OUR OLD MEN

Every so often we get new boatloads of old men

from Peloponese and Central Hellas and

northern from Trikala, and Macedonia;

thin, heavy boned old men with white moustaches and

         flokati*

they smell of cow dung and soil

evening sheep bleating in their eyes

shadows of plain tree leaves hang off their hair

they talk just a little, sometime at all

yet, from time to time you see then as relatives

of spruces when they raise their eyes from the soil

and see behind our shoulders.

When evening light floods the tents

and the wind entangles its moustache on the thyme bush

when the sky descends from the rocks straddling memory

             with the boot nails of stars

and death saunters silently out of the barbwire

we see them in groups of three or five

like the old days in the powder storage rooms of Messologi.

Then, you don’t know, as they gather in the yard

        of the evening, unshaven, speechless

you can’t tell as they light their lighters

whether it is to light their cigarettes

or to fire up the fuse of the dynamite.

These old men don’t talk.

Their children joined the guerillas.

These old men hid their hearts in the mountain

like a keg of dynamite.

They have a benevolent tree next to their eyes

a strong eagle between their eyebrows

and an angry mule in their hearts;

a mule that can’t take the injustice

and now they stay here in Makronisos

in the opening of the tent, opposite the sea

like lions made of stone in the entrance of the night

with their nails stuck in the stones. They don’t talk.

They stare faraway at the reflection of Athens

they gaze at the Jordan River

holding tightly a stone in their soiled palms

clearly keeping the shells of stars in their eyes

maintaining a powerful silence in the pleats of their hearts

that silence which reigns before the thunderbolt.

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Limping Man

Breeze laughed between

his limping footsteps

nature’s unforgiving mistake

struggled out of the sea

in his eyes a kingdom of kindness

saintly irises captivating

a brave man’s graceful stature

with his unbalanced steps

he balances the Universe

he searches for justice

pain of the unlike

vainly danced

in the expression of man

who limped out of the light waves

glance approved the disproportional

victorious triumph

against the unjust chaos

unequal side but an unsung song

non-rhyming poem

deficient erotic verse

aching heart of a mortal

begging for analogy

in the syllable of his smile

in the word of his uplifting courage

limping man unwritten poem

ready to spring out of my mind

to complete the day’s

incompleteness

Good Lord, were you drunk

when you fathered him?

Good Lord, have mercy on us,

don’t drink again!

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TODAY

So much we gazed at the sea, the people and

          in our hearts

that our mouths got filled with silence and our eyes

          with tomorrow

even if nothing seemed certain for us

children will certainly have orchards and toys

in their pockets, all that we never played,

women will certainly have

the shade of a small lilac

in every step they take

during the spring mornings

old men will certainly have a staff

which will bloom in the corner of the house.

For this we could still sleep

although fear coiled itself in our boots.

The moon, in the opening of the tent,

resembled a yellow censored pamphlet

yet we could read

even what was erased

what was never written

what no one can utter

as we read a green leaf in the spring

as we read Fitso’s apology in the eyes of the man

next to us and Alice Tsoukala’s few words,

as, in our bitterness, read the Moscow red square

with the parades of representatives from all the democracies

           of the world. For this we sleep in peace, leaning on the side of our heart

a window was opened behind our sorrow

our fear

a little branch outside our window

the bread

and our oath.

We notice our growing beards, nails, and hope.

Sleep, my comrade

I’m near you

here is my hand.

The sun is near us.

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POEM BY KATERINA GOGOU

25^th of MARCH

One day I’ll open the door

to go out to the streets

just like yesterday

I won’t think but

a piece of my father

a piece of the sea

things they left to me

and the city. This city that they’ve turned rotten

and our friends who vanished

one day I’ll open the door

straight to the fire

and I’ll enter like yesterday

crying out fascists

putting up roadblocks

and throwing stones

holding a red banner

gleaming high up in the sunshine.

I’ll open the door

and this, not because I’m afraid,

but, I mean to say I had no time

and that you also have to learn

not to go down the streets

without weapons like I did

I had no time to grab them     

because you’ll get lost like I did

just like that vaguely

shuttered into pieces

of sea, years of childhood

and red banners.

One day I’ll open the door

and vanish

with the dream of revolution

in the wholesome loneliness

of the conflagrated streets

in the endless loneliness

of roadblocks made of carton paper

with the epithet — don’t believe in them —

Provocateur

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ΦΑΙΔΡΑ/PHAEDRA

(Απόσπασμα-Excerpt XV)

Άλλοτε πάλι
πεσμένος κατάχαμα, μπρουμυτισμένος, να ψάχνεις κάτω απ’ τις ντουλάπες,
βαθύς, ανήσυχος, διεισδυτικός σα να ’κανες έρωτα.
Κι ήμουν
εγώ το πάτωμα που πάνω του ριχνόσουν, και σ’ ένιωθα εντός μου
ενώ, ταυτόχρονα, ορθή, παρατηρούσα την κάθε κίνησή σου
εγγράφοντάς την στην αφή μου και στη γεύση μου. Δε βρήκαμε, βέβαια, την αλυσίδα —
αυτήν που την φορώ τις νύχτες στην κλίνη μου σαν λείπει ο Θησέας,
αυτήν που την σφίγγω στο στήθος μου.
Δε βλέπεις
τα χνάρια της, κρίκο τον κρίκο, χαραγμένα στη σάρκα μου; —
κι ένας μικρός Εσταυρωμένος, σκαμμένος
ανάμεσα στα στήθη μου, — θαρρώ, αν τον φιλούσες
θ’ ανασταινόταν πράγματι· παρότι
το ’χω καλά μαθημένο: η ανάσταση δεν είναι
παρά μια πράξη μοναχική της απάρνησης, κι όχι
μια πράξη της ένωσης.

Other times

on your knees, or lying face down, you searched under

the closets, concentrated, focused as if making love.

And I was

the floor on which you fell and I felt you inside me

while at the same time, standing I observe each of your

movement, engraving it in my touch and taste. We, of course,

didn’t find the chain, I have it on every night in bed, when

Theseus isn’t there, and I hold it tight on my chest.

Don’t you see

its marks, link after link, incised in my flesh? And the

crucified, dug between my breasts, I believe that

if you kiss it, the crucified will truly resurrect; although

I’ve learned it well, resurrection isn’t but a lone act

of denial, and not an act of unification. 

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Hills

Hills undulating euphoria

lungs like butterflies

extend and collapse

a country road filling your eyes

with endless beauty

of song rippling in the air

your favored Boccelli tune

and you touch my hand

as if to reaffirm your contention

this forever moment

at this stretch of the road

sunshine complementing

your lips with diamonds

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