Flies
Flies take charge of the wound
decay creeps into his nostrils
sorceress curses and in the corner
the blood-filled bucket
avenging bull wondered
what was accomplished with a death
the matador’s chest gored by right horn
deep aspirating gash where
breeze collapsed
his eloquent movements
fogged his poetic eyes
while the brassy band cheered victory:
of the bull
the matador
or the poet’s
composing this eulogy?
Poem by Tellos Agras
ON WORKING DAYS
Poor neighborhoods, abandoned corners
where deserted hearts, encased in frost,
that on a Sunday numb with cold
and sad music stand and sing for us,
tiny faces shining timidly,
lips sealed by sadness,
lips never tasting a warm kiss
except the farewell kiss,
pale begging hands,
unworthy souls in supplication,
shadowed, blinded eyes
oh, saddened urgings of mortality!
You too enrobed your death,
unfortunate, poor, graceful rose,
instead of sparkling with rosy joy,
you seemed a saint in tribulation,
your stem bent, kneeling,
praying the daily Epitaphios.
Poor neighborhoods, abandoned corners
built for pitch black frost
built for the unburied souls,
the daily souls, lonely
for the remains and Sundays
of my soul, you, secret motherland
of my soul, frigid and resembling
a tray with cross and gold confection
and in its middle the holy candle
keeping vigil in the requiem of Love.
6th Century BC Angiography
Nothing, not his Godly power nor his famous exploits, brought
him much glory as his human weakness (and he discovered it
himself and especially he admitted to it), when, crying like
a baby, with Nessus’ chiton eating his flesh, he climbed up
to the top of Oeta, on the pyre, as if he was ascending the
highest stairs.
From there he was received by the four-horse chariot,
bringing him to the thrones of the Gods, while the Nymphs were
putting down the fire, and the frightened and amazed Poeas ran
down the slope stumbling on the roots and the rocks.
CANDLES
The days of the future stand in front of us
like a line of lit candles—
golden, warm, and lively little candles.
The days of the past remain behind,
a sorrowful line of burned out candles;
the closest ones are still smoking,
cold candles, melted, and drooping.
I don’t want to look at them; their shape saddens me,
and it saddens me to remember their previous light.
I look ahead at my lit candles.
I don’t want to look back and see in horror
how fast the dark line lengthens,
how quickly the burned out candles multiply.
Picture Fontaine de Vaucluse, France, by Germain Droogenbroodt
What Else Searches The Word For . . .
What else,
searches the word for
in the sediment of the verse
if not for the impalpable
—which exists
just as the water of the river
escapes the hand
but learns its limits in the jar,
conserves its form
and refreshes
as sometimes does
a poem.
ΤΙ ΑΛΛΟ
Τί άλλο άραγε ψάχνουν να βρούν
οι λέξεις
στου στίχου το συναίσθημα
παρά το ασήμαντο
που υπάρχει
σαν το νερό του ποταμού
που γλυστρά μέσα απ’τα δάχτυλα
και στο ποτήρι εγκλωβίζεται
και διατηρεί το φόρμα του
που πάντα ενεργοποιεί
όπως το ποίημα
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis
Painting by Graça Marques
ΣΠΑΣΜΕΝΟΙ
Οι καθρέφτες
αλλόκοτοι και στην πίσω μεριά τους
κιτρινισμένα ονόματα
τα χνάρια μας σβυσμένα
το εγώ σου
το εσύ μου
—το αόρατο μονοπάτι—
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη/translated by Manolis Aligizakis
BROKEN
all the mirrors,
disfigured even on the reverse side
one’s own name undeveloped,
our footsteps faded,
your I
my you
—invisible trail—
survive us.
Rafael Carcelén, Spain (Chinchilla, 1961).
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.
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
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.
Manolis Aligizakis 