Poem by Miltos Sachtouris

PRESENTS

Today I put on

the red warm blood

people love me today

a woman smiled at me

a girl gave me a conch

a boy gave me a hammer

today I kneel down onto the sidewalk

I nail the naked legs

of the passersby on the slabs

they’re all teary eyed

yet no one of them is scared

they’ve all stayed in places which I reached

they’re all teary eyed

yet they gaze at the neon signs up high

and the female beggar who sells Easter Bread

on the sky

two men whisper

what’s he doing? Is he nailing our hearts?

Yes, he’s nailing our hearts

for he’s the poet

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A LITTLE SLEEP

The distant voice of the lottery vendor. The swaying of the tree.

             A canteen steadied in the sand.

The west is burning. A purple reflection over the seashore.

The few houses painted crimson, silence and sundown.

You have a summer handkerchief in your pocket,

a sorrow you left behind on the ledge

like the ripped shoe of the spring that was left on

            the rock

when the last group grabbed three meters of sea

and left stooping among the tents of the wind.

How fast the sun goes down in your eyes;

your coat is already smelling of moist,

you put your hands in your gloves like the trees

             get in the clouds.

Where the tempest stops your glance is re-ignited

where the sky ends your song and your whole face

            are reborn.

There is a yellow star in your silence

like a small daisy on the side table of the sick man

a little warmth on every yellow leaf that turns

            the pages of time backward.

It is enough that you know. The other communication

            doesn’t end at midnight.

The line is continued from deep inside and from afar

with a few stops, interruptions, accidents,

             it continues

and autumn finds shelter on the railings of the station

or the fence wall of the Orphanage,

it listens to the call for silence on the damp roofs and

to the gramophone of the seashore bar,

that the moon turns,

a scratched vinyl, a very old tango. No one dances.

But you, turning the moon to its other side,

beyond midnight, further from the ledge,

you listen to the great music while you saunter

in the harbour with the twelve boat masts

like a speechless restaurant server who cleans

             the autumnal tables

folding carefully the napkins of the night,

gathering  the stack  of plates with the leftover

            fish bones.

The sea and the songs continue.

All these that the locked people left outside

            belong to us:

the hurrah of the wind in the darkened rooms,

the music that descends in big waves and hits

            the window shutters,

the silence that opens its purse and looks at itself

            in her square little mirror,

and the woman who wraps herself with the army blanket

            and sleeps next to her bag

and you too, as you light your cigarette with a star

           over the calm plain of your soul

like the guard who stays vigil over the sleeping soldiers

and thinks of his woman

of the sea

the city with the flags

the trumpets

the sun-dust and the glory of men.

And next to you, you know it,

this big smile

like the circular alarm clock next to the sleeping worker.

It’s time to sleep a little. Don’t be afraid.

The clock is properly wound up. It’ll get you up on time

with the bucket of dawn that draws water from the well,

with the crawl of a proclamation that noiselessly sheds

light under the door of your silence. Be assured.

            It’ll wake you up.

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Wooden Soldiers

Wooden soldiers of the enemy

stood motionless by our borders

rifles unpolished and

bayonets dull

full moon split the land

in light and shadow lots

and we stayed on guard

kept aiming at them

what one could do with bullets

but count fallen rose petals

and missed kisses

what one could do with bayonets

but take a picture of the monarch

as it defined the perimeter of our dreams

and the center of our love?

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VIII

What time before dawn

when in dream I reach the precipice

and I fall, fall

without my body?

All deaths are staged here

by people

the breath of leaves is heard

new birds replace yesterday’s

just to sing with

one flutter, one soul.

Where am I at that moment

the only important moment

that underlines the great adventure

where am I when

they take away from me

one spring every night

and I don’t touch the womb

that gives birth

the butterfly that turns dry?

Ages!

All ages are poor

and the age of eighteen

is dimply lit by the other miracle

it tastes darkness a little

and they don’t count

the value of the body

the infinite nature of the body.

