Poem by Kostas Hatzopoulos

WHEN SPRING COMES

When spring comes

and the birds return

when the flowers bloom

as in the past

I’ll wait for you

and when again

the summer returns

with the mistral

as in the past

I’ll wait for you

but when autumn arrives

with its rain

and cloudy skies

I’ll come to find you.

I won’t wait.

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LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER

Stay, stay here; it’s so quiet, it’s so quiet here like

happiness, as if change has ended or the sea has

undertaken the responsibility of our movements too;

and we, through this window, not being in any danger,

can observe it while we feel enchanted by all these

fleeting watery shapes, by these painless cries,

the causeless noise, the faded colours, reflections,

transitions, uninvolved, already flattered by your

knowledge about the unaltered water under the noisy

and threatening gestures of the wind. Do stay.

In a while you’ll discern the undivided, humble silence

under the shredding of its echoes; you’ll discern it like

politeness towards yourself; especially during

             the twilight

when the room smells of salinity, smoke and oil and

a strong fragrance of seaweed, the wind and homely

quietness, along with the warm aroma of the coffee

and the endless hoarseness of the horizon; that time

you feel as if you’re in a comfortable, secure

              alcove

dug in a circular manner in the futile noise, and

sometimes from a loud thud, an exquisite oscillation

as if a beloved hand touches you while you sleep,

              though it doesn’t wake you up,

while at the same time it gives you the sense of

relaxation and the touch of your beloved hand. Yes,

              stay for a while.

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Prayer

Then came the hour of our prayer, useless chains unto which

we sacrificed youth and vital tree shoots. The vacant plaza with

a few finches in the shrubs, the only answer to our questions.

Greediness of the selected few reigned over our symbols,

holes poked through our youthful dreams.

Someday we shall change the world.

Someday we shall create something better.

The steps of the stairs creaked as if from the heavy steps

of our dead, steps full of guilt which smart people had placed

deep inside us since the ancient times. The cypress was always

silent on the opposite sidewalk. Myriads of fallen leaves,

soldiers in the front line, while He stood on top of the table

and we heard Him as clear as a bell when He said.

I like those who choose their self-destruction.

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LEADER FROM WESTERN LYBIA

In general Alexandria liked

the Prince from Western Lybia

Aristomenis, the son of Menelaos,

who stayed there for ten days.

Like his name, his attire, fittingly Greek.

He gladly accepted the honors, but

he did not seek them; he was modest.

He bought Greek books,

mainly historical and philosophical.

Above all he was a man of few words.

He was profound in his thoughts, people said,

and for such men it is natural not to talk a lot.

But he was neither deep in his thoughts, nor anything else.

Just an ordinary, funny man.

He took a Greek name, dressed like the Greeks,

he learned how to behave like a Greek more or less;

and his soul trembled as if he would

to ruin the somewhat good impression he made

by speaking Greek with a few barbarisms,

and  the Alexandrians would make fun of him,

as it is their habit, those awful people.

For this reason he restricted himself to a few words,

being careful with the conjunctions and pronunciation;

and he was so terribly bored having

all those unspoken words piled up inside him.

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Χρυσόθεμις//Chrysothemis

Τη νύχτα, περασμένα μεσάνυχτα, ακούστηκε στο δρόμο,
κάτω ακριβώς απ’ τα παράθυρά μου, το βήμα ενός διαβάτη· —
ίσως ποτέ κανένας δεν περπάτησε μ’ αυτό τον τρόπο κάτω απ’ το φεγγάρι
κι ίσως ποτέ κανένας να μην είχε ακούσει όπως εγώ ένα τέτοιο βήμα.
Ήταν ο πρώτος άνθρωπος που ερχότανε στον κόσμο.
Ήταν ο τελευταίος που έφευγε απ’ τον κόσμο. Και, ποτέ, κανένας
δεν είχε ρθει μήτε είχε φύγει.
Όπως σας είπα,
ο κόσμος ήταν ζεστός, χνουδωτός, ολοπόρφυρος — χωρίς κανένα ρήγμα.
Μονάχα το φεγγάρι δρόσιζε το χνούδι μιας κουβέρτας που ’χε μείνει στο μπαλκόνι.

That night, past mid-night, the steps of a passerby were

heard outside, just under my window, perhaps no one

ever walked in that fashion under the moonlight and

perhaps no one ever had listened to those steps

the way I did. He was the first ever man who came

to the world. He was the last one to leave. And, then,

no one came no one left.

As I said,

the world was warm, fluffy, all purple, without any chasm.

Only the moon was freshening the fluff of the blanket that

was left on the balcony.

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2023 Longlist Announcement

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