POEM BY MARIA POLYDOURIS

YOU WON’T RETURN

You won’t return anymore to grace me with

something from the gifts the beautiful life

has graced you: a flower perhaps? The life

that fills your heart and body with such beauty.

You won’t return anymore to take my hands

that froze as if an enemy’s hands?

Joined with yours, calm pair of hands

that need doesn’t come near them any longer.

You won’t return! And the days pass by slowly

and as you go away my familiar fate

comes close to me, alone

for so long with the secret grief.

Don’t you ever think that perhaps, truly,

in sad moment I’ll direct myself

to the fateful end that awaits me

and never to return? 

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

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Partition

In time I finally stopped keeping notes guessing that

the value of a masterpiece must be elsewhere, while

the stupid doctor insisted “you’ll enjoy some change”

as if fame couldn’t pass by our street; yet the train

whistles at night took me to a voyage all over the room

and then the ticket inspector came and asked me about

my ticket, “which ticket asshole, I’m the one with one

testicle” and I of course meant that they threw me out

along with all the other good heroes of the novel; I

therefore thought of going to say goodbye to my uncles

because who can tell me that I’m truly who I am (and

I’m surprised that no one admired such a version) or

I’m the one who placed a small napkin on my lap

although I never ate anything but that spot on the door;

when finally as you might have guessed it was

a melancholic October and I entered the first

second hand store and I bought a partition.

Thus my warmth and good manners remained

          exemplary.

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Tenderness

Your fingers

tenderly entangled

with mine

melodious harmony

of ten stars

whispering

I love you

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POEM BY PAULINA PAMPOUDIS

THIRD DAY

The third day He gave names

to the winds

and the birds shivered

in the roots of their feathers

the dry soil buzzed

many first tried miracles

the infatuated grasses

danced in the plain

two small puffy clouds

touched, then separated

ascending slowly in the light

God danced on them

until He was dismembered

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POEM BY ALEXANDRA BAKONIKA

MY BAGGAGE

Violent acts and tragedies

aren’t foreign to me

I’ve lived them as if

through fire and steel

if you search my body you will

discover their deep scars

I carry in my baggage

darkness, shadows and grief

I have certificates

introductory letters

and trials I have endured

and I can claim and enjoy

the sunlit and joyous events

the encounters and my immersion into joy

rarely experienced

become a right and gained time

I never feel guilty for euphoria felt

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Three Riders

The red horse, the white, and the jet-black.

The blonde rider with wide forehead rode

the first horse; the brunette rider with his long

eyelashes rode the second; the dead man with

his stony knees rode the third horse; They left

and the cloud was left amid the poplars.

When night fell, only the dead man returned

with a red scarf tied around his head.

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INCIDENTALLY

Exchanges and repayments. We didn’t cheat anyone.

We weren’t cheated either, no. We read clearly all

our history in the passing of a bird.

Then, of course, as always, we needed bread and

salt, the smile of a sensible woman to add

to our evening sleep in a temporary house with

three strayed dogs which barked all night long

guarding not us but the house.

That way we were guarded too until next dawn.

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