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.
Manolis Aligizakis 