Chaotic

The crystal dawn arrived. Full of sunlight, a baby face

that smiled at the first sight of his mother. We decided

to fall in love with chaos, to knead a new world each

morning like a loaf of bread for our orphan family,

bread warm and aromatic. It was our privilege, to disdain

all the fools wearing cassocks and their proselytism.

The crystal dawn arrived. Full of sunlight when we decided

to become the bridge where the first steps of Ubermensch

would be taken. We, the last of men, would find our end

because Ubermensch’s love for life equated to his love for us

for we sacrificed our insignificant existence in search

of the imperfect perfection of the imperfect chaos.

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Unconditionally

Μυρτώ Αναγνωστοπούλου, Εννοώ να πετώ

WEDNESDAY

                      ad vagilias albas

—Why doesn’t it get dark? Have a look if you like, the new moon must

have risen somewhere. Everyone looks at what you are going to do

and you stare at the crowds looking at you.

The sights inscribe a tight circle

that can’t be broken.

If one is born the circle becomes larger

if one dies the circle will shrink

but this little, for this short period.

And the other four senses follow the same geometry.

If we’d loved the circle would break

we’d close our eyelids for a moment.

But we can’t love.

Your eyes were lovely, but you didn’t know where to look

and when you said we had to go because it was dark

you turned and looked into my eyes and a bat flew off

inscribing triangles…The gramophone started again.

Now our bats inscribe circles that shrink

as they fly from one man to another man

no one escapes

and life is rich since we have so many

and all of us alike

and life is rich since we created fin-tuned devices

when the senses fail.

Brothers, we shared the bread and the pain.

No one is hungry, or suffering anymore

and we all have the same height. Look at us!

We are looking at you. We are too! We are too! We are too!

Farther than this nothing exists. But the sea

I don’t know whether they have emptied it.

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Μυρτώ Αναγνωστοπούλου, Πριν από το τέλος

Beat – Η ευσύνοπτη μπροσούρα μίας γενιάς – Αφιέρωμα – Φωτογραφικό άλμπουμ

Δημήτρης Τζάνογλος, Τρία ποιήματα

Notches

Sickly, dusty little, street trees in the night, lit by

the slanting lights of the low, neighbourhood windows,

poor light patched on the elbows; everything is patched up:

the walls, ceilings, and tubs; the poem is also patched with

the rags of dead people’s shirts. A bicycle passed next

to the lamppost. Behind the glass door, the spiteful,

old woman appeared; she held an insect pump, there,

in the middle of the room, motionless, blind, with no target.

The arm can’t move not knowing its continuance.

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Μυρτώ Αναγνωστοπούλου, Δε γίνεται

Μυρτώ Αναγνωστοπούλου, Δυναμωμένοι στη μνήμη