Αλεξάνδρα Μπακονίκα, Υποφώσκει

Άγγελος Ήβος (Βαγγέλης Σ. Παπακωνσταντίνου) 

C

         You never gave me wealth

always devastated by the races of Continents

         and always praised by their arrogance!

The North took the grapevine

        and the South took the Wheat Ear

buying out the direction of the wind

         and profanely cashing in the trees’ wealth

two or three times.

         But I knew nothing

other than the thyme in the sun’s pin

         and I felt nothing

but the water drop on my unshaven beard

         yet I laid my rough cheek on the stone’s rougher

century after century.

         I slept on the concern of my tomorrow

like the soldier by his rifle.

         And I searched for the compassion of the night

like an ascetic his God.

         Out of my sweat they created a diamond

and secretly they replaced

         the virgin of my glance.

They weighted my joy and they found it light, they said,

         and they stepped on it like an insect.

They stepped on my joy and encased it in stone

         and lastly they left me the stone

a horrible likeness of me.

         They strike it with a heavy axe, they bore it with a sharpened scalpel

they carve my stone with a bitter chisel.

         And as time erodes the matter, the prophesy emerges

clearly out of my face:

         FEAR THE WRATH OF THE DEAD

       AND THE STATUES OF THE ROCKS

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THE GATE

Excerpt XXXIII

The old women put their spindles on the stones;

two first aid men put their stretcher down; the injured

man is too heavy; through his half unbuttoned orange

colour shirt his belly shines in the moonlight;

the last glow of the twilight shivers on the windowpanes

             behind the rooms

three soldiers and the made-up woman under the lamppost;

he kicks an empty matchbox that travels in an angle

a boy listens to the harmonica in his pocket — first

              suspicion:

death exists, for this perhaps they build the gate.

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Αγγελική Κουντουράκη, Μέλι και κερί

Ντίνος Σιώτης, Δύο ποιήματα

Star 

Place a frozen star

on my forehead

cross my arms

as if I’m praying

before you slide into

your red dress

to enchant all other stars

murmuring their sweet lullabies

for my ascent

toward them

when I die

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Αλεξάνδρα Μπακονίκα, Πείσμα

The Herbert Prize

Αλεξάνδρα Μπακονίκα, Μεταίχμιο