Διαδοχή

Ο ήλιος δέ λογαριάζει τίποτε απ’ τούς δισταγμούς σου,

γυμνόν σέ θέλει καί γυμνόν σέ παίρνει,

ώσπου έρχεται η νύχτα νά σέ ντύσει.

Μετά τόν ήλιο είναι η μετάνοια.

Μετά τή μετάνοια πάλι ο ήλιος.

Succession

The sun doesn’t think of your hesitations –

it wants you naked and it takes you naked,

until the night comes to dress you.

After the sun there is repentance.

After repentance the sun again.

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Promise

And we promised never to deny Him not even

for a night or day, not for a single moment, even

when He spoke to the fallen tree or to those ancient

ghosts that often passed through our minds.

Endless famine of our race, queen of our bellies,

slowly crawled on wet cobblestones like our childish

innocence and we asked Him to continue His teaching

and He liked us because we chose to be scattered

into innumerable pieces that the wind may blow us

to the opposite shore. He liked us, because

we disdained everything even the secret for our

sacrifice. Übermensch smiled and said,

‘it was all good.’

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POEM BY GESTHIMANI SIDERIDIS

BLACK AND WHITE HATS

Hats hang midair on the opposite sidewalk.

Only hats, with no bodies, without souls

unknown identities yet they hang midair

gracefully. Black and white hats

sometimes in one color: white or black

primarily black

I gaze at them in surprise

I question myself

am I still visible?

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IN A SMALL ASIA MINOR TOWN

The news about the outcome of the naval battle, at Actium

was certainly unexpected.

But there is no need to compose a new proclamation.

Only the name needs to be changed. There in the last lines

instead of “having liberated the Romans

from the terrible Octavius,

that parody of Caesar”,

we will now put “having saved the Romans

from the terrible Antony.”

The rest of the text fits beautifully.

“To the victor, the most glorious,

unsurpassed in every military endeavor,

admirable for his political achievements,

to the one the people passionately wished

would prevail, to Antony”

here, as we said, is the change: “To Caesar

regarded as the best gift from Zeus—

to the powerful protector of the Greeks,

who looks at Greek customs favorably,

to the one who is beloved all over Greece,

and is most worthy of high praise,

whose deeds deserve extensive narration

in the Greek language, both verse and prose;

in Greek, which is the vehicle of fame.”

Etcetera, etcetera. It all fits together superbly.

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Hour of the Child

The wooden ladder was in the back of the garden.

Chicken nibbled onto the fresh grass

as if breaking a few sad sun rays.

A butterfly sat on the leafless branch and spread its two

window shutters, white with yellow dots and a black stripe.

The gardener left his spade on the ground. He looked afar.

The unemployed man returned, closed his book, stepped

on his tiptoes and turning his glanced sideways

he stole a glance through the butterfly’s window.

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Heroes

Bright eyes of the heroes fledging

and shoe-less feet splash

in the fountain

yet to be honored champions

who haven’t managed to explore

their hatred in front of throngs

on tv monitors, in the mourner’s tears

nothing moves as slow as history

in this parched world

that thirsts for rain and green olive

leaves

aspirations of a day

born red in the eyelids of the terrorist

and you said —

there’s nothing here for us

only a yellow death

and our desire for glory

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