Morning Fog

Vaguely without any purpose blindly

without any pressure of blindness or feeling

of disengagement The immense view –

roofs and roofs TV antennas spectrums

of time and of the clouds on shut windows

the rusted drainpipes the kiosk owner

selling aspirins paper and envelopes matches

cigarettes clothespins he’s completely framed by

the hanging newspapers like a picture of

a bankrupt king when he is busy

with house chores when he hangs

a worn-out shirt he washed himself

while in the kitchen next to the small stove

he has left his big gold ring

with its beautiful stone with which he used to seal

so many foreign decrees without reading them

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/ke2e82?page=1&pageSize=10

Goal

And when I finally met my duty

even the poem needed to hide

behind the white page

to vanish between my three fingers

from afar to gaze at the world

and understand its deathlessness

while I stood before my future

a mask on my face and I wondered

why Lucifer mocked me, an adulterer

that I was, numismatic value 

of the flesh, cheap and tarry, made of

straw; my tools for advancement

fed carnivorous beasts

with displayed moustaches

smooth arms heavy and strong

that carried fresh water pitchers

to the hovel wherein I slept lightly

like an evening vesper

whoosh of lapping waves, faint

little black between the virgin’s legs

exquisite mystery that I loved

to the point of no return

and this the duty of my earthly life

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/y26q9n?page=1&pageSize=10

IN DESPAIR

He lost him forever.   And now he seeks

his lips in the lips of every   new lover

in the union with every new lover  

he tries to fool himself

into believing this is the same

young man he gives himself to.

He lost him forever,   as if he never existed.

Because he wanted—he said—to save himself

from the stigmatized,   the unhealthy sensual pleasure;

from the stigmatized,   sensual pleasure of shame.

There was still time—    he said— to save himself.

He lost him forever,   as if he never existed.

In his imagination,   in his delusions

in the lips of other young men   he seeks his lips;

he yearns to feel   that passion again.

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/pv8qkn?page=1&pageSize=10

17

Bad Imitation

Broken chords

not from winding but

from unwinding.

The guitar on the bed

the glass under the bed

with the shoes.

One is locked inside the wall

the other in the chest

the third one in the coffin.

I can’t take it anymore, he said.

He brought his finger to his eyes

to mimic Oedipus’ movement

not the last one

the one before last.

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/q9mkmy?page=1&pageSize=10

SHAPE OF ABSENCE   XVII

From time to time a strange deep serenity spreads in the rooms

as if the big shining anchor was raised from the sea floor

and the borders of the here and there remain unguarded.

Then, you haven’t left and we only walk over the borderline

and without turning to look we feel the rested steps

              behind us

while the immense naked seashore extends in front of us

and a thousand small crosses have been incised

in the wet sand, crosses made by seabirds

that walked over here and without flying they passed

             to the other side.

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/5pnz8y?page=1&pageSize=10

FRIDAY

Since then how many times a woman has passed

before my eyes, with only her hair,

her eyes, her breasts left on her and nothing else,

mermaid traveling the pelagos

and among these, the fresh air

circulated like blue blood.

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/ezvgyr?page=1&pageSize=10

POEM BY VASSILIS FAITAS

FACTORY OF DREAMS

We hang between time and space

fleeting lives

genomes of mystery and ecstacy

pathfinders, we weave the mutant chaos

of our ancestry

in the womb of life and death

nothing is saved, nothing perishes

words-ideas, thoughts-tides

in the space where we build the revolution

of a predetermined dream

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/vznd2p?page=1&pageSize=10

Η ΕΚΤΗ ΗΜΕΡΑ

     Ήταν η έκτη μέρα της δημιουργίας, η μητέρα είχε ντυθεί στα

μαύρα, φορούσε και το καλό καπέλο της με το βέλο, “δεν έπρεπε να

μας το κάνει αυτό ο Θεός” είπε, στο βάθος χλωμοί άντρες στήναν

τη μεγάλη σκηνή του τσίρκου,

     “γύρισε σπίτι είναι αργά”, “ποιό σπίτι», είπα κι αγκάλιασα το

φανάρι του δρόμου,

      η μικρή ξαδέλφη όπου να `ναι θα πέθαινε, την έσπρωξα πίσω απ’

την ντουλάπα, “σ’ αγαπάω” έλεγε, μα εγώ την έγδυνα κιόλας σαν

πόρνη — κι όταν τη θάψαμε, εγώ έμεινα για πάντα εκεί, πίσω απ’

την ντουλάπα, μισοφαγωμένος απ’ τα ποντίκια,

     κι ήταν η έκτη μέρα της δημιουργίας,

     οι τροχαλίες γρύλιζαν καθώς ανέβαζαν το πρώτο ρολόι στη στέ-

γη του σταθμού,

     κάθισα στην άκρη του δρόμου, τόσο θλιμμένος, που οι τυφλοί

μ’ έβλεπαν.

THE SIXTH DAY

     It was the sixth day of creation; mother was dressed in black;

she wore her good hat with the veil “God shouldn’t had done this

to us” she said; at the far end pale workers put together the big

stage of the circus

    “come back home, it’s late”, “which home?” I asked and hugged

the lamp-post of the street

     my young cousin was almost dead when I pushed her behind the

closet, “I love you” she’d say but I had already undressed her — like

a whore; — when we buried her, I stayed there forever, behind the

closet, half eaten by the mice

     and it was the sixth day of creation

     pulleys grunted as they lifted the first clock up to the roof

of the station

     I sat by the side of the street, so sorry, that even the blind

could see me.