Missa Bestialis

…risky to remember/to remember is not risky
for memories we do not forgive
so there is nothing to forget
in lieu of our fathers we remember
in the end there is a beginning
that is why spring flowers bloom
everything in the end bursts
hope
snotty phantoms crawl
in the petty silence
in the autumnal rose’s blood
fish with no scales
six concrete layouts draw near from six directions
the plan of possibilities narrows more and more
long passed minutes climb up to the top
breath becomes heavier
the dull needle still gathers pieces of sound and song
“you rest
in peaceful dreams
in the dark lit pearl may you burn”
what hurts most is that the record
runs down and we do not realizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Titos Patrikios – Selected Poems

Sunday Afternoon

Only a sour body smell was left
on the unwashed bed-sheets.
The lost limbs crawl at the quarry.
Aquatic plants spread in the empty space.
Only the eyes insist: sweat, shaven heads,
thermometers and spitting bowls.
And next to this the nurse, cursing, waited
to give his report, knowing that
death or recuperation were equally unwanted
to the camp commander.
Yelling was heard from down the soccer field.

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Katerina Anghelaki – Rooke, Selected Poems

V
Finally, could it be
an unfamiliar mechanism
or shall we remember the beginning
as we return to the exit?
Perhaps like the water,
the soil, the sperm, necessary things,
which because of their exaggeration
might choke you,
you die
when your life becomes excessive?
e young man laughed,
and it was as if God,
in a moment of weakness,
had kept
all His promises.

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Introspection

practiced my religion
on the last breath of the sick man
and I said,
he is a hero, too, since he endured
human pain and
he loved the fragrance
of the night flower
which didn’t know of holidays
the sick man and I are comrades,
since we both experienced
the heroism of a twenty-four-hour duty
I practiced my religion
on the future catastrophe and
in the longing for the past
during which we endured pain
we, the youths with acne
and a light beard on our cheeks
us, who, one day,
will be called dreamers
and I said,
let them call me a foolish dreamer
let them name me crazy
let the joys of wealth be untouched
and let their glory be inglorious
I practiced my religion
on the perfection of human wholeness and
I hymned eternity with odes.

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