Theatre
In the darkness of the theatre
absence reigns over
the indiscernible performance
of an ambivalent dust particle
actors fill the air with
grunts as though talking
of love in the theatre
full of corpses while
music debates life
at the moment of the lead
actor’s death
while you laugh at his funny hat
and his shirt, with the fiery red
stamp over his heart
“My father awaits for us, oh
my beloved and the people
weave wreaths and crowns.”
“My horse is neighing, oh
my love, ready to take us
away to our destiny”
“The throne is meant for us, oh
my beloved, the horns of war
and the lyres of peace are heard!”
“Voyages await for us, oh
my love, to unknown lands
to our first Fate together!”
“Let us stay here and have
children, oh my beloved, a new
world to our likeness!”
“Let us go, my love, to give
birth to the generation of tearless
which will change the world
in order to reach to this land
I turn my heart into stone and
I made a cemetery of my soul
I turn my mind into an arrow
and my wish into a ghost
I used all these starting with
my parents who I killed.
excerpt
Volodya hung back to the end of the line. Jennifer knew now that he would not flee; he would brazen it out. Besides, he had the passport. Soon David was there beside her, as always, to support her.
“Pull yourself together,” he urged her, glancing at her worried frown. “You haven’t been implicated in anything.”
“They’ll ship him back to the Soviet Union.”
“No, I think it’s Lona that’s going down today.”
She was just beginning to calm down when one of the Americans approached her with a shout. “Hey, Jen. Why are they beating up on your guy?”
She could feel the blood rush away dizzyingly. “What do you mean?” Her voice had faded to a whisper.
“They’ve got him by that desk as if he’s gonna be there for life.” The man laughed crudely. “He doesn’t look like a terrorist with that little pointy beard.” With a huge sense of relief, Jennifer realized he was talking about Chopyk as “her guy.” Not Volodya. David let out a long breath. He was thinking the same thing.
The time crawled by. The line snaked through the shabby building with most of the passengers being released to mill about on the apron in front of Jennifer.
As Jennifer remained at her post, Volodya finally appeared from the building walking carefully, nervously, but his eyes held that same light of triumph as they had just a few brief hours ago. He joined her, wordless. David shook his hand.
The very last people to exit the building were Chopyk and Lona who had linked arms. Her face was crumpled like that of a pouty child. Chopyk stared straight ahead and explained nothing as he passed the group. They were ushered to their plane. Volodya resumed his seat beside Jennifer. The plane took off.
Once again, someone had spoiled the party and the tension filled the stuffy cabin. A swarthy young man—Kazak or Uzbek, maybe—walked down the aisle, stared at Lona with interest and finally addressed her in thickly accented English. Jennifer could not hear the exact words but soon the man had insinuated himself into the vacant seat beside the blonde who still looked dazed. He’s either security keeping an eye on her, or she’s found yet another admirer. At least, this time, the trouble was not about her, Jennifer thought with relief.
Unexpected Development
From which sky
does this poison drip
and moistens my life
drop by drop?
Where is that light
which flooded my life
when my glance fell on
his body, that was vaguely
discerned under the manly attire?
It was when words overflowed
images flew like wild birds
that refused to feed on words
even if they were hungry for them.
The night wasn’t frightening
silent as it was, it narrated tales
it promised a dawn.
People weren’t the tedious
opposite to loneliness
but wells that hid fresh and
consoling secrets in their depths.
I say: am I perhaps the reason
or darkness that opposes life
and comes steadily near me?
THE DEAD HOUSE
Yes, the servant girls knew this stairway well
after living in this house for many years, yet
they uncovered their faces and looked at it,
they turned and looked behind them
to make sure they hadn’t been seen, then they
covered their faces and hands again and they left:
small, black, dirty, stooping, like black stigmata,
like flies during a malaria, under the stony rain
of the colonnade and the big broom was left
inverted behind the kitchen door, like
a nightmare with raised hair that couldn’t scream.
Everyone has left us.
We brought foreign cleaning women to clean
the stairway, and the marble floors, to clean them well.
Soon the marbles sweated out blood again. The cleaners
left too. They deserted us; so, we forgot about
everything too: sweeping, mopping, dusting and
the marble kept on sweating out more and more blood.
A red river flowed in and out of our house; we
stayed away from people; soon people forgot
all about us too; they weren’t afraid of us anymore.
We weren’t scared of them.
excerpt
…when he took it in as though he were touching the Bible. The mayor
examined it with great curiosity while fellow villagers looked over
his shoulder to get a good look at this piece of paper, too.
“So, this is a diploma,” said the envious mayor when he handed
it back to Hermes.
“Yes, this is the diploma and here is my award.” Hermes showed
him another piece of paper with golden letters and official stamps
honouring him for his excellent standing in the class.
“You also received an award, Hermes?” The mayor’s eyes widened,
“Bravo! My congratulations once again!”
He looked at the paper more closely and asked.
“So, what are you going to do now, young Dragakis? Become an
economist? What does an economist do?”
Hermes gave them a brief explanation of what an economist
was and how he had a scholarship to study abroad for two years and
then would be teaching at the university. The mayor and the others
had a hard time understanding what all these meant.
“Scholarship to go to another country and study,” the mayor
said as if talking to himself. “Which country are you heading for?”
“Canada.”
