Poem by George Vizyenos
PARABLE
The morning star can never shine
as you when you appear, joy-giving lass
nor does the green clover have as much
as you have freshness on your sweetened lips
nor do the flowers of narcissus have
such fragrance as your lightest breath
nor does the bird know how to sing such
sweet songs as your inventive lips.
One only it can’t learn—to sing I love you—
and for this, I dare to say, another soul may die.
Lighthouse Keeper
Quite often I imagine the passengers’ hands lighted
by my lamp as if they were turned golden from
the breath of a distant friendship. I also imagine, when
they jump onto the quay and their relatives greet them,
that some of them squeeze my hands; and more so, that
the small locks of their suitcases have retained the light
of this lighthouse like small icons, beautiful and well
kept because of my care and vigil.
There’s always a way for us to give something and
perhaps we might identify with what we give: there
will always be a colour that will blend in our glance
each morning. This is what I wanted to emphasize
and sign like a letter without any date and with no
recipient.
Now, I’ll better keep quiet and light our lamp.
Wait for me. Two minutes. I won’t be long.
Wait.
Whispers
Whispers
their song silking through
maiden pubic hair
their lust searching for
tender vulva
Whispers
rhythmic resonance
in kiss of fingers
and their excitable hunt for
youthful consummation
Whispers
movement of legs
under the light bed sheet
impelling space between
a raised leg and the angled one
REPETITIONS SECOND SERIES
The End of Dodoni I
We had the altars, our churches, the oracles. With
our own eyes we had seen the golden she-dove and
the axe of the lumberjack falling on the ground. Secret
voices — the leaves, the birds and the fountain, told us
what to do, what not to. The enchantresses with their
cauldrons and the coffee cup were a good support. And
over the deep-voiced oak.
We too had somewhere to go, to
ask about the sheep, our children, the pomegranate tree,
the one-eyed cow; about the donkey, the orchard,
the casserole. And always the same answer, (as it changed
each time it was given in the same tone:) certain, firm,
commanding, irreversible. We relaxed somewhat —
others had the responsibility of deciding for success or
failure. We only had the submission and execution, and
our lowered eyes.
Now
everything is reversed, altars, churches, cemeteries.
The bones thrown in the street. They burned down
the holy oak — our confidant. We have no one to ask,
no one to trust. Arkis walks around the agora with the
bloodied axe on his waist; there is no golden fluff from
the sacrificed oracle-giving dove that shivers on the kitchen
skylight or on the dusty oleanders; only the denial water
that drips in the empty stable late at night, and it is quiet
an ambivalent quietness like the first one, like the last.
Picture Germain Droogenbroodt
Poetry Day*
So grey
this cold winter morning.
Within sight the monotony
of by passing cars
Behind it
the sea devoid of the sun
disconsolate and dull
like this inspirationless morning
Poetry Day.
Germain Droogenbroodt
ΜΕΡΑ ΠΟΙΗΣΗΣ
Γκρίζο πρωί
κρύο χειμωνιάτικο πρωί
κι η μονοτονία
περαστικών αυτοκινήτων
στην άλλη μεριά του πρωινού
η θάλασσα στερημένη ήλιου
θολή και απαρηγόρητη
σαν το ανέμπνευστο πρωί
Μέρα ποίησης
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis
THE WINDOWS
In these dark rooms where I spend
leaden days, I go up and down
looking for the windows.—To open
one would be a great consolation.—
But they are nowhere to be found, or I can not
find them. And perhaps it is better that I don’t.
Perhaps their light will be a new tyranny.
Who knows what it will reveal?
Poem by Kostas Hatzopoulos
BLURRY EVENING
The evening comes, blear
and sad and faint,
my pain’s but your caress
since you believe I hurt
it tells your legend
softly to the evening
and cries as it narrates
like the echo of a song
or like a bell that breaks
with a slow, soft weeping
as it calls me to the street
and I call you too.
Engraving Elke Rehder
Christmas
Since the sky is empty
the earth has become fuller
With a thousand electric stars
and bargains with which retailers lure
Shepherds preach long
instead of angels sing the CDs
Even without the three sages
there are royal gifts
However, a child is born
the Messiah is not present
Anyway, it is a man who wishes
that heaven would not be so empty.
Georg Schwikart, Germany (1964)
ΧΡΙΣΤΟΥΓΕΝΝΑ
Άδειασε ο ουρανός και γέμισε η γη
χιλιάδες ηλεκτρικά φώτα
και προσφορές να ελκύσουν τον πελάτη
οι ποιμένες μακρολογούν
σαν άγγελοι οι δισκέττες τραγουδούν
και δίχως μάγους
τα βασιλικά δώρα προσφέρονται
Κι όμως, ένα βρέφος γεννήθηκε
ο Μεσίας απουσιάζει
κι ο άνθρωπος παρακαλεί
να ξαναγεμίσει ο Παράδεισος
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη// translated by Manolis Aligizakis
Manolis Aligizakis 