ΠΡΑΓΜΑΤΕΙΑ ΠΕΡΙ ΕΘΕΛΟΔΟΥΛΙΑΣ

Poem by Miltos Sachtouris

NIGHT OF THE FORGOTTEN

This man

with the hard words

in the night

without his voice

comes and calls you

you severed one of your arms

you, forgotten one

you cut off one of your breasts

you, forgotten one

he comes and calls you

you don’t have eyes anymore

you, forgotten one

he comes and calls you

you go,

forgotten one,

groping

into the black water wells

you don’t burn

your kiss

you don’t fall

in the well

you don’t control

your blood

when he leans

heavy over you

to take one of

his fingers

to make the nights

yours

to turn dawn

whole again

beautiful again

the dawn

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REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES

We and Hercules

Great and glorious, they tell you, son of God, and a lot

       of teachers over him,

old Linus, son of Apollo, to educate him, Eurotos who

taught him the art of archery, Eumolpus, son of Philemon

taught him to sing and play the lyre but most important,

Hermes’ son, Arpalycos, with half of his forehead covered by

his thick, huge eyebrows, taught him the art of the Argeans:

tripping, with which he could win most things, in wrestling,

        boxing, even in the Letters.

 However, we, sons of mortals, without teachers, only with

        our own will

with patience and struggle became who we became. We haven’t

felt inferior we never lowered our eyes. Our only diplomas three

words: Makronisos, Yaros, Leros. And if one day you find our

verses clumsy, remember they were written under the noses

of the guards, and with the spear always poking our side. Our

verses don’t need any excuses either, take them as they are, naked.

A dry Thucydides will touch you more than the artsy Xenophon.

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THE BRIDGE (Excerpt)

But then you feel how suspicious this movement appears

             to be

in the darkness nailed by stars, with the metallic sound

             of keys

like swords clashing high up in the air of invisible gladiators

             or horsemen

with this dark, huge mouth of the safe

that gapes open in the night while piles of coins, from

strange places and time shine in its bottom,

gold bars like huge nails for a crucifixion; stacks of paper bills

like secret playing cards of Fate. And all those who for

a moment accepted your offer, will throw their coins

on cobblestones soon after you turn your head, yet the coins

don’t make any sound; they’ll try to decipher the numbers

and seals of the bills, but they can’t be deciphered in

            the amazing darkness,

so they throw them back at your feet again and leave.

And you remain alone with all your trampled wealth

alone in front of the magnetic open mouth of the empty

             safe

alone before the uncovered hole of chaos,

one of your arms half-raised,

in a half-completed pose of theatrical generosity,

like the statue of a hero whose heroism

proved to be wrong after his death — or like an

         endless effort

to become a statue that you won’t collapse on the ground;

a statue that in vain keeps, like a cluster of grapes,

the unacceptable keys of a paradise.

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Ηeat Wave

Soft island hills

lapping on sea froth

cicadas fire up

their endless arias

come close to me, you said to me,

stand before me like Hermes

a naked graceful cypress

that I’ll keep you

in my eyes for

the long winter days

when we’ll be apart

moments I’ll

yearn for your warmth

come close to me, I beg you

let me touch your skin

the day is fiery

and unbearable like

the body’s conflagration

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Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards

2023 Longlist Announcement

Symphony I

Then, who was the guilty person? Let him

            appear;

and thousands of people went out and stood

in front of the army and declared their guilt

some because of their greatness and others

because of their ego, some because of bravery

and others out of desperation

and all because of the need to be loved:

to the arms…

Only the roads remain dusty and deserted,

           old beggars of men

walking along, on moribund cobblestones, with

           their drenched bags on their shoulders

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OCEAN’S MARCH (Excerpt III)

The mirror designing dawn

and garden broke

Day before yesterday we buried the first swallow

with the sorrowful flutes of flowers

Then the children sat alone

before the evening window

staring at the dying sun

Behind the white wall of the yard

the road was waking up

and as the golden light was melting at a distance

the great shadow of mountains was rising

with the silent footstep of death

up to our white hands

to our hearts

up to our bowing foreheads

Mother  Who is chiming

the horizon’s azure bell?

