Mistakes

The man was sitting on the couch he was speaking

he was listening to his voice he corrected its tone The woman

fixed up her hair before the mirror

Her hair was dyed

The man’s voice was dyed They knew it

The lights went out They kneeled opposite each other and cried

After that they made love on the floor And outside the old

woman knocked the latch of the metal door

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A YOUNG MAN, ARTIST OF THE WORD—

IN HIS TWENTY-FOURTH YEAR

Mind, work as best you can.—

He is wasted by a one sided pleasure.

He is in a nerve-wracking situation.

He kisses the beloved face everyday,

his hands touch the most impeccable contours.

He never loved with such passion.

But the beautiful fulfillment of Eros

is missing; that consummation is missing

which both must desire with the same intensity. 

(They are not equally given to this sensual pleasure.

Only he is completely overcome.)

So he is wasted, and he is completely tense.

On the other hand he has no job; and this makes it worse.

He manages to borrow small sums of money (sometimes

he almost begs for it) and he barely gets by.

He kisses the beloved lips; takes pleasure still

with that exquisite body, but feels that it only consents.

And then he drinks and smokes; drinks and smokes;

and he drags himself to the cafes all day long,

drags in weariness the ache of that beauty.—

Mind, work do the best you can.

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Poem by Manolis Aligizakis

BURDEN

He put his bag on the floor,

he lay next to me

he raised one leg and

leaned it against the wall

as if to leave

a fleshy mark on it

a faint human trace

the other leg was resting

on the cool cement

suddenly as though he remembered

something very important

he got up

walked to the table

leaned down and smelt

the last bloomed rose

then he let a sigh float

in the darkened room

as if to release

burden of his last breath

and without any word

he collapsed on the cool cement

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FINAL VICTORY

He brought his hand on his face hastily

just as his fingers touched the spit

he stopped; he didn’t want to wipe it.

He pushed it into his face, to go deep and eat

the flesh, reaching his teeth, bones, tongue.

He breathed in a new way through

the hole he opened

and raising his body a bit he continued

his walk.

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Shrug

He sleeved his cold hands

shrugged his shoulders didn’t

see the prism bent by

leaden clouds

cursed for his bad luck pointed

to dark glass of his room

resembling empty sockets of

his skull

two different fates hover

one for him the one for others

staggering on flagstones

considering

café garbage bin 

pile behind the pub

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Lampposts III

In the shadow his eyes were asking: can I look

straight in the eyes? Can I look sideways? Can

I jump from above?

                                    Black trucks were passing,

black nights, black children, black mothers. Nicolas

had high fever; how could they take him now while  

he had cold and the wind was blowing?

Dress well, be careful what’s the need for goodbyes,

for emotions now, words written with a blue pen in

              the lining of the hat?

Others have said the same things, others were saying;

it’s always the same; thank God the dead aren’t hungry.

              How can one die?

Very early in the morning with birds chirping among

the cypresses, with just a bit of rosy colour on the window

               panes,

the clear reproach (for who?) He too shared his secrets

with an old curtain or with the lower part of the closet

or with one old ravaged army blanket; many secrets,

such as the holed sock in the left shoe, as when

evening comes and the water carriers often stumble

              on their way,

although the road is flat and familiar to them. A little

further, lined small community restaurants turn on

their lights for the students, longshoremen and small

vendors amid the steam. What have they gained,

              he asked,

them and these? And Maria with the sawdust

in her hair? I pretended I didn’t notice; the opposite

wall was painted yellow as if it had a childish sickness

and him, dead for a while, looking at himself in the big

mirror; his coat that was laid on the back of the chair,

also reflected in the mirror; three buttons were missing;

he must had felt cold. I proposed to sew his buttons

outside of the mirror; the mirror wouldn’t come

to agree; all three buttons were in the fruit basket:

one of them, not matching, red, the other brown,

the third black. They were not matching, how odd,

              my God, how odd.

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Poem by Romos Filyras

THE POET

I had fallen in the depths of the black

hopelessness of the nightmare catalyst

in the heat of summer, the sad and sorrowful

deathly low note of the dreamscape

I had neglected my fate in my slumber

for years. Yet verse and rhythm were never absent

and I had climbed up to where the fount existed

where science said I had it and for this I climbed.

Because I had lost the regular,

the inspirer of dreams, the world’s prophet,

the spontaneous poet who leans on clouds

the great, the holy rhythm interpreter.

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Candlestick

Candlestick almost burnt

drips wax over its base

like stalactites turn moments

to eternities you shape

a well formed stanza

a light thanks to

burnt matches in the drawer

with the white napkins

unfolded occasions

one for you one for her

then as if it were a

napkin from inspired

dovetailed drawer rhyme

you fold neatly and place

where ideal

iamb compels

in the middle of the poem

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