THE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA

I am still wondering what the slow-endeavouring patience means

And how, unwillingly, I came to grasp it,

and then dominate it, in all its power,

after having exhausted all the peaceful forms of revolt,

not because I should always have yielded without a word,

or that its fury and fire did not test my heart

that was always giving too many branches in its effort to understand,

but only my reconciled crying succeeds in having roots

into the hell inside my daily life,

into the hell outside me, from everywhere outside me,

it is only I, with my long patience,

involuntarily acquired, by the will of fate,

that fate that put the Library of Alexandria on fire

and made it in such a way that only the statue of Ptolemy II remained,

alone in the infernal traffic of the street,

drowned behind walls that are too high,

with huge letters from all the alphabets of the world.

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Daily

When he gets up in the morning, and with a headache,

he doesn’t delay at all; he rushes, half dressed, to open

the window, to smell the cleaned dust of last night,

the aroma of the rotten grass, the rotten fruit behind

the fence wall. The street is still quiet. The flower sellers

pass with carnations or roses in their baskets. “Fake

convictions” he says, “it doesn’t matter” he adds. And

suddenly, the shadow of the city vanishes behind

the chimneys. All around, in the air, diaphanous, almost

triumphant, the buzz is heard from the keys of the stores,

the nails and hooks of the cheap daily business and

            exchanges.

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Turret

A smiling general stood on

top of a tank for commemorative

picture before the campaign started

such images unified

country and solidified

brave and timid under a flag

until the bishop arrived to

bless the troops and sanctify

the ammunition to make sure

they will all find targets and since

this attack was already blessed

and dignified by the officials

let the trumpet sound its

marching paean and let the

troops take charge of the details

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Μάρκος Μέσκος: [Η νύχτα είναι ένα δάσος από κυπαρίσσια…]

Αλήτις Τσαλαχούρη, Δύο πεζοποιήματα γραμμένα σαν τηλεγραφήματα

SNOW AND THE EYES OF THE WOLVES
Don’t be afraid of winter and wolves
in this forest.
Winter is a transparent ivory egg,
and wolves are older dogs.
Don’t be afraid anyone!
We go together among the wolves,
through the winter
we have to, as all that
I promised you
is over there.
Sometimes avalanches can occur,
you’ve heard about it,
but do not let fear rule
over you,
if it happens, it will happen.
Give me your hand,
the hill is still far away
and high,
the trees are my friends,
we go by night, too
I talk to pines
as if talking to my father,
there is an old crucifix on the bank
if we pass by it –
done, and there we are.
Don’t be afraid of darkness, my dear
the snow and the eyes of the wolves
lead us.

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Η Φρόνηση στην Επικούρεια φιλοσοφία

Post
Single post, two arms
slicing light into topmost
and shadowy pleats
prodding the mind with wish
for auspicious breezes
or an eloquent verse describing
grace of evergreen limb
outlining mischief of intent
lost feathers blown
by wind and misfortune
lustre absentia’s ideal
mind connecting to
eternity in a post and its rails
just two arms holding emptiness

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