Our Silence is Made of Voices
Our words and ideas
aren’t for the ears of others.
Their path is circular
endless
invisible
inscribed inside us
from the heart to the brain
and reverse.
(It has exquisite circular meanders
fully lit sauntering stoas).
Our words and thoughts charge,
press into the interior space —
and our words, whispers, or verse
we hear echoing inside us,
branch to the depths and feed us.
They add our innumerable voices
to our external inexpressible silence.
Morning in Salerno, III
A large explicit earthen pitcher
(nevertheless, always amorous) painted with
fleshy light blue and red flowers stood
in the middle of the street among the busy people
So that is the answer we had sought in debates
in museums in postponements and silences?
I retain this joy attached to my flesh like a handbook to discover
a speechless affirmation amid the awkwardness of words and deeds
I held up
this pitcher with my arms I brought it to my lips It was empty
An azure and a red flower fell into my two pockets They
didn’t wilt
THE GATE (excerpt)
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 have one too.
Manolis Aligizakis 