The crowd turned to look at one another, with awe written upon
their faces. They felt quite proud of the son of George Dragakis; not
many young men from the area got the chance to go to the city and
study, never mind accomplishing what Hermes had, this far, this fast.
Demetre’s cheeks blushed thinking of this young man who had
brought their family and ancestors this honour of achievement.
Smiling, Demetre took Hermes away from the crowds.
“Time for us to go to my brother’s place.”
So, they said their goodbyes and started their walk to the house
at the other end of the village. They followed a narrow pathway and,
in a few minutes, arrived at the house. As they approached his father’s
dog, the hound started to bark. The uncle and his nephew were not
even inside the fence when his mother, as though by instinct, came
out of the house and saw them.
excerpt
…housewives and excited children. After checking off the names of
volunteers who manned each booth, he moved on to the next. Few
of the women had time for more than a glance and a nod in his
direction, but preparations appeared to be progressing well.
As he approached the bake sale table, an annual endeavour of the
Anglican Church ladies group, he spotted his wife working at the
table with Mrs. Carson and Mrs. McKinnon. But before he could
greet them he heard his name called. Will turned to see Mrs. Draper,
a director’s wife, hurrying towards him.
“Oh, Mr. Andrews,” she said breathlessly, “I’ve been looking all
over for you. Janet Peterson was supposed to be helping me with
the preserves booth but her husband just told me she’s sick and
won’t be here.” Beads of perspiration from her forehead were sliding
down each side of her moon-shaped face. “I can’t handle it on
my own, there’s so much coming in, and that judge from Bradshaw
doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“All right,” Will said, “you go back to the booth and I’ll send
someone over.”
Muriel Draper extracted a crumpled handkerchief from the
puffed sleeve of her cotton dress. She mopped her face, muttering
as she turned away, “And it’s already so hot. I don’t know how we’ll
survive in this building all day.”
Will thought if Mrs. Draper calmed down she wouldn’t feel the
heat so much. As he turned back to the bake table, he wondered
idly how poor Charlie Draper could stand his wife’s whining day
after day.
“Molly,” he said, after nodding briefly to his wife’s companions,
“will you go over to the preserves section and help Mrs. Draper?
Her partner isn’t coming and she’s snowed under. You know how
excited she gets.”
Molly gave him a sour look. “Really, Will, can’t you find someone
else? You know I’m needed at this table to help with pricing and
sales.”
“I’ll find someone else to come here then,” Will said firmly, “but
there’s no one else who knows how to arrange exhibits like you
do.”
Mrs. Andrews, not in the least mollified by his compliment,
shrugged her shoulders irritably, picked up her purse from under…
Additions to the Void
High up in the sky, deep in the soil
the wise men-kids of astral mistakes
sorrowful for their reasons
saunter in the heaviness of what they believed in
libraries-flashes of infinity
ephemeral reflective habitations
clouds that flow
the whole cosmos an addition of emptiness
an anarchic escape.
Tomorrow always existed
riding a horse
imagination of a word
in the cracks of the mind.
The Unexpected
in Tasos Livaditis’ Poetry
Tasos Livaditis was a man and a poet who knew how to be likable. Not only because he was handsome both in his youth and later on in his senior years, not because he was the center of attention in various gatherings of his days, but also because of his poetry.
But why was it so?
His creative life could be easily divided into three periods, first being the period of beliefs, second the period of the crisis and third the period of recovery and in all three periods Tasos Livaditis was a very likable man to everyone he met, dealt with, associated with, made friends with, shared his hours in exile with. And Livaditis was a likeable man also because of his goals. During the first period, his goal was the struggle, something that spoke on behalf of everyone and also talked of a better future. In the second period, he tried to conceal the crisis he faced and kept away from his poetry by turning his attention to the people around him. During the third period of his creative life, his most important, if you like, he’s the poet everyone liked because of his ability to select the unexpected. Evident in the first book of this period, when he dealt with the issue of defeat, he encountered:
He kneeled and laid his forehead on the floor. It was
a difficult time. When he got up, his embarrassed face
that we all knew well had stayed there on the planks like
a useless inverted helmet.
The same man returned home without face —
like God
That like God and the face on the planks are the unexpected images that put this poet apart from others. Tasos Livaditis could minimize his importance, to lessen the size of his stature, to present himself as haunted, as prey, as one who is punished; he never liked the pompous and unnecessary verbalisms:
For years, I’ve prepared myself for that big moment
the miracle of the century, on the other hand
you must admit I’m one of a kind in my field.
But, God, what happened, who betrayed me, where
they find all the proof? The procedure was quick.
The district attorney, to the point, “Are you him?”
he asked me, “him,” I answered
is there any worse charge?
~ Kostas Kouloufakos
https://draft2digital.com/book/3562930
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763831
Ecce Homo
Here, the martyr opens his heart, here he transcends his bodily borders and as if grasping onto a thin thread, he unfolds his life, turn by turn, and fight after fight, he opens his diaphanous heart and spreads his creative stamina over the mediocrity of contemporary society hoping for a reaction, for a word of acknowledgement from someone, for a comment about his insatiable wish to change, to transform, to mediate between the abundant animals around him and the eternal source from which he drew his images, alas, to receive no answer, no comment, nothing is for him other than merciless silence which confronts the man, only to leave him, forever battling himself and the braggarts who encircled him, leaving no escape, but silence into which he dwelt for the rest of his life
Manolis Aligizakis 