REPETITIONS SECOND SERIES

The End of Dodoni I

We had the altars, our churches, the oracles. With

our own eyes we had seen the golden she-dove and

the axe of the lumberjack falling on the ground. Secret

voices — the leaves, the birds and the fountain, told us

what to do, what not to. The enchantresses with their

cauldrons and the coffee cup were a good support. And

over the deep-voiced oak.

                                    We too had somewhere to go, to

ask about the sheep, our children, the pomegranate tree,

the one-eyed cow; about the donkey, the orchard,

the casserole. And always the same answer, (as it changed

each time it was given in the same tone:) certain, firm,

commanding, irreversible. We relaxed somewhat —

others had the responsibility of deciding for success or

failure. We only had the submission and execution, and

our lowered eyes.

                            Now

everything is reversed, altars, churches, cemeteries.

The bones thrown in the street. They burned down

the holy oak — our confidant. We have no one to ask,

no one to trust. Arkis walks around the agora with the

bloodied axe on his waist; there is no golden fluff from

the sacrificed oracle-giving dove that shivers on the kitchen

skylight or on the dusty oleanders; only the denial water

that drips in the empty stable late at night, and it is quiet

an ambivalent quietness like the first one, like the last.

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 Picture Germain Droogenbroodt

Poetry Day*

So grey
this cold winter morning.

Within sight the monotony
of by passing cars

Behind it
the sea devoid of the sun
disconsolate and dull
like this inspirationless morning

Poetry Day.

Germain Droogenbroodt

ΜΕΡΑ ΠΟΙΗΣΗΣ

Γκρίζο πρωί

κρύο χειμωνιάτικο πρωί

κι η μονοτονία

περαστικών αυτοκινήτων

στην άλλη μεριά του πρωινού

η θάλασσα στερημένη ήλιου

θολή και απαρηγόρητη

σαν το ανέμπνευστο πρωί

Μέρα ποίησης

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Μάρω Βαμβουνάκη – Η μοναξιά είναι από χώμα

THE WINDOWS

In these dark rooms where I spend

leaden days, I go up and down

looking for the windows.—To open

one would be a great consolation.—

But they are nowhere to be found, or I can not

find them. And perhaps it is better that I don’t.

Perhaps their light will be a new tyranny.

Who knows what it will reveal?

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Poem by Kostas Hatzopoulos

BLURRY EVENING

The evening comes, blear

and sad and faint,

my pain’s but your caress

since you believe I hurt

it tells your legend

softly to the evening

and cries as it narrates

like the echo of a song

or like a bell that breaks

with a slow, soft weeping

as it calls me to the street

and I call you too.

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  Engraving Elke Rehder

Christmas

Since the sky is empty
the earth has become fuller
With a thousand electric stars
and bargains with which retailers lure

Shepherds preach long
instead of angels sing the CDs
Even without the three sages
there are royal gifts

However, a child is born
the Messiah is not present
Anyway, it is a man who wishes
that heaven would not be so empty.

Georg Schwikart, Germany (1964)

ΧΡΙΣΤΟΥΓΕΝΝΑ

Άδειασε ο ουρανός και γέμισε η γη

χιλιάδες ηλεκτρικά φώτα

και προσφορές να ελκύσουν τον πελάτη

οι ποιμένες μακρολογούν

σαν άγγελοι οι δισκέττες τραγουδούν

και δίχως μάγους

τα βασιλικά δώρα προσφέρονται

Κι όμως, ένα βρέφος γεννήθηκε

ο Μεσίας απουσιάζει

κι ο άνθρωπος παρακαλεί

να ξαναγεμίσει ο Παράδεισος

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη// translated by Manolis Aligizakis

REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES

Danae

Perhaps her surrender in the bronze basement brought the attention

and the favor of the God. So much lust all those nights, so much

        freedom

in her narrow prison cell — the golden rain, the golden

         touching

thus gleaming totally naked, golden too, her sandals gleamed

         in the corner

and she was filling her old water pitcher with moon water.

                                                                                           Danae,

silent for nine months, incubating silence and shine, had

retained her eyes closed — so not a single ray, of that great

brilliance, would escape her. Then, the giggle of the baby and

his cry reached the ears of Acrisius.

                                                        And now, enclosed in a box,

both mother and the baby were thrown into the sea from where

the waves brought them to the shores of Serifos. But perhaps,

that way, from within the bronze basement, from inside the box,

the gleaming deed of most handsome Perseus popped up —

the severed head of Medusa which petrified our enemies.

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Αρχίζουν οι εργασίες στον Τύμβο Καστά – Διακόπτονται οι επισκέψεις

Words

As many

before me,

I wrote I love you
in the wet sand

and also drew there

a heart.

As many

before me,

I saw how the waves

washed away the words

and bit-by-bit

the heart.

 

The words were mine,

but whose was

the heart?

 

Petar Tchouhov, Bulgaria 1961-

English translation by the author & Stanley Barkan

 

 

                                                          ΛΕΞΕΙΣ

                                             Τόσες λέξεις στο νου μου

                                              Έγραψα στη νωπή άμμο

                                                        σ’ αγαπώ

                                                     εκεί σχεδίασα

                                                     και μια καρδιά

                                                        Τόσες λέξεις

                                                    κι είδα τα κύματα

                                                  να σβύνουν τις λέξεις

                                                       κι αργά αργά

                                                      και την καρδιά

                                                    οι λέξεις δικές μου

                                                μα τίνος ήταν η καρδιά;

                     Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη/translated by Manolis Aligizakis

 

Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards

2023 Longlist Announcement

And time, always, turns

two people who love each other passionately

into two strangers indifferent to each other

who go to sleep alone, in different beds

and people meet and separate

without taking anything from one another,

because love is the most difficult way to get

           to know someone.

You remember, don’t you? We felt so warm

among the crowd as we walked filling the streets.

Our hands touched, our voices hugged in the songs

a strong light dripped off our flags that were

           up front

and off our dead who we had left behind.

Then finally the charge was successful, we got

in the city shouting and blowing the bridges;

we had meetings, chose revolutionary committees

and we existed among the flashes of fires,

the firings and the wind that was bringing

           the first autumnal leaves.

Because people, comrade, live from the moment

they find their place

in the life of others.

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