XII

                   Bottle in the sea

Three rocks, a few burnt up pines, a lonely chapel

and a bit higher

the same landscape is repeated

three rusted rocks in the shape of a gate

a few black and yellow burnt up pines

and a square little house, buried in whitewash

and still higher, many times over

the same landscape reappears level after level

to the horizon, to the sky at sundown.

Here we moored the ship to splice the broken oars

to drink some water and to sleep.

The sea that embittered us is deep and unexplored

and unfolds a boundless serenity.

Here among the pebbles we found a coin

and we threw the dice for it.

The youngest won it and disappeared.

We sailed away again with our broken oars.

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POEM BY MANOLIS ALIGIZAKIS

DELPHI

Even this solemn remnant

of the ancient temple standing

like an anchorite in meditation

by the slope of the tired hill

even this they shall defile

remember it — I said

half-breed men with wide shoulder-blades

and hierodules with exquisite cheekbones

swaying their provocative buttocks

for the amusement of the winds

and for the sea’s virgin salinity

even this they shall defile

remember it — I said

aimlessly before the innocent statues

they shall desecrate and life the whore

they shall call and with stamina

and unyielding persistence they shall

bury the primeval beauty and after

they exhume the ancestral hatred

and guilt, the pneuma they shall imprison

to be guarded by Herculean arms 

and theirs the wealth

of the valley and my kin’s reward

bloodshed in streets and neighborhoods

where you and I once roamed and played

making plans for exploits and deeds

and you said —

it would have been better if we stayed

obedient to the holy and venerable

half-truths brought to our lands by easterners

at least they promised a gleaming Paradise

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ENCOUNTER

The light has a yellow shade on the facades of the houses. 

The shadow of the leafless trees on the walls and in the street

resemble the shadow of foreign soldiers with machine guns.

              The shadows have changed

the voices have changed — they’ve become  hesitant, like

someone who is trying to find a street number and makes two

steps, looks at the window, where is the doorbell? What

sound would the doorbell make in the hallway with

              the unfamiliar stairs?

When you say tomorrow is as if you want to console someone.

You don’t talk. The rooms feel sleepy in the silence.

The fingertips of silence remain on the shelves, the chairs,

the railings of the bed, like a sick woman who gets up

in the night to get a glass of water. She can’t stand. She leans

on the furniture, she trips on her nighty and falls again

on her bed before she finds the water pitcher.

             We were thirsty.

Loneliness never had a glass of water.

Her trembling fingertips still stay on the dusty surfaces.

Back then we had time. We watered the rose-garden.

             We chit-chatted.

It isn’t the same anymore. Now you count words and colours.

              You can’t establish their weight.

Alice died. She will never be in our company anymore,

as during those afternoons when we dreamed of things.

               Her summer shoes

will remain under her bed like two white dead birds and

her little watch, stopped, on the empty table, like a star

you see through the window shutters of the desolate

              house.

There is no time now. We have to find some new names

              that can stand firmly on their feet

when all memories kneel during the night.

Every evening the neighbourhood covers itself with its blanket

and looks like a kneed bread that has risen. And the old men

sit by the door step, they reminiscent, they smile

and the veins of their thin arms

look like trees ready to bloom.

You’re right. Very good. Lie down for a while.

The nails of the night are black.

The joining eyebrows of the horizon black. It’s cold.

You want me to put my overcoat over your legs?

Your humble shoes are splattered with asbestos.

The leaves of our small lemon tree wilt slowly in

               the garden

as the bus tickets from our past expeditions to the shore

get wilted in the pockets of our summer

               pants.

Now you can’t finish your day like you finish smoking

               your cigarette.

It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Someone thinks

that he doesn’t have anything. He unravels the sacks of clouds;

he doesn’t find any star to pin his heart to its place.

The wind always perks up at midnight. The houses buzz.

The posters from last year’s movies flutter on the walls

and all the proclamations from the occupation years. We

have to find something, to say yes to something

                 that tells you no,

to place a monad in front of a line of zeros to become

a thousand or a million or a billion.

And when we look at each other in a sad way

it’s happiness that we look at each other. Go to sleep.

Tomorrow we’ll find some bread, my brother.

We’ll find the light that dries up the road.

Alice dyes our ripped shirts in a piece of sky, to use

when we’ll sew our new flags. The stars grow slowly bigger

like the beard on the face of our beloved friend.

Your face looks so sweet and strong while you sleep —

your chin, so strong, certain.

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II

Oh, sky, you think is enough that we stare at you?

It seems you don’t know us.

Although you repeat to show us your best images

although you insert the muddy bellies of the clouds

although sometimes you look like flour

undressed of its last future

we still need to find you, authentic, amid

your deserted countenances,

we can still find you and teach you what you are

which you don’t know

or have forgotten.

Don’t clench your jaws, oh sky,

don’t get angry, don’t be afraid of us

we won’t harm you more than what you need.

We can even save you.

Stars that stepped over so many strong bodies

and so many corpses

are all welcomed in our hearts.

Their rays, which saw the crust of earth,

are also welcomed.

They had to know this.

We proceed; we shake off all the corners

of the sun that obstruct our path

we step on the neck of each constellation

that tries to stop us;

and these rotten stars

with their empty and frozen shells of bodies

there masks that simulate the light

need a thorough clean up.

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Spartan Room

A Spartan room endures

the steps of a Giant

a temperate chair upholds

the weight of your stature.

A passionate brush sustains

your infinite creativity

an ecstatic hand manifests

one by one your symbols.

A glowing Cretan sun idolizes

your colors

litany of your Cretan glance captures

your everlasting marvels.

A poetic palette stands

guard of your images

tools in your hands

angelic instruments and

your wide open heart embraces

the ascent of your idols

to the beyond

to immortality.

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Poem by Manolis Anagnostakis

THEY WERE YOUNG

The roads were dark and muddy

the food on the table scarce

the kiss by the front door stolen

and love locked in their little hearts

they were young, just children

and by chance they were of a good crop

they spent their nights in basement tavernas

and roamed the neighborhoods all night long

ah, those side streets and corners

how nicely they kept the honest words

they were young, just children

and by chance they were of a good crop

at home they knew no father, no mother

they didn’t care about anything

they never saved any coins in piggy-banks

they never held a measuring tape or compass

they were young, just children

and by chance they were of a good crop

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ALL WHO tried to look for us vanished on the way and

those who finally rediscovered us found a simple

            name written on the wall.

Yet those who accepted the heavy day kept us

             forever

like women hold a basket with swaddling clothes.

Until the day’s trial ended and the dusk arrived which

you get to know as the years pass.

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ΜΑΚΡΥΑ

Θάθελα αυτήν την μνήμη να την πω…

Μα έτσι εσβύσθη πια…σαν τίποτε δεν απομένει—

γιατί μακρυά στα πρώτα εφηβικά μου χρόνια κείται.

Δέρμα σαν καμωμένο από ιασεμί…

Εκείνη του Αυγούστου—Αύγουστος ήταν; —η βραδυά…

Μόλις θυμούμαι πια τα μάτια ήσαν, θαρρώ, μαβιά…

Α, ναι, μαβιά, ένα σαπφείρικο μαβί.

FAR AWAY

I would like to tell you a memory…

But it seems nearly erased…and as though nothing remains—

because it lies far away in my youthful years.

Skin like it was made of jasmine…

That day in August—was it August?—the night…

I barely remember the eyes; they were, I think, blue…

Ah yes, blue; a sapphire blue.

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