THE BRIDGE (excerpt)

Our humble needs don’t humiliate us;

on the contrary, they save us; they give us ground

to walk on again, to stand erect, to work, and

their knowledge and approval is our brotherhood,

it’s the beginning of our profound freedom,

it’s that sacred truthfulness,

the first and last truthfulness of man, so much so

that you could cry out of tenderness,

for this confession of yours, for this humiliation,

for this pride with which you were born and will die,

for this work that was caused by these needs of yours

that it will be offered to the needs of others,

to the eternal needs of man, an eternal commitment.

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ALMOND TREES

Dazzling house, red and white,

in which room the almond trees bloomed?
I had spent time in all corners

in the red and in the unfortunate,

the tragic one, the white; my breath

fogged my dreams up on the loft

the sea shivered on your window panes

gardens, secret chrysanthemums in your ecstasy

when I ran, full of blood I the hunter

A large net spread just over my head

misery had teeth made of steel

the sun was planting different orchards

on the walls:

the orchard of the fly, of the kite

the large orchard of love

the orchard of the great fever

in which having my rifle I wandered all day long

with a red ribbon in my mouth

with a red ribbon on my hair

like the unfortunate and miserable corner

like the tragic, white corner on my rifle

I had lived in all corners

in which corner did your almond tree bloom?

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Ian Parks: Selected Poems

Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards

2023 Longlist Announcement

DAYS OF ANGER ii

II

I asked the caretaker for the key; I pushed aside the open,

dripping umbrellas in the hallway and I unlocked; the letter

was still there on the night table, twenty years later, a

woman was lighting a candle “who are you?” I asked,

“you know me well” she said to me. I shivered. I saw

the executioner through the open window. He was often

dipping his hands in water “The asshole, he’s washing

his hands” I yelled “no, he doesn’t like seeing

his ugly fingers” they told me. An old woman was sitting

at the entrance unraveling a ball of wool; for which

dream or which return? The glow of the dawning day

flooded the poor people in the street with golden hues.

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PERSEPHONE (excerpt)

Sometimes

when I walk in the garden absentmindedly under

the poplars or when I clean a shirt in the stony basin

or I let my hand rest on my chest or I hold a flower

with my own girly tenderness I suddenly feel naked,

pinned on the wall or on the trunk of a tree or

in the metal entrance mirror, especially there,

in the mirror, double pinned, double seen, without

refuge, without any leaf, in a concentrated lucidity,

lighted from outside and from inside by two spotlights

of his breath which dash out of its narrow meaningful

nostrils, its oracular, sensual, religious nostrils.

Send it away, send it away

I yelled at him, fixated there, angry with a vague

guilt or innocence, I had nothing to hide, free

in my indisposition.

Only my hair flowed everywhere, getting in and

out of its nostrils like restless roots that shone

around me like wings and waves. I saw them.

They gave me back a different pride, my pride,

an independence opposite the dog and its master.

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Δημήτρης Χιλλ, από τον “Κιθαιρώνα”

Neon

Under the slick gleam of city

stars and blaring horns

you wish to be entrapped

would prefer to mingle

and drape your solitude

with transience, garment of

indefinite multiples of

companions, even if lasting for

moments, lights and music from doorways

simply to capture desolate emotions

distill them to sure

numbness when wintry you

shoot up, hoping to glissade into a

new kingdom of delight

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CIVIL SERVANTS

The civil servants melt and wither

in pairs like columns in the office

the city and Death must be

the electricians who replenish them.

They sit on their chairs, they scribble

without reason on innocent white paper

along with this correspondence

we have the honour they affirm

and only honour’s left to them

when they climb up the street

at night eight o’clock as if tuned

they buy chestnuts, think of the law,

the exchange rate and shrug their shoulders

the poor civil servants.

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Ancient Supper

They brought the golden pitcher, the big silver bowl.

They washed their hands, sliced bread, ate.

The ephebe wasn’t hungry. He was silent. He was

examining the face of the stranger when, sometimes,

his fork created a shadow like a mast.

Then the old singer tuned his guitar.

Big plane tree leaves fell on the plates

next to the bones of cattle. Multi oared ships, from

the Neios harbor, came through the door and

stood upright in the middle of the hall. Him, with

the hairy, naked chest held the yoke of the last ship

having blindfolded his eyes with a white kerchief.

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DIFFERENCES

What did you finally risk? What you got

to know of our years in your own skin?

Have you ever accepted the irreversible without

hesitation? Then, how you secure the right

of your certainty or your doubt?

But, let it be. We have to go beyond our differences.

And I have to crush this secret belief in my superiority.