Stories

Yes, I couldn’t deny

my promise to mention

my first cousin Antony

best dancer of western Crete

and narrate his sweet story

impossible not to include it

in my recollections

like the beautiful breasts

of the girl I touched

behind the movie theater

in that side street where

we frequented when the bright

lights could reveal

our secret thoughts and

like my distant cousin, who once

jumped from one edge of a ravine

to the other just to defy Death

yes, between the two edges

three meters apart where

just thirty meters lower

Hades’ gaping mouth lurked,

I too dared touch the breast

of the fourteen year old girl  

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POEM BY KATERINA GOGOU

TROY AVENUE 35A

My house, just like yours

intrudes into the houses of others

since the roads are so narrow

and there are so many people

sometimes I feel we sleep in the same bed

since we are almost glued together

we use the same brush to brush our teeth

and we eat the same food

only when you go

you leave behind your dirty dishes

it can’t be explained otherwise

that the sink is always full

it doesn’t matter though

I do what I can

to show how much I love you

for this I put on the fake moustache

and I go out to the rain with a fan

that your children will laugh

only I beg of you don’t gossip about us

and leave my Myrto alone

she was born the way she looks.

Sad.

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POEM BY KOSTAS KARIOTAKIS

FOR AN OLD FELLOW STUDENT

Now that my heart has aged, my friend

and my years in Athens have passed

sweetly and joyously in parties

and sometimes in the grief of hunger

I won’t ever return to the homeland that

graced me with the celebration of youth

but only as a hoping passerby

traveller with my dream that vanished

a pilgrim I’ll go back to your house

to find out they don’t know where you are.

Along with someone else I’ll meet your Aphrodite

while others will occupy the house of peace.

I’ll go to the tavern to re-order

the Samos wine we used to drink

I’ll miss you and their wine will taste different

yet I’ll drink and I’ll get drunk

singing and staggering I’ll go

to Zappeion where we used to go together

the horizon will be wide open all around

and my song will sound like a lament.

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

Διαπίστωση

     Αφού η ιστορία μας ήταν γραμμένη σε σελίδες

απερίγραπτες κι αφού φτάσαμε στο κέντρο

της πόλης σταθήκαμε προσεκτικά ν’ ακούσουμε

τ’ απατηλά πατήματα των τελευταίων κορακιών

κι αφού το τέλος τούτο είχε κιόλας συμφωνηθεί

απ’ τις πάντα αλάθητες Μοίρες καταλάβαμε

πως εμείς είμασταν το σχοινί που πάνω μας

θα περπατούσε ο Υπεράνθρωπος κι εμείς πάλι

οι Υπεράνθρωποι.

     Μες τη φωλιά αετού γεμίσαμε το δισκοπότηρό μας 

και με κουράγιο το τοξεύσαμε στης οικουμένης

τα τέσσερα άκρα κι υποσχεθήκαμε ποτέ θύματα

να μη πέσουμε συστήματος.

Τον κόνδορα κάναμε κληρονόμο όλης της σάρκας.

Τον άνεμο και τη βροχή κάθαρση ονομάσαμε.

      Ευοί, ώ, λεύτερα στοιχεία, ευοί.

     Τελικά πίστεψαν όλοι οι παρευρισκόμενοι

και με φωνή που αντήχησε  στα μισοανοιγμένα

παραθυρόφυλλα, κραύγασαν—

      ‘Αυτοί έχουν κιόλας σωθεί.’  

Ascertainment

Since our history was written on indescribable

pages and since we arrived at the center of town

we stopped and listen carefully to the misleading

footsteps of the last crows and since this end was

already agreed upon by the always unerring Fates

we finally understood: we, the rope upon which

the first steps of Übermensch would be marked

and we again the Übermenschen.

In the eyrie we filled our chalice with courage

and to the four corners of the universe we arrowed it

with a promise never to be trapped in any system’s

idiocy.

The condor we declared heir of the flesh.

The wind and rain we proclaimed our catharsis.

Evoe, oh, free elements, evoe.

People who gathered in the center of the town

agreed and the half opened window shutters shivered

when in one voice the people cried out—

‘These are already saved.’

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In The Name of the Goddess I Summon You

Oil on limbs

perhaps a rancid smell

like here on the oil-press

of the small church

on the rough pores

of the stopped stone.

Oil on the hair

crowned with rope,

and perhaps other perfumes

that we didn’t know

poor and rich

and statuettes offering

small breasts to the fingers.

Oil in the sun

the leaves shivered

when the foreigner stopped

and silence got heavy

between the knees.

The coins fell;

‘In the name of the Goddess I summon you…’

Oil on the shoulders

and the flexing waist

gray legs on the grass, and this wound in the sun

as the bell chimed for vespers

as I spoke in the courtyard

with a crippled man.

Kouklia, Nov `53

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