III

Thick worms of the army washrooms

gigantic rats from the septic tanks

they search the sacks for bread all night long

they step over faces,

the eaten face of a cat.

The day roosts on the mountain like a raven

the night falls when the soldiers masturbate

the night patrols and the tail movements.

Under the moonlight

two were going at each other

behind the washrooms.

One of them had a wife and children

and one called Skarvellas put his rotten face

in my sleep to see whether I was singing.

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EMPTY NATURE (1993)

                                                 For Rodney

                                                 on our thirty years together

OESTRUS OF DEATH

                                               They turned the fear of death into the oestrus of their lives

                                                                       ~Andreas Empiricos

I

The spastic woman lost control

and the carriage like an animal bridled by pain

dashed screeching wildly.

Soon after

like sudden nausea

the memory of the real body

came back to her

and the unfortunate woman

restarted going almost joyous

on her small wheels.

Opposite, wrapped in the rosy hues

of the gray time

the house where Thrush was born.

Ah, but first I have to describe

the reef to which I swam:

its shape, the chaki color

reminded me of a backpack

like the ones which eons ago we filled

with the sandwiches of youth.

I kept on closing to the reef

helped by the waters

with their light-blue blouses

that had painted on their blouses cypresses

from the cemetery of the opposite shore.

The beautiful temptation had overtaken me:

to not ever return again

to close the underwater cycle

— neckless of unimaginable value —

around my neck.

As I swam farther out

— I slowly ripped the fabric of the sea —

I kicked drawn loves that surfaced

I kicked them back to lay

down on their weed beds.

Then I questioned myself

if I had truly desired

those acceptable shapes

of the desirable, something

between the subjected body

and the empty talk…

Eros is the only godly glance

that might fall on us

the unbelievers, I would say.

Yet, look, how the sea with the blue

eyelids arouses me now

I’m lasciviously scared

and I float on ditch water

not knowing where it takes me

because I step

the invisible side of lust:

death.

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YANNIS RITSOS-POEMS, Selected Books, Volume II

ΦΑΙΔΡΑ/PHAEDRA

(Απόσπασμα-Excerpt XXVΙΙ)

Και τα σεντόνια μουσκεμένα από νερά χλιαρά, σπέρμα κι ιδρώτα,
και τα φορέματα, τα εσώρουχα, ριγμένα στο πάτωμα χάμω
και τ’ άλλα μέσα στα σεντούκια ή στις ντουλάπες συσπασμένα να στάζουν, να στάζουν
μικρές σταλαματιές που αμέσως πήζουν, κρυσταλλώνουν, σταλαχτίτες, σταλαγμίτες
σε βαθιά σπήλαια μέσα μας — περίεργα γυάλινα δάση,
γυάλινα αγάλματα πουλιών, ανθρώπων, δέντρων, ζώων,
γυάλινα ερωτικά συμπλέγματα σε μιαν υπόγεια, πυρετική υγρασία.

And the damp bed-sheets, moistened by warmish fluids,

sperm and sweat, the dresses, undergarments, thrown

on the floor and others, contracted in chests, closets, drip,

drip small droplets that thicken, crystalize, stalactites,

stalagmites, in deep caves inside us, strange glass forests,

glass statues of birds, people, trees, animals, erotic glass

clusters in a dark, feverish moist.

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Ship

Cruise ship jewel lit like

summer afternoon

we hold hands

our stifled song shakes out in

waves splashing pebbles

You let go

suspending breath, say Listen

can you hear them?

All my heart’s songs

cascade and I look

to open sea ready

to sail like a fully-lit

ship eager for pelagic swells

all exotic ports and their sounds

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BLONDE DAY

The door of spring opened

and we saw light-blue epitaphs.

Piece of news at noon 

imminent nuclear war

the old man said I’m hungry

we drank the night in a glass

at the bottom of the glass a new day.

Chemistry wakes up in the factory each morning

and finds the dead history

the dancing rain continues

two shoeless shoes in the street.

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JULIAN IN NIKOMEDIA

Purposeless and dangerous things…

Praises for the ideals of the Greeks.

The theurgies and the visits to the pagan

temples. Enthusiasm for the ancient gods.

The frequent conversations with Chrysanthius.

The theories —the clever asides—of the philosopher Maximus.

And here is the result. Gallus shows a great

anxiety. Constantios has some suspicion.

Ah, the advisors were not at all wise.

This story—says Mardonius—has gone too far,

and the furor about it must finally end.—

Julian goes again as a lector

to the church of Nicomedia,

where in a loud voice and with deep reverence

he reads the Holy Scriptures,

and the people admire his Christian piety.

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POEM BY KOSTAS KARIOTAKIS

AS I DIE

In the relaxed time of the vernal twilight, my wounded soul,

what futile effort as you’ll fold your wings

when redemption you’ll long for something

poor soul, forever sad and desperate

when you reach the end of your line you’ll find

hatred and love, passions and vile always vanish

when the disappointment, like myrrh rises

from the exquisite flowers of life, my dreamy soul

that special moment when with a simple smile

you’ll remember enemies and friends

futile soul what will you say to the sea and to the wind,

my closed heart, when you stand opposite the pale dusk?

‘Karyotakis-Polydouri: The Tragic Love Story’ poetry translated by Manolis Aligizakis