POETIC POSTSCRIPT
Poems can’t be
beautiful
when truth has turned ugly.
Experience now
is the only body of the poems
and as experience is enriched
the poem finds nourishment
and it might become strong.
My knees hurt and I can’t
kneel before poetry anymore
I can only gift it with
my experienced wounds.
The adjectives wilted
I can only use my imagination
to embellish poetry.
Yet I shall always serve it
as long as it too wishes
as only poetry makes me forget
the enclosed horizon of my future.
Poem by Dimitris Liantinis
SHIELD
When the shield of the sun
descended to the careenage of the west
the face of day melted
mummy thrown into the light.
Trees set traps for the birds
where they burry their height
a ship sinks into the soil
and the beasts of the forest
have gone astray to the mountainous
goat paths.
The procurement of the stars reveals
blood in the ravine
that buzzes naked
slashing the skin of water
the flesh of things
can’t find refuge
in basil.
Linos’ skinned body hangs
over the midnight mast
Orestes ( excerpt)
The unfortunate woman finally stopped. It’s as if
I hear her right in her silence — so unprotected
in her anger, so unjustly treated, with her bitter
hair on her shoulders like the grass of a grave, enclosed
in her narrow justice. Perhaps she fell asleep, perhaps
she dreams of an innocent place with innocent animals
with whitewashed houses, with fragrances of warm
bread and roses.
And I now remember — I don’t know why — that cow
we saw in the Attica plain, that evening, you remember?
It was taken off the plough, and standing it looked far
away, its breath steamed a little out of its nostrils,
in the purple, violet, golden sunset, silent cow, wounded,
on its back and sides, being whipped on its forehead,
perhaps knowing the denial and subjugation,
the intolerance and hatred of each agreement.
Philosopher
We left the hospital and with hands joined we crossed
the bridge, translucent water below us like the thoughts
in our minds. Suddenly rain started as if cleansing us
from our sins when we arrived at the philosopher’s dwelling.
We knocked at a door ravaged by the elements. There
was a time we would give our lives for the stamina of youth
though now we seek the wisdom of the golden years;
the philosopher opened his home joyfully like his heart.
He answered all our questions, ‘philosophy always
presents one answer to the question while religion
claims their answer is the only one, and there lies
their difference.’
Übermensch admired the clarity of his thoughts and
after He hugged him tenderly in a trembling voice
He said:‘he is another Übermensch, follow
his teachings.’
Persephone (excerpt)
You hear the horses in the stable and the water that
drips when the pilgrims raise two clay vessels one
to the east and one to the west, pouring out water
and honey or water and barley mixed with wild mint
over the plot with the laurels while they murmur vague
words and spells. And my mother’s voice saying,
golden wheat-ear harvested in silence. Night isn’t
resting us anymore, an endless suspecting hallway
with huge statues, embroidered curtains, masks, stones,
optical illusions, metal items, crystals, doors, one leading
to darkness one to the light, that same stairway with one
golden step and the other black.
Break it down, I said to him
and the three women always there, turned to their backs,
with covered faces, stooping over the empty well, yelling
indecipherable words, and the echo of their unrecognizable
words was multiplied by the well. I can’t endure it here
anymore.
Scandalous
He stops shaving razor floating in air
hand absentmindedly creates a circle in mid-void
like a bird stilled by camera lens
her scandalous vulva visits his mind
from days of that August
on the scorched island
in low tone siesta
in muffled moaning
lest the mirror would crack from tension
in the cool soothing room
before his eyes
finger in circular motion
swirling eroticism
higher and higher
near a shuddering apex
wind, pandemonium
lust and a red coloured
Lucifer laughs sardonically
as the razor touches his flesh
opening it
like hers
reddish colour
Painting by Yaha Silo
Before the Joy
My words are no longer charcoal
as they were before
when in the heat of the glow
they had become black
now they move with the softness of hope
and at the dawn of beauty
they open their eyes
already adorning themselves
for the eternal journey.
Hussein Habasch, Kurdistan (Syria), 1948
ΠΡΙΝ ΤΗ ΧΑΡΑ
Τα λόγια μου δεν είναι κάρβουνα
όπως πιο πριν
που με τη τη ζέστη της λάμψης
μαύρισαν.
Τώρα πλανιούνται στης ελπίδας τ’ απαλό
στην ομορφιά του ξημερώματος
που ανοίγουν τα μάτια
ματιές λατρείας
πριν το μακρινό τους ταξίδι.
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis
MYTHISTOREMA
I
The angel,
we had waited for him for three years, concentrated
closely examining
the pines, the seashore, the stars.
Joining the blade of the plough or the ship’s keel
once again we searched to discover the first sperm
so that the ancient drama might recommence.
We went back to our homes broken hearted
with incapable limbs, with mouths ravaged
by the taste of rust and salinity.
When we woke, we traveled to the north, strangers
driven into the mist by the perfect wings
of swans that wounded us.
During winter nights the strong eastern wind
maddened us
in the summers we got lost in the agony of day
that couldn’t die.
We brought back
these petroglyphs of a humble art.
Manolis Aligizakis 