POSE

The horse, with straight up neck, stopped by the shore;

it looked afar, over the rough sea. You didn’t know

whether its stand was that of a jolt or carelessness,

hesitation before the wrath of the water or

knowledge of the unbridgeable.

It remained motionless for a while, only

a shiver could be seen running on its sensitive ear

and you couldn’t tell whether it was listening to

            the ocean or its shiver.

Then, with a sudden turn, it turned back, gentle and sad

and yet so snobby.

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Poemj by Cloe Koutsoubelis

ANTIGONE

When Antigone leaves she always forgets something.
A lacy glove on the satin bed-sheet,
a steamy drop of lemon
on the cheek of a friend,
a stolen touch on a lover’s arm
a lip-mark on the porcelain tea-cup
when she drinks hastily.
Antigone forgets
the gauzy handkerchief moistened
by the sudden momentary tears
the little umbrella in the fragile rain.
Antigone forgets
the rustle of her dress when she walks
the fan that changes her seasons.
Antigone always forgets something
and for this she always leaves.
Only some nights

as she starts remembering things
she sprinkles ashes on her hair
buries herself in her cave
and laments for the not buried dead.

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Erotic Poems After Death

IV

I pass by flooded by the light

in the routine of the clouds

and suddenly I’m nailed in the soil;

a myopic ant gets close to me

leaves its burrow

its crumbles

climbs up from my nail

I’m in danger again

I’m again ready for death

with my belly, the arms…

I’m trapped

the ant wins

it carries me, bitter, dried up matter

while the cicada screams

untaught in all the passion.

Yes, the cicada

makes tangible of the day again

short but of such immenseness

and contracted.

Day of the cypress and of the creaking door

my day

first thus simple

last thus simple.  

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FORESTS

I

I too walked in the forests once

more hunted than a hunter

many a time I nested under a blanket

thrown on bulrush branches, other times,

being lucky, I snuggled under a tent, away

from the rain, though I never saw

a deer close up, as people who imagine

such things say, I only faced momentarily

the shining eyes of a fox, I listened to

the fast passing of the porcupine. Deer,

as most others, I’ve only seen behind

the iron cages of the National Park.

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  Απομίμηση

     Παρ’ όλο που ήμασταν μονάχα θνητοί και μάλιστα

με μια θρυαλίδα να μας κρατάει σταθερούς σε σημείο

που πάντα νοσταλγούσαμε κάτι διαφορετικό, όταν

η πόρτα μας ξαφνικά έκλεισε μείναμε έξω στη λιακάδα,

απρόσμενο γεγονός που πάνω του κρατηθήκαμε

σαν σχοινοβάτες πάνω σε τεντωμένο σχοινί αιωρούμενοι

ανάμεσα σε δυο πέρατα ταπεινά μια αρχή κι ένα τέλος

δίχως δόντια, γυμνοί και γιομάτοι ντροπή, ενώ στην παρούσα

στιγμή κακές απομιμήσεις των θεών τους ακι ωραιότατα

αντίγραφα του Υπερανθρώπου ήμασταν, πιαστήκαμε 

από τον προαιώνιο χρόνο, τον σφίξαμε αφάνταστα σφιχτά

κι αφήσαμε το χνάρι μας στο νωπό χώμα, σημάδι πως

κι εμείς περάσαμε από `δω.

     Κι ο Μέγας Μύστης είπε: ‘ Όλα αυτά είναι σωστά.’

Imitation

Although merely mortals and indeed with a short fuse,

we always yearned for something different, when our

door suddenly shut us outside and in the hot sunshine,

event completely unexpected on which we balanced

ourselves like humble ropewalkers, flimsily hanging

naked and with no teeth, from the stretched rope that

hovered over two ends; we were full of shame while

at the present moment bad imitations of God

excellent copies of our Übermensch onto whom

we attached ourselves so ever tightly and

we made our mark into the moist soil, sign

of our passing through when the Great Initiate

said: ‘all these are done well.’