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REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES

Metamorphosis

After their death, their heroes went through many

transformations in the imaginations of the survivors,

natural or strange transformations, sometimes into vine

growers like Protesilaus or hunters like Hippolytus,

other times simple warriors (as they were) with their

beautiful helmet, their sandals, someone (we forget his

name) with a flower in his teeth, and others resembling

animals or serpents, usually snakes. Oh, truly, they help

the Hellenes a lot, before and after their death, even like

that, like snakes or lions.

                                          Now

the heroes fell into decay, they are out of fashion. No one

ever appeals nor they refer to them. We all ask for

         anti-heroes.

However, today, we went out, in the sunshine of March

(the soil has also dried up from the rains; the flowering

asphodels, as the ancients called them), to celebrate among

the rocks; today when we, behind the barbwire, vaguely await

that down the shore, the fisherman from Eretria will pass again,

carrying in his nets the gigantic shoulder blade of Pelops.

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Thrush

‘Ephemeral sperm of a vicious demon and bad luck

why do you push me to speak what you are better off not knowing.’

•  
•                                                                             SILENUS TO MIDAS

A

House Near the Sea

The houses I had they took from me. It happened

that the times were unpropitious: war, destruction, exile

sometimes the hunter meets the migratory birds

sometimes he doesn’t. Hunting

was good in my time, lots of people felt the shot

the others roam around or go mad in the shelters.

Don’t talk to me about the nightingale, nor the skylark

nor about the little wagtail

inscribing numbers with its tail in the light;

I don’t know many things about houses

I know they have their own race, nothing more.

New at first, like babies

playing in the orchards with the tassels of the sun,

they embroider the colored window shutters

and the shining doors over the day;

when the architect finishes they change,

they shrink or smile or even become resentful

with those who stayed behind, with those who went away

with others who would return if they could

or those who vanished now that the world

has turned into an immense hotel.

I don’t know many things about houses,

I remember their joy and their sorrow

sometimes, when I stop even when

sometimes, near the sea, in empty rooms

with an iron bed with nothing of my own

looking at the evening spider, I contemplate

that someone is getting ready to come that they dress him up

in white and black cloths with plenty of colorful jewels

and around him venerable ladies with gray hair

and dark lace shawls talk softly

that he gets ready to come and say goodbye to me;

or a woman with quivering eyelashes and slim waist

returning from southern ports,

Smyrna, Rhodes, Syracuse, Alexandria,

from cities closed like warm window shutters

with perfume made of gold fruits and herbs

that she climbs the stairs without seeing

those who slept under the stairs.

Houses, you know, grow easily resentful, when you empty them.

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ΜΑΚΡΙΝΗ ΕΡΩΜΕΝΗ

Το φεγγάρι, πάνω απ’ τη θάλασσα ολόγιομο

λάμπει σ’ όλο τον ουρανό

και φέρνει στην κάθε καρδιά

σκέψεις της νύχτας

σβύνω το κερί

ν’ απολαύσω τη λαμπερή του όψη

και βάζω το σακάκι μου

της νύχτας την υγρασία ν’ αποφύγω

και σαν δεν δύναμαι μια χούφτα

να σου δώσω φεγγαριού

πάω ξανά για ύπνο

στ’ όνειρο μου για να σε δω

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Looking at the Moon

and Longing for a Distant Lover

The moon, grown full now over the sea,
brightens the whole sky,
bringing to separated hearts
the thoughtfulness of the night.

I blow out the candle
to enjoy the clear radiance,
and put on my coat
for I feel the dew grown thick.

But since I cannot give you

a handful of moonlight,
I shall go back to sleep
hoping to meet you in a dream.

Chang Chiu-ling, China (A.D. 673–740)