Expanse

There was nothing else in the night but

the immense dark expanse and the straight road

imperceptibly lit from within There

a big crashed bus

with one of its headlights on flooding

the five awakened startled chickens

and a dry branch of the inviolable

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Peek

For an everlasting moment

he peeked through the hole

as if to declare his worthy words

as though orating a new passion

to flowerpots on the front porch

then he opened his door

and put his head out enough

to be in absentia from the inside

or away from the overhanging emptiness

and for no apparent reason

started pleading for light

for a new wide path and

for all the ancient dogmas that

millions have perished for in battle

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Pedlar from Sidon

Easily you’ll recognize

the Son of full-breasted Aphrodite

and Hermes (hermaphrodite)

The young pedlar came from Sidon

without any fear for the angry Poseidon.

His hair pitch black, his chiton purple

fastened on his shoulder by a golden clasp;

every pleat of his body smelling of myrrh and make up.

He entered Cyprus via the sea-port of Famagusta

and now he enjoys the sunshine in the back lanes of Nicosia.

A young Turkish girl in the courtyard and the ivy

she trimmed shivered at the touch of her ivory fingers.

The pedlar crossed the sun of the river like a walking God,

like a whispering dream singing ‘roses in the kerchief.’

As though his purple lips yearned to kiss Zeus’ sandals.

He walked that way and sat next to the gothic gatepost

where Marcus’ lion fixated its wild eyes

on the sleeping shepherd who smelled of he-goat and sweat.

He leaned, took out of his shirt a terracotta statuette and looked at it;

a naked youth that slides uncertain on a whore’s bed

between the concave Hermes and the curved Aphrodite.

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Sparrows

Flock of sparrows takes

charge of the plaza grounds

controlling the ebb and flow of bird

excursions telling everyone

to follow rules obey traffic signals

and certainly stop

at the intersection, look

both directions before fluttering to

the other side toward

pizza joint where there are

always plenty of crumbs

to eat while the young

sparrow sitting on the tree branch

contemplating, internal seeker

of truth composes his daily poem

and clipping his wing feathers he writes

no need for these anymore

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POEM BY ANTONIS FOSTIERIS

BOY AT THE MUSEUM

A boy has slept in the museum

for the last three thousand years

his bones have shuddered in the cold

they got full of holes for the stubbornness of the irrevocable.

A boy gets up from his bed at night

pulls the curtains aside to see the moon

the wild light startles him and he sleepwalks to the roof

just a little more and he’ll climb up to the clouds

just a little more and he’ll clean out God’s beard 

I’m lying, I’m lying a boy sleeps in the museum

eons trickle cold water on him

the eons buzz in his ears like bees

eons of ants around his mattress

just a little longer and he’ll rip the curtain of his sleep

he’ll get up and crying we’ll hug each other   

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The Wound

To simplify things he would prefer

clean counters the white smooth

finished lines of statues

to carry on with his correspondence (he

acquired enough paper and envelopes last night)

forgetting that small turtle tied

by one of its legs with a string hung from the tree

that he never dared set free though there was

no one around to see him

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SHAPE OF ABSENCE  IV

Very often, during the afternoon when everyone has left

the house, mothers let their aprons on the back of a chair

and open the closet of the dead child

as if to uncover their secret patience

as if to open the back door of silence that leads

          to a sorrowful garden.

They unhang small dresses from the hangers

light-blue, rosy, orange colour, made

of the thoughtful hours of twilight. They dust them

and caress them absentmindedly and suddenly

they smile, their girls must have grown tall by now and

they should buy them new dresses. The brush

is left on the floor like a small craft that

travels in a small seashore with its lights turned off.

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LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS

2023 Longlist Announcement

Similarities

Rain is a tough game that only the one who lost

           can win

lovers also vanish among the other passersby and

the stones children throw in the night again

           fall in futility;

nevertheless I was a hero too, since I often stood

           dumbfounded or I stood aside

as if to live once again in one word: everything

seemed suspicious like the silent cypresses and

the clocks must feel cold but who can think of that

like auntie Rosa, the spinster, who aged on the stairway

with her sealed vulva like a Sunday holiday while

            the bells called the Christians;

when finally someone knocked at the door, three

thousand years had already passed, auntie Rosa had

died at three in the morning however the birds were

asleep we never found which coffin factory was open

           during the night;

I stood hesitantly like a crazy man who bought all

           the music

or like those poor women who always hold a laughable

           umbrella

so they wouldn’t hear the direct insult

almost like a poem is written.

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