LONG LISTED FOR THE GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS 2023

2023 Longlist Announcement

Goodnight

      Finally, I always dared the temptation of not being

surprised; I read useless geography books in the attic

or for a small reward I helped the local notary

turn to his other side and other times I’d whistle

lethally or I’d sit on a chair for so long that you could

say a crime was, finally, solved

      and if I hadn’t lived stupidly I would had been just

three years old with unpaid milk, which sounded

normal under today’s difficult circumstances;

in fact a lamp is more compassionate than

the whole sky and a ghost more accessible than

the old cricket or a goodnight more historic than

most of historic documents and I don’t give

a damn if others live better.

      Goodnight.

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LUMBERJACK

A dog barked at a distance,

a door creaked on its hinges,

the moon pretended it didn’t notice anything.

The lumberjack killed his dog with his axe

painted his cheeks with the blood and

looked at his reflection in the dark river.

That was the dog that barked.

This was what the moon meant.

Then the axe, like a golden bird, was raised in the air.

A laughter was heard in the forest.

I did it on time, the lumberjack said. He didn’t take

my friend, my dog from me; the lumberjack started

             barking.

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Long Listed for the Griffin Poetry Awards, 2023

2023 Longlist Announcement

6

Father Thomas, however, was distrusting so he had

his well ground coffee each afternoon  under

          the grapevine

while the bells tolled the evening matins etc etc.

Why should I care for the incomprehensible and

          rude world

I keep a piece of glass and know my punishment

as you solve a puzzle so you can stand in front of

           the mystery

and the big common charnel house where the bones

            of the poor were stored;

all those who suffered silently and anonymously

so God can remember them all together with

             one name.

I woke up a bit late, “stupidities it’s the booze”

I said seeing someone sleeping on the sofa

then I remembered “he must be the forest warden” since

once, in other times I was lovable. Of course, there

was always danger that the other could appear, the one

who was arriving in regular hours asking for his share;

when satiated he’d leave taking along some miserable

secret stories while I was still sweeping the blood

in the old school classroom and Mrs. Marcella,

the supervisor “it’s the wrong time for tears”, she said

to me until I started been bored since whatever we live

simply passes and only later it sinks inside of us. 

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Η μετάφραση μου ποιημάτων Τάσου Λειβαδίτη, τόμος ΙΙ, μπήκε στην πρώτη λίστα των δέκα στα βραβεία Griffin Poetry Awards, 2023// My translation of poems by Tasos Livaditis made the long list of the Griffin Poetry Awards

2023 Longlist Announcement

5

Oh, my good old comrades, hastily buried, as if one

          had only one more night to live:

the uninteresting Elias, Thomas with the stolen

fur and the most unfortunate, Amen, the over-religious;

when he died we sat next to him, his pants ballooned

           because of his hernia,

unfortunate Amen had never been with a woman since

            the years of our First Fathers.

My good old comrades you passed so simply like

the uneducated villager who repeats an indecipherable

           Oh Lord our Father

although the smoke still rises.

Sometimes I think that our true life is unfolding behind

            the wall

and the first killing was premeditated; the promise

wasn’t absent nor was the pale tenant, nor the silent

            road with the closed stores;

miserable people they’ll never find out what was written

            on that primeval seal

and that an umbrella is but a ghost that doesn’t ever

            forgive. 

My friends with who I talked night after night about

            the fate of the world

and among the small interruptions of our talks was

what we left behind for the others, impossible to

            survive and so familiar

that you may pass by it without noticing.

Years passed this way. The sick waited for the opening

            of the old carpentry

I preferred to go up to the attic; the blind man with the

            threads stayed there

while the other tenants lived downstairs imagining that

            they truly lived;

“You may lay me”, the ugly woman said “but place a napkin

            on my face”

dark, impenetrable, moist from top to bottom like a

            great meaning and when

Chryssostomos smelled because of the gangrene

she stood at the door and scare away the dogs; one

night, in fact, but what can you call them “thieves”

            I yelled,

people passed by, cried, or made bets since there was

always a black horse where you couldn’t see anything

and alcohol has its stony wing too.

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Sixth Hour

A sudden emptiness in my gut

unexpected pain I taste

for the missed kiss desired and

the silence of the black shroud is

conferred unto the freshly dead

Trickling night forgets

the name of the first slayer when

in His capricious mania

Jehovah trowels ephemeral glitter

applying it with shining colors of

sun and afterglow of

lovemaking before raining it

down to the net strands of

virgin life when

shit hits the fan and new

concepts announce themselves with

appellations of rich-richer

hungry-hungrier unfortunate-less

orphan with

layers of fat under the skin

guiding He divides Earth

into lavish and dirt floor worlds

never daring to name exiles

whose homes are razed as a favor to allies

or filth in their hearts – those who have one

who never dare name multinationals

dark corridors of minds and agencies

commanding obedience preacher

commanding kneel obey

pay and counting as I cry in dismay

at the sight of full coffers and stomachs

before long the answer comes

from the lips of the faceless

corporation: who cares?

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MELANCHOLY OF JASON KLEANDROS

POET IN KOMMAGINI, 595 A.D.

The aging of my body and my face

is a wound from a dreadful knife.

I have no perseverance at all.

I fall back on you, Art of Poetry,

that knows something about potions,

trying to dull the pain through Fantasy and Language…

It is a wound from a dreadful knife.—

Art of Poetry bring your potions,

that make—for a moment—the pain go away.

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