Notches
Sickly, dusty little, street trees in the night, lit by
the slanting lights of the low, neighbourhood windows,
poor light patched on the elbows; everything is patched up:
the walls, ceilings, and tubs; the poem is also patched with
the rags of dead people’s shirts. A bicycle passed next
to the lamppost. Behind the glass door, the spiteful,
old woman appeared; she held an insect pump, there,
in the middle of the room, motionless, blind, with no target.
The arm can’t move not knowing its continuance.
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Pneuma
Nothing had remained in the room but the moist
of her sigh, a falling star, an orphan in the gleaming sky
a stolen kiss, spring morning, her shoulder-long hair
golden wavy breeze, shy beautiful glance just
escaping through the half-open eyelid, pond surface
where the loon took refuge, the osprey’s tail which
you saw or you didn’t, her fiery mound, bittersweet
surprise like her breath that stopped momentarily.
That night it rained so heavily no one could hear
our moans. And about our sins, what was their purpose?
I like those who don’t keep for themselves even a drop
of pneuma but struggle only to be pneuma of virtue.
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(Excerpt)
From the forests of Bulgaria
through the oak trees of Thrace
the cedar forests of Taurus and
from the silvery olive tree groves
of Attica and from the yellow
flowered citrus trees, of all
the people’s best froth and
from life’s leftover cinders
knives of murderers and
snakes of the connivers from
all the gambling halls and
the hard labour, prairies and
tents, insults of the country and
cave-dwelling wild beasts
form all the brave men on the gallows
they all came and stood before me:
the imposing and the unrestrained
and the tough drunk revellers
with warring joy and ardour and
they all cried out and ordered:
make the voice of
your zurna, oh glorious crier
worthy of our celebrations.
Oh long nights and festivities
not the heat of day nor the snow
the daylight or the night
will ever make you stop.
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Manolis Aligizakis 