UNCLE MITSOS

Uncle Mitsos passed.

The flashlight of Virgin Mary lights

over his rough moustache.

Uncle Mitsos sacrificed his three sons to the struggle

and his hut and his grapevine;

uncle Mitsos had nothing left: he had sacrificed his life;

he had a joy too: his sons were members of the Party.

Uncle Mitsos had a sadness too: he wasn’t a member

           of the Party,

he never signed a confession paper. They killed him.

Uncle Mitsos passed

with a big red bird in his dream

with the holy talisman of the struggle sewed on the lining

          of his coat.

If we searched his pockets we may find

a small field of wheat ears and

the shade of a poplar next to the river.

In a knot of his kerchief he had kept his

wedding ring and a cut up piece of paper

with the announcement of his son’s execution.

Uncle Mitsos, tell your son to rest in peace

you know how to tell him with your accent

tell him to rest in peace; everything leads to where

          we’ve planned.

You don’t need much, just a little stirring of

           your moustache and

he’ll know. Goodbye uncle Mitsos.

He’ll understand. Goodbye uncle Mitsos.

Leave your cane here. We need it.

We’ll make a staff for our red flag;

uncle Mitsos rest assured, a fiery red flag.

Goodbye uncle Mitsos, the flag will be red

we tell you like the blood of your children

who the fascists killed, like the blood

of all the fighters of the world.

Goodbye uncle Mitsos

goodbye comrade uncle Mitsos, don’t worry

your application was accepted by the Party.

And the light was so bright today,

strong like the oath of our Revolution

that you swear once and forever.

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Lunacy

They died defending our freedom

the sentence reads

they fell defending our security

the other insists

lunacy of a nation on drugs

price of freedom the western way

peoples’ minds in overdrive

about God given rights

beyond the reach for most other

earthlings, words paint images

of heroism, sentences filling void

rightful right to subvert people’s

lives, sanctions, economic starvation

pivot

encircling the by chance enemy

lunacy of a nation on drugs

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Tree Stump

Tree stump soaking in lake water

eagle wonders if to or not to dive

and grab the lonely bass

loon calls his faithful mate

as you look at the expanse

of firmament while rain

soaks you like a dead stand

where the osprey swoons to dock

and breezes morph outlines

of shapes in lucent speculum

hooking the bait you toss your line

a delicate splash echoing

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Eros II

Eros appeared as if from a book page

full of advice in the form

of inexplicable riddles

aroma of gardenia rippling

into the stuffy room

          hills as smooth

          as the breast of a nubile

with a coronal on her aroused nipple when

I heard the melodious flute

          and I started

          my rigorous ascent

          straddling the brown soil 

this world I was destined

to receive and observe as if from

         the vantage point

         of regret: deep

         emotions upon which

         to lay my dreams while

the sea breeze could refresh them

and I scattered my sperm in

         bodies moaning

         during the hour of lust

         on purple rough bed-sheets

a man in the arms of a woman

the other side of pleasure

this, this the ultimate miracle

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ΑΝΩΜΑΛΑ ΠΑΘΗ

     Κάποτε θα θυμηθώ κάτι τόσο ωραίο, θα `ναι φθινόπωρο σ’

εκείνη τη μικρή πάροδο με τα υαλοπωλεία, εκεί που, όταν ξεπέσα-

με, ο πατέρας πουλούσε ονειροκρίτες — από τότε δεν ξαναβγήκα απ’

τ’ όνειρο κι όμως κρύωνα, αλλά μπορούσα τουλάχιστο να παραδοθώ

στ’ανώμαλα πάθη μου: τη μελαγχολία ή το συνωστισμό — γιατί,

ας είμαστε ειλικρινείς, εγώ κανένανν ποτέ δεν αγάπησα κι αυτό το

τρυφερό βλέμμα μου ήταν για εντελώς ιδιωτική χρήση

     σαν την αθανασία των ποιητών.

PERVERTED PASSION

     Someday I’ll remember of something so nice; it’ll be

autumn in that narrow side-street with the glass shops where

father sold dream books after he went bankrupt — since then

I never got out of the dream although I was cold; at least I could

fall back onto my perverted passion: melancholy or crowding;

because, let’s be honest, I never loved anybody and this tender

glance of mine was just for personal use

like the immortality of the poets.

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