LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS

2023 Longlist Announcement

VIOLIN FOR THE ONE-ARM MAN

3

However something worse happened: I had to be in

the hallway at regular times; there was a vague accusation

            without any witnesses,

without proofs, almost without a victim;

besides, haven’t I been under uninterrupted surveillance

for years otherwise what would I need all these

            windows?

They were coming in the house each night and that explains

            all the floor creaking

a mysterious murder by the many things that had fallen

            off your hands,

doors you opened hastily or perhaps auntie Eudoxia, who

applied make up at her old age and if you made fun of her

she would go to the side and cry silently, since then I owe

           her all the tears

or that fake coin you threw in the hat of the blind, perhaps

he exchanged it with his whole hand,

or my childhood friend with who each evening we divided

          the world; though I always cheated him

as I waited to be called “it’s my turn” I begged them

although, even here, someone else would take my place;

“there is no skylight” someone said and I calmed him

down “there is one since you’re lost” I said to him;

every so often people opened the door and looked

          at me until blood appeared;

finally they took me “name please”, “assholes, pigs”

I said to them “if I didn’t have a name I wouldn’t be

here”, “and how did you kill your father?”

“I, my father?” But when I started recalling I suddenly

understood how mysterious my past was “they fooled me”

I yelled “someone else lived my life”

           then the next witness came in,

the wretched man, who accused me of debauchery “pity”

I said to him “I was the one who took off my cloths and

covered the gallows so you wouldn’t see it”

and as evening came they brought big candlesticks

           from other eras

since those days I had no corpse to prepare for the night

until finally he appeared, the one who would be

responsible for my defence, as they said; I knew him

but didn’t remember accurately in which life I met him

“are you the distributor” I asked “no I’m the inheritor”

he says, such inexplicable words, perhaps to all who are

          afraid of words

and only after the murder you learn who you are.

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PLEASURE

Old age, serene, beyond joy or sorrow

beyond expectations. It evaluates its time without

impatience which it almost doesn’t consider; it loses

itself before a hornet that dives deep in its buzz,

before a glass with its clear circle floating in the air.

Quiet, endless period after the responsibility and 

the action, silent, sweet period, like a woman in bed,

a woman after an orgasm, who joyously weights

the soft heaviness of man’s genitals in her palm.

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POEM BY JOHN POLEMIS

MOTHERLAND

What is our motherland? Perhaps the plains

and snow-capped mountain peaks?
Is it perhaps the golden sun that shines upon her

or is it night’s innumerable bright stars?

Is it perhaps each of her shallow shores

and all her counties with their villages,

each landscape, every isle that distantly appears

on each one of her many seas?

Is it perhaps her ruined monuments,

the ancient temples crumbling in the sun,

yet decorated by her art’s immortal glory

that echoes everywhere you turn?

All these are our motherland. These and those

and what we have deep in our hearts

which unseen, like a sun ray, shines

and calls inside us: Let us march, my boys! 

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LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS

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HORSE EYED WOMEN

And the three middle aged maids

those who make the erotic beds

who have never been loved

those with

the big teary horse eyes

forgotten in the snow

gathered in the maids room

like an ancient tragic chorus

in front of the propylaea

of a dirty sink

talk with such forbearance

that even the simplest words

from their bitter mouths

suddenly take the deep gleam

of the myths.

And they talk of their earnings

about the rain, dreams, regrets

and about all the different ways

one can cook potatoes

about the murders reported

in the newspapers, about emptying

the sewage tank and erasing death

and about the Resurrection

and all other eternal things. And

they talk and talk wishing to

exist in their words, while the deep

wrinkles in their faces resemble

furrows that time flows through

falling noiselessly

in eternity.

Those women with the tough, dirty

hands purified by the eternal offering.

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Exactly Now

Now that you have nothing to say nothing

to show to emphasize to defend now

that everything is lost (and not just for you) exactly now

you may speak roaming among the

tools of torture turning around with your

small finger the meaningless wheels of

broken clocks or that huge hovering

non-resistant wheel still a bit wet

as they raised it from the sunken ship –

exactly now pulling ropes from the ceiling

listening to the sound of pulleys above you

in vague places like the stars during that night

when we came back from the countryside and in

the marble courtyard they had set in exact order

two rows of black wooden highchairs

and in the middle the king’s golden closed casket

without any flags without the crown and the sword

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On A Ray Of Winter Light

3

My comrades drove me crazy

with theodolites, sextants, compass needles

and telescopes that enlarge things—

better if they were kept away.

Where would such routes bring us?

But the day that commenced then

has not gone by yet

with a flame like a rose in the ravine

and with an airy sea at the feet of God.

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THE FOUNTAIN

In the moldy garden

water flows again

from the stony mouth of Poseidon

and the undefeated frog

prepares its new generation

over the solemn fossils.

Ah, yes sweetness unexpectedly

overflows the same way

the fountain rises again

among its watery suns

while my soul

unprepared squirrel

shades itself with its tail.

And as the park becomes slowly alive

and the owls stir

in their dark offices

and the thunderous dancing water

inside the silent rocks

of the closed house

like a stately residence — my life

turned alive again

by the talkative waters

you poured in my mouth.  

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Cenotaph

Finally they called the joy a sin

and my agreement with you a transgress

what did they leave for us

other than mediocrity and

leaden clouds? What did they

leave other than their laws

written on desolate cenotaphs?

Finally they named our joy a sin

and our understanding another trespass

but they failed to see through

the veil to immense brightness

of our strength They couldn’t cut

beyond the rind they couldn’t taste

the sweetness of our love

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LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS

2023 Longlist Announcement

HORSE EYED WOMEN

A city among thousands of other cities on earth

with houses, roads, monuments

the passing musicians, cemeteries, the crazies

the ones who run after bread and others who run

          after their dreams

with those who keep silent, those who postpone,

          those who betray,

with their imposing temples and the small, remote

          taverns

like forgotten, foggy corners of a humble paradise

with the naked people, the traitors, the egoists,

             the notary public

with the tears and the serious decisions taken

             during the night

with the smiles and the little daily compromises

a city swallowed by dust and commotion and

             lights and dreams.

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