BORREAS*
The nails of this pianist
reach the floor
only borreas knows his name
he doesn’t play the piano anymore
he doesn’t eat
doesn’t sleep
he’s a king
Down in the basement the carpenter
nails some planks
and voila, the piano is heard again
the carpenter’s daughter is very pretty
in the shade of the great frozen sun
she washes the tiles of borreas
only the one who knows
how to love
the true poets
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(excerpt)
Upon entering Anton let his eyes travel around the space of the office which was as austere as Father Nicolas’ which he visited yesterday. Only this office had a bigger size crucifix mounted on the wall behind Father Jerome’s desk and the same sign Looking Unto Jesus was here too; Anton thought this must had been the Residential School logo; he also noticed that the big wheel of the facility, father Jerome, looked like a man of forty five and his appeal was nothing less than imposing as most other things in this school. He was sitting behind his desk and a few other persons were also in the office. Gladys did the introductions. Father Jerome was the head master of the School, Sister Helen, geography teacher, Mary, administrative assistant, father Thomas the PE and gymnastics teacher, Father Peter, socials physics teacher, Father John, math teacher, Sister Naomi socials teacher and responsible for the dancing class, and Sister Anna, who was sitting in one of the chairs in front of Father Jerome’s desk; she was an older woman and a music teacher responsible for the school choir too; they all greeted Anton and wished him well in his new job.
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Match
Give me a match
he cried
just one match is needed
to light my fiery mind and
walking to the pulpit
he crossed himself before
taking communion
priest’s eyes rolled around
the congregation as if saying
this man doesn’t belong here
this man is not allowed
to stand before the icons
with a match in his hand and
in his other holding tight
the fuse of the dynamite
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THE GATE
Excerpt XL
Then we decided to return;
didn’t know what was a return, nor what was
the going forward; compass taken by waves,
severed ship ropes, broken oars; the candle wasn’t
for the ears nor for the eyes. Where can you find
the drowned men to mourn for them? We walked out
to the first land we arrived, broken by the wind,
rain and the rough seas, thrown there onto the rocks,
one on top of the other, we somehow made love
just to corner the cold and fear at the edge of our
bodies,
just to retain a bit of slimy warmth inside us like
worms in the coffin; there, at dawn
we discovered two churches occupied by seagulls
a golden little ship-offering was hanging in the middle
of the dome, behind the Communion Table, ravaged
wooden horse, two of its big teeth tumbled down
the marble stairs.
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What is this siege,
this gloomy enclosure of armed men
beneath the walls of Troy?
It tells of ships in flames
and of the black sky
like the river covered in blood
after the battle.
But the war begins now
with the black heads
of the men—yours
who point swords at our house,
and you, woman,
who count the sound,
the sound of the stone
which sharpens the blades.
ΠΟΛΙΟΡΚΙΑ
Προς τί αυτή η πολιορκία
σκυθρωπών ανθρώπων
κάτω απ’ τα τείχη της Τροίας;
Μαρτυρεί τα φλογισμένα καράβια
και το μαύρο ουρανό
σαν το γεμάτο αίμα ποτάμι
μετά τη μάχη.
Μα ο πόλεμος τώρα ξεκινά
με τα μαύρα κεφάλια ανθρώπων
σαν το δικό σου
που σκοπεύεις το σπίτι με το σπαθί σου
κι εσύ γυναίκα
που μελετάς τον ήχο
της πέτρας που ακονίζει
τις λεπίδες
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//Translated by Manolis Aligizakis
Luca Benassi, Italia
Manolis Aligizakis 