Painting by Graça Marques

ΣΠΑΣΜΕΝΟΙ

Οι καθρέφτες

αλλόκοτοι και στην πίσω μεριά τους

κιτρινισμένα ονόματα

τα χνάρια μας σβυσμένα

το εγώ σου

το εσύ μου

—το αόρατο μονοπάτι—

•                                           Επέζησε
  
  Rafael Carcelén, Spain (Chinchilla, 1961).

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη/translated by Manolis Aligizakis

BROKEN
all the mirrors,

disfigured even on the reverse side
one’s own name undeveloped,

our footsteps faded,

your  I
my you
—invisible trail—
survive us.

Rafael Carcelén, Spain (Chinchilla, 1961).

Ted Joans (1928 – 2003), Η αλήθεια

REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES

The Apples of the Hesperides I

We never liked the demi-gods, the gods, the super-heroes,

         the over-complicated myth

with the many angles, we couldn’t get to its meaning.

We simply guessed it hid many trivial things; it lacked

that clear nakedness of the unknown and inexplicable. But

we liked the locale, where the day meets the night and

the apple trees, full of blossoms, turn white in the twilight

or get heavy with their golden apples. We also liked how

the Argonauts saw from their ship a bit beyond the lake

Tritonida, the corpse of the Dragon and the sad Hesperides.

         But most of all

we liked that little pillow which Hercules asked to rest

his head from the weight of the Cosmos; this little

cunningness, so human, that had defeated the ill-will

of Atlas, revealed all the myth to us and graced it with

such a vague, familiar, an almost esthetic brilliance.

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OCEAN’S MARCH (Excerpt VII)

Venerable heart

unsuspecting childish heart

who never refuses

We were stretching our arms

to gather star flowers

to gather the stars of our pulse

replying to the sea voices

to hold onto Beauty’s dress

traveling toward infinity

through the path designed on the pelagos

by the immense summer moon

At noon we wrestled naked on the sand

with the wet bodies of twelve-year-olds

more for embracing than for the win

more for the wresting than the win

only for the victory

Salty hair

sunburned thighs

waves splashing on a kiss

the sea just further than a spasm

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RECIPE FOR LIFE

I thin up the ancient horror

in dreams that last seconds

the daily panic

with a momentary heaven.

I systematically hate the excess:

let me miss the train, I say

but running careful not to break

the water pitcher

with the little joy that has

remained in its bottom.

The indignation

that more and more boils

for something I didn’t betray, 

though I lost

for the defeat that appeared

as victory,

I place in the air to cool off

the way nature has coordinated.

The murderous sorrow

of everything that I loved and is alive

though they doesn’t matter to me anymore

I pass through the time machine

and I lightly dust with thickened sorrow

the evening meal

which life still serves.

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ΠΡΑΓΜΑΤΕΙΑ ΠΕΡΙ ΕΘΕΛΟΔΟΥΛΙΑΣ

Poem by Miltos Sachtouris

NIGHT OF THE FORGOTTEN

This man

with the hard words

in the night

without his voice

comes and calls you

you severed one of your arms

you, forgotten one

you cut off one of your breasts

you, forgotten one

he comes and calls you

you don’t have eyes anymore

you, forgotten one

he comes and calls you

you go,

forgotten one,

groping

into the black water wells

you don’t burn

your kiss

you don’t fall

in the well

you don’t control

your blood

when he leans

heavy over you

to take one of

his fingers

to make the nights

yours

to turn dawn

whole again

beautiful again

the dawn

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REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES

We and Hercules

Great and glorious, they tell you, son of God, and a lot

       of teachers over him,

old Linus, son of Apollo, to educate him, Eurotos who

taught him the art of archery, Eumolpus, son of Philemon

taught him to sing and play the lyre but most important,

Hermes’ son, Arpalycos, with half of his forehead covered by

his thick, huge eyebrows, taught him the art of the Argeans:

tripping, with which he could win most things, in wrestling,

        boxing, even in the Letters.

 However, we, sons of mortals, without teachers, only with

        our own will

with patience and struggle became who we became. We haven’t

felt inferior we never lowered our eyes. Our only diplomas three

words: Makronisos, Yaros, Leros. And if one day you find our

verses clumsy, remember they were written under the noses

of the guards, and with the spear always poking our side. Our

verses don’t need any excuses either, take them as they are, naked.

A dry Thucydides will touch you more than the artsy Xenophon.

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THE BRIDGE (Excerpt)

But then you feel how suspicious this movement appears

             to be

in the darkness nailed by stars, with the metallic sound

             of keys

like swords clashing high up in the air of invisible gladiators

             or horsemen

with this dark, huge mouth of the safe

that gapes open in the night while piles of coins, from

strange places and time shine in its bottom,

gold bars like huge nails for a crucifixion; stacks of paper bills

like secret playing cards of Fate. And all those who for

a moment accepted your offer, will throw their coins

on cobblestones soon after you turn your head, yet the coins

don’t make any sound; they’ll try to decipher the numbers

and seals of the bills, but they can’t be deciphered in

            the amazing darkness,

so they throw them back at your feet again and leave.

And you remain alone with all your trampled wealth

alone in front of the magnetic open mouth of the empty

             safe

alone before the uncovered hole of chaos,

one of your arms half-raised,

in a half-completed pose of theatrical generosity,

like the statue of a hero whose heroism

proved to be wrong after his death — or like an

         endless effort

to become a statue that you won’t collapse on the ground;

a statue that in vain keeps, like a cluster of grapes,

the unacceptable keys of a paradise.

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Ηeat Wave

Soft island hills

lapping on sea froth

cicadas fire up

their endless arias

come close to me, you said to me,

stand before me like Hermes

a naked graceful cypress

that I’ll keep you

in my eyes for

the long winter days

when we’ll be apart

moments I’ll

yearn for your warmth

come close to me, I beg you

let me touch your skin

the day is fiery

and unbearable like

the body’s conflagration

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