break

the water pitcher

with the little joy that has

remained in its bottom.

The indignation

that more and more boils

for something I didn’t betray, 

though I lost

for the defeat that appeared

as victory,

I place in the air to cool off

the way nature has coordinated.

The murderous sorrow

of everything that I loved and is alive

though they doesn’t matter to me anymore

I pass through the time machine

and I lightly dust with thickened sorrow

the evening meal

which life still serves.

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ΠΡΑΓΜΑΤΕΙΑ ΠΕΡΙ ΕΘΕΛΟΔΟΥΛΙΑΣ