ΔΙΟΓΕΝΗΣ
Προχωρεί
με το λύχνο του
μέσα στο δάσος.
Οξιά πες μου
πού είναι
το ελάφι ο αδερφός σου;
Στο χωριό ρωτά:
σκύλε πού είναι
ο φίλος σου;
Στην πόλη ρωτά:
ανθρώποι, πού είναι
ένας άνθρωπος;
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis
Diogenes
goes
with his lantern
through the woods:
oak,
where is your brother
the elk
goes
through the village:
dog,
where is
your friend
through the city:
people,
where is
a human
Viacheslav Kuprianov (Russia 1939)
REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES
The End of Theseus
Returning from his last deed, his greatest deed, his descend
to Hades —
no one welcomed him in the roads of Athens, as it was
customary
and as he expected. Mnistheas (long as the hero was away
glorifying his motherland)
managed with promises, flatteries, with popular demagogue
to turn the people against him.
And him, sad and pissed off
sent his two sons to Elphenor, king of Avanda, exiled too
and he ran to the village Gargitos, which since then they called
Aratirio
in other words place of worship. Then, unescorted, he went to
Skyros to meet his old friend Lycomedes, king of the Dolopians,
hoping to find a bit of hospitality and protection, to reclaim a few
fields that his father had left him.
He dreamed that there he’d
escape from useless concerns, the futility of glory, and the empty
words
the conniving, the double-faced people, the slander, working
the lands,
barefoot, with ripped undergarments (and this with plenty of
sadness for himself
and like revenge against something general and faceless).
He even imagined, with pleasure, during the summer noon,
that he’d moist his dry bread in a clear creek. And suddenly
he remembered: fresh, ripen, black figs and he felt his appetite
was aroused;
and perhaps he had a dog to keep him company. And the sparrows
picking the crumbs from around him. And when the evening star,
like a slivery drop, would come among the pine trees.
However
Lycomedes, say because of the fear of the Athenians, say
due to his personal hatred, led him to a high mountain,
supposedly to show him a few fields — “look how green
they are, how fertile — I looked after them for many years”
and there he pushed him down to his death.
Threshold
At which zone
erogenous
of this language
nomad,
tattoo the star of absence?
The poem,
a shelter without roots
open
for the obscure appeal
of the roads.
Idriss OUADOUL, Morocco (1962)
ΚΑΤΩΦΛΙ
Ποιό ερωτικό σημείο
αυτής της νομάδας γλώσσας
αποτυπώνει
τ’ αστέρι της μοναξιάς;
Το ποίημα
καταφύγιο δίχως ρίζες
απέραντο
στην ατέλειωτη έλξη
του δρόμουΜετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis
Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards
And suddenly the last firings of the surrendered
city
as the wind brought footsteps and rifle shootings
and out of tune songs
many soldiers were wearing civilian cloths and
ran over the walls
houses resembled dead faces in the moonlight frost
unburied corpses on the roads, left to the dogs
and God
and the shooters, stood by the corners hugging
their rifles like the body of a woman who
had betrayed them.
Then, again the same road, among the dead horses
and the broken rifles
women were sitting by the entrance of each burnt up
village and cried
moistening a little flour in their palm to feed
the babies.
LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER
A clay pitcher is moulded, remolded like flowing light,
experimenting with itself, still hasn’t decided to exist
and you hear the semicircle dance of its handle that curls
more and more, then less and less, touching the body of
the pitcher momentarily, again to distance itself quite
independently, looking elsewhere, meaning something
else, floating in the intoxication of its lissomness, like
a winged serpent, like an autonomous flower made of
rosy silver.
And they all wait, in their beautiful palindrome,
for you to undertake their responsibility, to create them,
to give them meaning, shape, and to name them and
place them in their positions. Yet, absorbed as you’re
in the vague and useless, you delay; then, at the time of
the last forgetfulness, the time you have to light the lamp,
the horrible ringing echoes in your sleep like a punctual
alarm clock that stops sleep, like an erotic spasm that
stops lust. You stand up and the rays of the lamp you’re
about to light have already wrapped around your neck,
like ropes your hands lifting you up, and outside.
And, in the light you put on to guide the ships,
you see the ships which look at your lamp
you see your golden, miraculous and useful hands.
Flies
Flies take charge of the wound
decay creeps into his nostrils
sorceress curses and in the corner
the blood-filled bucket
avenging bull wondered
what was accomplished with a death
the matador’s chest gored by right horn
deep aspirating gash where
breeze collapsed
his eloquent movements
fogged his poetic eyes
while the brassy band cheered victory:
of the bull
the matador
or the poet’s
composing this eulogy?
Poem by Tellos Agras
ON WORKING DAYS
Poor neighborhoods, abandoned corners
where deserted hearts, encased in frost,
that on a Sunday numb with cold
and sad music stand and sing for us,
tiny faces shining timidly,
lips sealed by sadness,
lips never tasting a warm kiss
except the farewell kiss,
pale begging hands,
unworthy souls in supplication,
shadowed, blinded eyes
oh, saddened urgings of mortality!
You too enrobed your death,
unfortunate, poor, graceful rose,
instead of sparkling with rosy joy,
you seemed a saint in tribulation,
your stem bent, kneeling,
praying the daily Epitaphios.
Poor neighborhoods, abandoned corners
built for pitch black frost
built for the unburied souls,
the daily souls, lonely
for the remains and Sundays
of my soul, you, secret motherland
of my soul, frigid and resembling
a tray with cross and gold confection
and in its middle the holy candle
keeping vigil in the requiem of Love.
6th Century BC Angiography
Nothing, not his Godly power nor his famous exploits, brought
him much glory as his human weakness (and he discovered it
himself and especially he admitted to it), when, crying like
a baby, with Nessus’ chiton eating his flesh, he climbed up
to the top of Oeta, on the pyre, as if he was ascending the
highest stairs.
From there he was received by the four-horse chariot,
bringing him to the thrones of the Gods, while the Nymphs were
putting down the fire, and the frightened and amazed Poeas ran
down the slope stumbling on the roots and the rocks.
CANDLES
The days of the future stand in front of us
like a line of lit candles—
golden, warm, and lively little candles.
The days of the past remain behind,
a sorrowful line of burned out candles;
the closest ones are still smoking,
cold candles, melted, and drooping.
I don’t want to look at them; their shape saddens me,
and it saddens me to remember their previous light.
I look ahead at my lit candles.
I don’t want to look back and see in horror
how fast the dark line lengthens,
how quickly the burned out candles multiply.
Picture Fontaine de Vaucluse, France, by Germain Droogenbroodt
What Else Searches The Word For . . .
What else,
searches the word for
in the sediment of the verse
if not for the impalpable
—which exists
just as the water of the river
escapes the hand
but learns its limits in the jar,
conserves its form
and refreshes
as sometimes does
a poem.
ΤΙ ΑΛΛΟ
Τί άλλο άραγε ψάχνουν να βρούν
οι λέξεις
στου στίχου το συναίσθημα
παρά το ασήμαντο
που υπάρχει
σαν το νερό του ποταμού
που γλυστρά μέσα απ’τα δάχτυλα
και στο ποτήρι εγκλωβίζεται
και διατηρεί το φόρμα του
που πάντα ενεργοποιεί
όπως το ποίημα
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis
Manolis Aligizakis 