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.
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.
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
Manolis Aligizakis 