IX

The harbour is old I can’t wait any longer

neither for the friend who left for the island with the pines

nor for the friend who left for the island with the plane trees

nor for the friend who left for the open sea.

I caress the rusted cannons, I caress the oars

that my body will be reborn and decide.

The sails only give off the smell

of the salinity from another storm.

If I decided to remain alone, I seek

the solitude, not this kind of waiting,

nor the shattering of my soul on the horizon

nor these lines, these colours, this silence.

Stars of the night return me to the anticipation

of Odysseus for the dead among the asphodels.

When we moored over here among the asphodels

           we hoped to find

the glen that saw the wounded Adonis.

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Suspicion

She looks at your direction

behind dark glasses

certain she stares at you

you feel

embarrassed for your fat belly

and your gray beard so you turn

your head the other way

as if to conceal your uncomfortableness

being stared at by such a pretty blond

and you miss paying attention

to her faint smile resembling Mona Lisa’s

indeed she was gazing at you

perhaps admiring your gray beard

or your straight posture

holding the handrail

of the Metro rumbling along

the dark underground tunnel

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Διαβάστηκαν για πρώτη φορά 2.000 κείμενα του φιλοσόφου Φιλόδημου

Photo by Germain Droogenbroodt, Santa Maria Navarrese, Sardinia

Memories Belong to No One

For M. P.

A friend had told him about it:
when her sister’s coffin had entered the church
and “exactly at that moment,” a ray of sunshine
from the sky (was it spring?), so far cloudy,
had split the nave in two.

Yesterday (years later), in another place, in another city,
that image jumped into his mind again when
the illuminated church (candles, chandeliers, summer sun),
instead, suddenly darkened at noon—a cloud passing by—
“exactly at the moment” when the little whitish disk
was raised above the chalice and towards the dome.

And, in a little while, where will this memory end?
In the midst of the common region,
somewhere in the world,
where souls leave their remains;
but every now and then, repentant,
for a few moments return.

Paolo Valesio, Italia (1939)
English translation by Germain Droogenbroodt, Stanley Barkan and the author

I RICORDI NON APPARTENGONO A NESSUNO

Per M. P.

Un’amica gli aveva raccontato
quando era entrata in chiesa la bara della sorella
e “in quell’istante esatto” un raggio di sole
dal cielo (era primavera?) finallora annuvolato
aveva spaccato la navata in due.

Ieri (dopo un trascorso d’anni), in altro luogo e altra città
questo gli è ribalzato nella mente quando
la chiesa illuminata (candele, lampadari, sole estivo)
si è invece oscurata d’un tratto a mezzogiorno
─passaggio d’una nuvola─
“proprio nel momento” quando il dischetto biancastro
veniva elevato sopra il calice e verso la cupola.

E dove finirà tra pochi giorni, questo ricordo?
Nella regione intermedia e comune
da qualche parte nel mondo
dove le anime lasciano i loro scarti;
ma ogni tanto, pentite,
fanno per qualche attimo ritorno.

PaoloValesio, italia (1939)

ΟΙ ΑΝΑΜΝΗΣΕΙς ΔΕΝ ΑΝΗΚΟΥΝ ΣΕ ΚΑΝΕΝΑ

Ένας φίλος του είχε πει πως

όταν μπήκε το φέρερτο της αδερφής του στην εκκλησία

εκείνη ακριβώς τη στιγμή, μια ηλιαχτίδα,

απ’ τον ουρανό που ως τότε ήταν συννεφιασμένος

χώρισε το ναό στα δύο.

Χθες, χρόνια μετά, σε κάποιο άλλο τόπο,

σε κάποια άλλη πόλη,

η εικόνα εκείνη ξανάρθε μπροστά στα μάτια του

η εκκλησία μές στην λαμπερότητα της

απ’ τα κανδήλια, τους πολυελαίους, τον καλοκαιρινό ήλιο

καταμεσήμερο, ξάφνου σκοτείνιασε —

ίσως κάποιο περαστικό σύννεφο —

ακριβώς τη στιγμή που ο ολόασπρος δισκος του ήλιου

υψωνόταν πάνω απ’ το δισκοπότηρο προς τον τρούλο

Πότε και πού αλήθεια θα ξεχαστεί αυτή η εικόνα;

Στη μέση της επαρχίας τους,

κάπου στον κόσμο

καθώς ψυχές εγκαταλείπουν το πτώμα τους

ή μήπως συχνά, επαναλαμβανόμενο

το γεγονός ξαναγυρνά;

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//Translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Shabnam Azar, Ελεύθερη πτώση

Bριτόμαρτις – η Γορτυνίδα Νύμφη

Δημήτρης Μιχελουδάκης: Η ποίηση βρίσκεται παραπλεύρως των ραγών. Εκεί δεν έχει φτάσει ακόμα ούτε ο χάρτης

Σταύρος Βαβούρης, Παραίνεση για την Ηλέκτρα

Declaration

Undefined faces, lighted by the reflection of the big

mirror.

The doorbell was heard. No one moved. The sound,

through the window, went out in the night, met

the person who had rung the bell. Then, he, serene

as if he had completed his mission, walked to

the entrance where he stood,

cut a flower, put it in his bosom. “Lucky, he said, lucky

that they didn’t open”. And truly, no one had looked

for him nor anyone had sent him there, neither had he declared

anything; only

that deep ringing for each of them separately and for him

as well.

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