And innocence, like blindness

and the old fool saints

fly a kite up in the air.

That hour which poets

match to a wolf

that hour, known only to the body

that writhes, growls

the sky of sleep turns dark

I and you too die

a thousand times

before dawn.

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HANDS OF THE COMRADES

Our hands remained empty;

they have rubbed on the unshaven chin

of the wind a thousand times

they have grasped the barbwire a thousand times

they have touched the frozen railings of death

a thousand times.

Our hands grew knots from using the spade, from

pounding the rocks, from battle and

more so from handshaking;

they now grasp things with certainty.

The wind of the house and mother’s shadow

were two soft gloves, two woollen gloves

that warmed our hands, didn’t let us

grab flesh to flesh the hands of others.

Now the gloves ripped, we use them

to make gauzes to cover the wounds

        of our comrades

we use them to wash and clean our plates,

utensils and mess cauldrons.

Our hands remained empty;

got used to work, silence, aiming;

they held the cock of anger up and down many

          a time

they cut and cut again the bread of patience with

          a pocket knife

they hit face on the wall and the night.

Now our hands, totally empty, rest on our knees

like the sun over the mountain

like the mountain over the sea

like the comrade’s heart over its resolve.

These are the hands of the communists.

When they squeeze your hand you know that all

the world capitals are lighted behind the night

when they carry buckets of sea water up the hill

you know that tomorrow the sun and the sea are theirs

you know that the heavy sack with the stones feels

           light in their hands

because, always, Freedom carries half of the weight.

These are the hands of the comrades.

Empty hands, exposed veins of naked hands

like the railroad rails on the world map.

Empty hands, the line of night was erased in

          their fists.

They hold the fate of the world in their fists.

These are the hands of the comrades.

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Δικαίωση

     Ανάμεσα σε δυο παλμούς ο χώρος έπαιρνε το σχήμα του,

λες κι από κάποιον περίμενε οδηγίες. Μετά απλώθηκε το φως

πάνω στα δέντρα για πρώτη τους φορά που μάθανε

το σ’ αγαπώ εκτός κι αν μάταια είχαμε `ρθει στη ζωή.

     Το παραθυρόφυλο άνοιξε γαλάζια μάτια προς τη θάλασσα

ενώ ο σπουργίτης πέταξε πάνω απ’ το άγαλμα του Ερμή

κι αυτό ήταν μονάχα απ’ την ανάγκη του να βρει ένα σπίτι

υπαίθριο στο κίτρινο χωράφι του αγρότη.

     Ανάμεσα σε δυο φιλιά, δυο σιωπηλά στίγματα, έρχονταν

ο έρωτας να παγιδεύσει δυο κορμιά τότε που το φεγγάρι

ξεσηκώθηκε να ζητήσει συγνώμη για την τόλμη του  

και τ’ άγαλμα του Ερμή ανατρίχιασε που `δε την κοντή

φούστα της μαθήτριας, συναισθήματα στο δέρμα

που υπερέβαιναν κι η πέτρινη μορφή του αγάλματος

τις ανεκπλήρωτες επιθυμίες του εμαρτυρούσε.

~Μου αρέσουν αυτοί που σκορπάνε πριν από τα λόγια τους

 τα έργα και κάνουν πάντα πιο πολλά απ’ όσα έχουν υποσχεθεί.

Justification

Between two heart beats the space took its shape as if

it waited for guidance. Then light spread its arms over

the trees that for the first time learned to love, unless

they had come to earth in vain. The window shutters

opened their blue eyes toward the sea while a sparrow

fluttered over the Hermes statue and this was because

of its need to find a country home in the yellow field

or in the farmer’s barn.

Between two kisses, the two silent stigmata, Eros came

to trap two bodies while the moon rose and begged

for our forgiveness. The statue of Hermes shivered

when it saw the short skirt of the school girl, emotions

transcended its skin and its stony face gathered all

its unrealized longing.

I like those who gift their deeds before their words

and always do more than they promise.

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