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Poem by Odysseus Elytis

THE SEA CLOVER

Once in a thousand years

         the spirits of the sea

in the darkened seaweed

         in the green pebbles

they plant it and it grows

         before the sunrise

they chant their charms and

         the clover of the sea rises

And whoever finds it does not die

         and whoever finds it does not die

Once in a thousand years

         nightingales sing differently

they don’t laugh nor they cry

         they only say they only say:

once in a thousand years

         love becomes eternal

wish it to be your luck wish it to be your luck

         and this year will bring you success

And from the places of the sky

         it will bring your love

The three leaved sea clover

         whoever finds it, send it to me

whoever finds it, send it to me

         the three leaved sea clover.

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EPIPHANY 1937

The flowering sea and the mountains in the waning

            moon

the great rock near the cactus pear trees and the asphodels

the water pitcher that wouldn’t go dry at the end of the day

and the empty bed near the cypresses and your hair

golden, the stars of the Swan and that star, Aldebaran.

I got hold of my life, I got hold of my life traveling

among yellow trees in the slanting rain

in silent slopes loaded with beech-tree leaves

no fire on their peaks; it’s getting dark.

I got hold of my life; a line on your left hand

on your knee a scar, perhaps they still exist

in the sand of last summer, perhaps

they’re still there where the north wind blew and I hear

the unfamiliar voice around the frozen lake.

The faces I see don’t ask questions nor does the woman

stooping as she walks breastfeeding her baby.

I climb the mountains; bruised ravines; the snow

           covered

plain, up to the far end the snow-covered plain, they ask nothing

nor does the time enslaved in silent chapels, nor

do the hands outstretched to beg, nor the roads.

I got hold of my life whispering in the boundless silence

I no longer know how to speak nor how to think; whispers

like the cypress’ breath that night

like the human voice of the night sea on pebbles

like the memory of your voice saying ‘happiness’.

I close my eyes searching for the secret encounter of waters

under the ice , the smile of the sea, the closed water wells

groping with my veins those veins

           that escape me

there, where the water lilies end and this man

who saunters as though blind on the snow of silence.

I got hold of my life, with him, searching for the water

           that touches you

heavy drops on the green leaves, on your face

in the vacant garden, drops on the motionless cistern

discovering a dead swan with its snow-white wings

living trees and your eyes fixated.

This road has no end, doesn’t change, no matter

           how hard you try

to recall your childhood years, the ones who left

            those

who got lost in their sleep, the pelagic graves

no matter how hard you ask the bodies you loved to stoop

under the hardened branches of the plane trees there

where the naked sun ray stood

and a dog leaped and your heart shuddered

the road has no change; I got hold of my life.

            The snow

and the frozen water in the horses’ hoof-marks.

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NIGHT OF A LONER

How bitter the furniture are in the room of a loner.

The table resembles an animal frozen in the cold;

the chair looks like a child lost in the snowed up forest;

the couch is a naked tree pushed over by the wind.

Yet, in a while, something is conducted in here:

a round, diaphanous silence like the glass

of the boatman and you, stooped over that glass,

you see the lucid sunlit sea floor with its crystal,

            dark green schisms

with the exquisite sea verdure; you stare at

the rosy, apathetic, big fishes

with their wide, gentle movements and you don’t know

whether they look for something, they lurk, take

refuge or saunter aimlessly, since their eyes

are so wide open as if totally shut.

This however is irrelevant. Isn’t really enough

that their movements are both beautiful

           and motionless?

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Fourth Canto

I stitch a leather latch on my door

keeping its serenity from copious

staggering fools laughing

as the ancient lascivious torch is lit

in the bowels of earth and

a battle of Giants reverberates

from one corner to another as

their God with stamina

of youth fights old cunning Death

over the meaning of a life or

a stigma the result being

leaves of grass stiffen against

the north wind and unfold their

satisfaction in sunshine’s arms

yet black velvet of

a hungry phallus climbs from

his subterranean realm to add

a laughing giggle to the lips of

day and turn ever-prosperous

fears to maverick months without

songs eluding to the graveness of this

absurdity and soil negates its

passive resolve to non-involvement

with opera music and spirited

fervor of lovemaking shredding even

the stiffest veil of darkness when

lips of the old woman with the

ironed breast lisps the strange

question and limp penis of

the old man ogling the moon

answers: I can do better

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