(Excerpt)
Χρυσόθεμις//Chrysothemis
Κάποτε ένα χαμόγελο ανεξήγητο κυματίζει στον αέρα. Ένα δείλι, στον κήπο,
σκυφτή στο εργόχειρό μου, αναμετρώντας το άσκοπο των γεγονότων,
το άσκοπο του ίδιου του κεντήματος —μη σταματώντας ωστόσο να κεντάω—
μια λάμψη ξαφνική μού γέμισε τα χέρια και τα μάτια· — δυο μεγάλα πόδια
ξυπόλυτα, νεαρά, με άψογα νύχια, είχαν περάσει
εκεί μπροστά μου. Ο νέος κηπουρός μας
σάρωνε τα πεσμένα φύλλα των ευκάλυπτων. Δε σήκωσα τα μάτια, —
μου ’φτανε η εικόνα εκείνων των γυμνών ποδιών και της σκούπας.
Η κάθε μέρα κάτι μας αφήνει για τη νύχτα· —είναι δύσκολος κάποτε ο ύπνος
αν κάτι ωραίο δεν έχεις ν’ αντιπαραθέσεις στο σκοτάδι που ενεδρεύει. Τώρα
μόνον τ’ αγάλματα μένουν στη διάθεσή μου — ανέγγιχτα κι αυτά, γυμνά, δίχως δάφνες,
ή εκείνοι οι μακρινοί σαλπιγκτές πάνω στα τείχη, ορθοί, γραμμένοι
στον χρυσοπόρφυρο ουρανό της εσπέρας — δεν είναι λίγο.
Sometimes an inexplicable smile undulates in the air. One
evening, in the garden, stooping over my needlework,
pondering on the futility of the events, the futility of my
needlework, though I didn’t stop my knitting, a sudden
gleam flooded my hands and eyes; two big barefoot,
young legs with well-trimmed nails had just passed
in front of me. Our young gardener was sweeping
the eucalyptus leaves. I didn’t ever raise my eyes;
the image of those bare legs and the broom was
enough for me.
Each day leaves behind something for our night;
sometimes sleep is difficult if you don’t have
something beautiful to put against the lurking
darkness. Now, I only have the statues I can use,
untouched too, naked, without laurels or those
distant trumpeters on the walls, erect, incised into
the gold-purple evening sky. This is more than enough.
https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/q9mkmy https://www.amazon.com/dp/B096TLBNFK
Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards
(Excerpt)
Ah, when shall we return? Bring one of those
old carriages
which parked in the suburb square or the ones
created by the evening shadows. And I, why
did I grow? What was I expecting to find? Distant
voices heard in a dream
or a lonely night when you, in lust, cried silently
for things forgotten by most people
and we shall never find that era when we lived
the best we had love for a colourful pebble, the
secret burial of a bird,
or a letter, without an addressee, which we took
to the post-office
since our summer friend had left without letting us
know
“but the letter has no addressee” the post-office clerk
said – since then you knew the world can’t offer you
any help.
Besides time has come to accept that we too don’t create
anything important; yet what is important? And of what
use would it be?
My good people fate tricked us or the dream
betrayed us and oh, futile hope, how we loved you
once!
The twenty-day moon. How have the years passed?
https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/ke4yv6 https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763564
Unclear Encounters
Those who met by chance on the road were strangers they didn’t speak
they didn’t beckon with their hands or a glance Although
they looked as if they agreed with the moonlight entering through
the blinds in a closed villa as though in agreement with the whimper
of a shirt falling on the floor – Perhaps Hellenes. They had
a scar on their foreheads – an intimate mark – some time ago red
had turned whitish lighting their faces They didn’t speak
Only during the nights of September, they look absentmindedly
at the gardens of old houses, the gas stations the kiosks
a light blue lamp under the trees the clock of the
Customs Building and bit by bit their arms became longer
and they turned into fishes those who learned the deep
underwater voices and now stay silent
https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/ke2e82 https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763076
Picture by Germain Droogenbroodt, girl in Cambodian refugee camp
GIVE ME A BRIGAND’S VOICE, LORD
Give me a brigand’s voice, Lord,
and a lion’s pen
on this earth
that sheds blood and
shows unspeaking children
with terror in their eyes.
Justice is
air
water
bread
grass that plays up to your knees
and a lilting voice…
flowering skylarks in their nests
that war shakes up
and devastates.
Maria Nivea Zagarella (Sicilia)
ΔΩΣΕ ΜΟΥ, ΚΥΡΙΕ
Δώσε μου, Κύριε, του κλέφτη τη φωνή,
του λιονταριού την πένα
στη γη τούτη που χύνει
το αίμα αμίλητων παιδιών
με τρόμο στα μάτια τους
ζωγραφισμένο.
Δικαιοσύνη είναι ο αγέρας
το νερό,
το ψωμί,
και το γρασίδι που παίζει ως τα γόνατα σου
και μια φωνή που ανυψώνει
κορυδαλούς μες στις φωλιές τους
που ο πόλεμος συντρίβει και καταστρέφει.
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis
Translated into English by Gaetano Cipolla
From: Ncuntraiu lu mari, 2019
Manolis Aligizakis 