Festivities
There were many dead
those leaden days.
Sorrowful festivities
eulogies, priest always
controlled the tears of women
with his fingers signaling
in front of the altar
matins, red dawns
sometimes a lone crow
wished us a better future
amid prickly pear trees
while daffodils insisted
to always bloom come
each optimistic March
LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS
POEM BY KATERINA GOGOU
TIME WILL COME
Time will come when things will change
remember this, Maria
you remember that game during the school recess
when we run holding the baton
—don’t look at me — don’t cry. You are the hope
listen, time will come
when children will select their parents
they won’t be born at random
there won’t be any closed doors
with stooping people outside
and we shall choose our work
we won’t be horses they look at our teeth
people — think of it — will talk in colors
others in musical notes
just save in a big jar with water
words and concepts such as
unadjusted, oppression, loneliness, price, gain, humiliation
for the history lesson
times are tough — I don’t want to lie — Maria
and more tough days will come
I don’t know — don’t expect too much from me —
this is what I’ve lived, this I’ve learned, this I’ve said
and from all I read I keep just one:
it only matters to remain a human being
despite all this, Maria,
we’ll change life.
Fecund Oregano
Neither victory nor defeat
just heat
early this day
heat arrives between your legs
fecund oregano
plays with my nostrils
Neither love nor hate
just indifference
early this evening
indifference arrives in your bosom
fruitful fig romps
my taste buds
IN DESPAIR
He lost him forever. And now he seeks
his lips in the lips of every new lover
in the union with every new lover
he tries to fool himself
into believing this is the same
young man he gives himself to.
He lost him forever, as if he never existed.
Because he wanted—he said—to save himself
from the stigmatized, the unhealthy sensual pleasure;
from the stigmatized, sensual pleasure of shame.
There was still time— he said— to save himself.
He lost him forever, as if he never existed.
In his imagination, in his delusions
in the lips of other young men he seeks his lips;
he yearns to feel that passion again.
POEM BY PHAIDON THEOFILOU
LIKE A FAIRY
Like a fairy
I enter the cane fields
reaching to their roots
feeling the caress of moist and warmth
I charge to the forests like a juvenile
to welcome the rain
with green wholeness
I touch seams of ore in the earth
which reflect and declare
their ethereal colors in my eyes.
Yes, like the color the eyes of men reflect
when the soul stays still
and the glance falls in the void.
I pass my appearance
which resembles a pointing needle
among the foliage of the trees
tasty craftiness of chlorophyll.
I go to the hothouse of your fears looking in them
you’re afraid of your fear and what gnaws you.
Yet when drinking with your friends you leave them to forgetfulness
but your fears come back more demanding
since you don’t have the courage to face them.
Often you replace the faces of your fear
with hatred, ingratitude, subversion of others;
thus you also change.
I stand before the miraculous work of bees, that don’t know
they transform aesthetics into ambrosia with their stand
they transcend a great deed into a simple expected act.
Then, I hold my self-respect up high
like a precious possession:
my respect for the cat
which when it feels its time has come
leaves everyone behind
and bestows its body
into a schism of the earth.
Τάκης Σούκας & Σώτια Τσώτου, Και πού θεός
(τραγούδι: Στέλιος Καζαντζίδης / δίσκος: Και πού θεός (1994))
Ένοικος
Μα Εσύ ποιος είσαι; Ακούω τα βήματά σου
Στους ήχους των βημάτων μου Ποιος είσαι;
Ακούω το βάθος της σιωπής σου ως ένα
Πηγάδι σκοτεινό ή ανάσα δέντρου
Ακούω την ύπαρξή σου σαν αγνώστου
Κι απόμακρου ουρανού το κατακρήμνισμα
Κι όμως το ξέρω, μ’ έχεις προσαρτήσει
Με κατοικείς, είμαι το σπίτι σου, έλα
Να ζεσταθείς, σου ανάβω την καρδιά μου
Δεν θέλω ανταμοιβή, δεν σου γυρεύω
Να μου φανερωθείς, σου ανοίγω κιόλας
Τη μυστική καταπακτή βαθιά μου
Να κρύψεις μέσα εκεί τα αινίγματά σου
Δεν σου ζητώ σημάδι παρουσίας
Δέχομαι τον πικρό καρπό της λήθης
Τη μοναξιά – την ερημιά των κόσμων
Σωπαίνω μέσα σ’ όλες τις σιωπές σου
Θα ’μαι το κάστρο σου ως στην έσχατη ώρα
Από τη συλλογή Η Περσεφόνη των γυρισμών (1974) του Ορέστη Αλεξάκη
View original post 13 more words
Ο Θεός και όλοι οι άγγελοι λικνίζουν τον κόσμο
Τώρα που το φεγγάρι ανεβαίνει με τη ζέστη
Κι οι γρύλοι βουίζουν πάλι στο γρασίδι. Το φεγγάρι
Κλαίει στο νου χαμένες αναμνήσεις.
Πλάγιασε αυτός κι ο άνεμος της νύχτας φυσάει πάνω του, εδώ.
Οι καμπάνες αργοχτυπούν. Δεν είναι ύπνος αυτός.
Είναι πόθος
Αχ ναι, πόθος… έτσι που γέρνει στο κρεβάτι του
Στους αγκώνες του στηριγμένος, στο κρεβάτι του,
Κοιτάζοντας, τα μεσάνυχτα, το μαξιλάρι που είναι μαύρο
Στο καταστροφικό δωμάτιο… πέρα απ’ την απόγνωση
Σαν ένστικτο πιο βαθύ. Τι είναι αυτό που ποθεί;
Μα αυτό δεν μπορεί να το ξέρει ο άνθρωπος που σκέπτεται,
Αλλά την ίδια τη ζωή, τον πόθο που εκπληρώνεται
Στο άλεσμα του χρόνου, κοιτάζοντας επίμονα
Ενα κεφάλι στο μαξιλάρι, στα σκοτεινά,
Πλατύτερο από σουδάριο**, μιλώντας τη γλώσσα
Των απολύτων, ένα κεφάλι ασώματο
Με χείλη πρησμένα από ταραχές κι αντάρτικες φωνές
Το κεφάλι ενός απ’ τους πεσόντες, γερμένο
Στο…
View original post 125 more words
LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS
Chatty Old Woman
Some encounters are strange, at night, with ghostly
faces, men who hide something behind their prophet’s
beards or they ask you for a match though they don’t
accept a cigarette and thin women who stop you for
a question or they beg you not to carry on insisting
that they have some information or alcoholic children
while they move their hands with difficulty like in
dreams
therefore struggling from nicotine I rang the bell, a
pair of stupid slippers dragged along the hallway and
an old man opened with a cap in the shape of a sponge,
“what you want?” He asks me, “I?” I said to him. “You
called me, usually this time they all call me”, “who is it?”
An old woman was heard from inside “a crazy man”
the old man said; I pushed him, I started to search,
prehistoric scene full of dust, “don’t search” he said to me,
“she’s dead”, “then why she talks to me?” I asked, “she was
always chatty like that”, “don’t listen to him” the old woman
yelled “He’s the dead one since he still hides his money”
“God they’ll drive me crazy”, I thought and raising the axe
I started pounding the wretched sofa which hid the quiet
part of the wall from me.
Nakedness
I don’t want to hear anything, he says, look
I shut my ears, I watch your lips, I can’t tell
which word they form. The zero isn’t a circle,
it’s a square like the table. The unheard, truly,
is fleshy and red. My ears turn red because
of what I don’t hear. Now whatever I hear
is red. I will never speak again.
Manolis Aligizakis 