Visitor

He always came

unannounced

tattering thoughts

vague smile

turning the dead

into fairies

sharpened axe

behind door

ready to severe

head from walking corpse

unless they kept secret

the name of one woman

they both once loved

before the wrath of autumn

brought the inconsolable

sobs of separation

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LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS

2023 Longlist Announcement

VIOLIN FOR THE ONE-ARM MAN 

7

A lot of these things, of course, or one part of the room

are imaginary since man prefers to be always sad and

don’t give me a hard time, I choose to be poor out

of respect (let us not to include all the Sundays);

      though now I recuperate or iron old receipts or

I light the gas heater or I stand outside the Observatory

                 begging for some rain.

When it rains they all vanish and no one can see you

or better, I hold a newspaper so I don’t scare

                  the shadows,

and I always maintain my correspondence regarding

                   faraway issues;

it’s simple: you sit at the steps of the bridge in spite

of all dignity and finally it always appears, since

I had the strength not to defend myself, only just

a bit quieter, my God keep it a bit quieter,

and not that all these futile days ended.

I pretended to be indifferent while, on the side of my

eyes I observed the slip that lurks under the carpet,

however how can they see us clearly; us who search

                   for God

and this phrase is so good I must make a note of it;

and let every opportunist who insists my mother died

go to hell while I, each evening, sit quietly in the garden;

      therefore I managed to live half of each day since I

was often all alone and again the victim or I was

chased by the milkman even after the nightmare

although they didn’t care for this which was a fantastic

indulgence like the smell of a drawer that is our most

personal history or like a lamp in an empty room is

the only witness of the deluge and no one will ever

find out why I sit here, behind this door for years,

wrapped with the bed cover, hiding my clumsy foot

that led me out of the world.

‘Tasos Livaditis- Poems Volume 2’ – Translated by Manolis Aligizakis

POEM BY NIKIFOROS VRETTAKOS

AN ALMOND TREE AND YOU NEXT TO IT

An almond tree and you

next to it

but when did you blossom?

I stand by the window

and seeing you I cry

my eyes can’t take all

this joy

oh God, please give me

the cisterns of the sky

that I fill them all

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POEM BY MARIA POLYDOURI

MY SONGS WERE ONLY WRITTEN FOR HIM

Why do I need to accept the Muse’s projection?

That I tighten my heart and accept

new loves, beliefs and joys

as if it was my Fate’s doing and so exceptional?

Time has passed since the rayed spark of my eye

shone onto the holy and the mortal.

Oh, I haven’t kept the senseless lyre of passion

since my songs were only written for Him.

And I sang the grief of my pure soul

along with the sad joy of tears

and all the joy of my song was nothing but his voice

that I’d hear one evening in front of his humble dwelling.

And as sometime I read my joy in his eyes

what more valuable opinion can I state?

At our separation like swallows the verse brought

to him the message: even from faraway twice I love him.    

And now my voice leaves not any grieving echo

as it’s covered by the darkness of the night

yet everyone is afraid and I still believe

that I’ve reached the heavy gate of Hades.

For why would I accept the call of Muse when

my trust on gods and people shuttered inside me?

A senseless Lyre of passion doesn’t suit me

since my songs were only written for Him.

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

CRAFTSMAN OF WINE BOWLS

On this wine bowl,    made of pure silver 

for the house of Heracleidis,

where excellent taste    reigns—

look, here are elegant flowers    and streams and thyme,

and in the middle I placed    a beautiful young man,

naked, erotic;    he still has one of his calves

in the water—.    I prayed, Oh Memory,

to find you as my best    helper, so that I might make

the face of the young man    I loved as it was.

It was very difficult though    as it has been

almost fifteen years   since the day

he fell, a soldier,    in the defeat at Magnesia.

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MARCHING PAEANS

The stars go crazy and spume

like the soldier who had

an epileptic attack during the exercises.

Was it true or he pretended?

However he didn’t escape the exercises

by going to the camp hospital.

We shall never escape if we get sick or die.

I wanted to say this to the man next to me

but he kept on singing marching paeans.

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POEM BY GEORGE DOUATZIS

WASTE

Easily we waste

the most valuable:

water, blood

like losses

that build the smallest room

in which I live

and as I grow older

the room turns smaller

until it becomes a small dot

lost in the space

of a mindless world

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