In the Manner of George Seferis

Wherever I travel Greece wounds me.

On Pelion among the chestnut trees the shirt of the Centaur

slipped through the leaves to wrap around my body

as I went up the slope and the sea behind the meal

so, climbing like the mercury of a thermometer

until we found the water of the mountain.

On Santorini touching islands that were sinking

listening to a flute playing somewhere on the pumice-stones

my hand was nailed on the gunwale

by an arrow suddenly shot

from a faraway vanished youth.

At Mycenae, I raised the great rocks and the Atreides’ treasures

and I slept with them at the hotel “Menelaus’ Helen”

though they disappeared at dawn with Cassandra’s call

with a cock hanging from her black neck.

On Spetses, Poros and Mykonos

the barcaroles made me sick.

What do they want, all who claim

to be in Athens or Peraeus?

One coming from Salamis asks another

whether he comes from ‘Omonoia Square’

‘No, I come from Syntagma Square’ he answers pleased

‘I met with Yanni, and he bought me an ice cream.

’Meanwhile, Greece travels

we don’t know anything; we don’t know anything we are all jobless sailors

we don’t know the harbour’s bitterness when all the ships have gone

we make fun of those who do know it.

Strange people who claim they are in Attica though they are nowhere.

They buy sugar-coated almonds when they get married, they carry hair toner,

they take pictures of themselves

the man I saw today sitting with the background of pigeons and flowers

he allows the hand of the old photographer to smoothen up his wrinkles

that all the birds of the sky

had left on his face.

Meanwhile, Greece travels, always travels

and if ‘we see the Aegean flowering with corpses’

they are those who chose to catch the big ship by swimming to it

those who got tired of waiting for the ships that couldn’t sail

ELSI SAMOTHRAKI and AMVRAKIKOS.

The ships whistle now that dusk falls over Piraeus

they whistle, they whistle constantly but no winch moves

no chain gleams wet in the twilight

the captain stands like a statue in white and gold.

Wherever I travel Greece wounds me.

Curtains of mountains, archipelagos, naked granites…

The ship that sails they called AGONY 937.

M/s Aulis, waiting to sail

Summer 1936

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Precursor

You took your eyes and walked away

no one remembers where you’ve gone

and you wonder where your last tear

may fall and who will accept it

ah, the weight of such struggle overpowers you

and you seek support by stretching your arm

you stop awhile whirling around, you hide your face

in your hands, then you restart. 

How you can carry on, oh sister soul, seeking forgiveness

giving back love for each of your wounds?

And how you can carry on since all your paths

have been shut over the earth?

Look, the self-deception of the world dances around you

lips lock and offerings are raised high and laugh

you die and from the start, as if you’ve gone already —

everyone forgets of you.

I salute you! You’ve experienced life only in your dreams

for this a suitable end you deserve, beautiful soul

your apotheosis has arrived, and it becomes

your first and last joy. 

Then and Now

So long as they had him muzzled, he had so much to say

Now that they had taken the muzzle off, he looked all around

he cannot find any word not even for those things Thus at night

in front of the mirror under dim light, he tries alone

to tie around his mouth a white handkerchief

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Futility

We suddenly felt the flesh that carried our pain and

our dreams were foreign to us since He had died: our God

and inappropriate it was not to consider

the undertaker’s tears. We had none, God was too old

we thought and finally, we understood the angel

who advised us to show compassion, who advocated

morality had also died, and we had to rely on the birds

to recommence our sentimental love and understand

our neighbor who started his day brandishing a pistol

in his hand, his eyes fixated on us as though saying

you better not… a sentence that contradicted the meaning

of our Sunday dinner and in vain we insisted on lighting

our oil lamps.

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ON THE DEATH OF A DAY OLD CHILD

All dead, day old children will welcome you.

The wind will sing my lullabies to you,

when the sun falls where the saddest grass grows.

You are the beginning when light is wise.

God will guard to the end of days your day,

In the land of manna, Eden of bread.

With ray and shade you will play pranks all day.

Autumn will teem with the brown of your eyes,

With my grief will forever weep the dew.

Menke Katz, Lithuania-USA (1906-1991)

ΓΙΑ ΤΟ ΘΑΝΑΤΟ ΤΟΥ ΜΙΑΣ ΜΕΡΑΣ ΜΩΡΟΥ

Όλοι νεκροί, μωρά μιας μέρας θα σας καλοσωρίσουν

ο αγέρας θα τραγουδήσει νανουρίσματα

όταν θα πέσει ο ήλιος και το γρασίδι θα ψηλώσει

είστε στην αρχή όταν το φως είναι σοφό

ο Θεός θα σας προστατεύει ως το τέλος των ημερών σας

στη χώρα του μάννα, Παράδεισο τροφής.

Θα παίξετε με τους ίσκιους και το φως όλη μέρα

το φθινόπωρο θα ταιριάξει στο χρώμα των ματιών σας

κι η πίκρα μου θα θρηνεί για πάντα με τη χλόη

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Excerpt LXI

The same share of voice and silence. A boy goes by

with two wooden pails overflowing with milk, light blue

               milk. The foliage

of trees has warmed up along the avenue — full

of fragrance like the underside dresses of women

we have nothing but this unconvinced toughness for

               women’s legs

ascent, descend, he said, slavery, freedom, detachment,

dream; dream before and after, the original, the

               in between, the extreme.

The cat grooms itself in the sunshine

the dog stares at the upper window patiently

a band of light on the vacant house

the gloves of the retired boxer on the bed

two big glass bowls

where the goldfish with the green bellies gather

the white basin with the red fabric of the widow

            in the terrace

the seafloor water is darker at dawn under the

            sweet surface

they all have a casual excuse.

We too, we too.

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IONIAN

Although we broke their statutes,

and drove them out of their temples,

the gods did not die out at all because of that.

Oh, land of Ionia, it is you they still love,

it is you their souls still remember.

When dawn comes on you on an August morning

the vigor of their lives goes through your atmosphere.

And at times the ethereal figure of a youth,

obscure, with quick steps

passes over your hills.

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