THE GATE
Excerpt XLIV
Then, sleep took over us at dawn amid a whitish and
rosy fog
the face of the tenor dissolved, got distant, reshaped,
the opening of his mouth altered; no sound came out
of it; his tongue was visible, sometimes fat and wide,
sometimes narrow and long; in the bottom the black piano
pendulated in stripes; all around, the drowned people
seemed spiteful that they could hear while we couldn’t;
we, neither humbled nor proud, didn’t claim any
advantages; besides
comparisons were obsolete; softly softened gestures
weightless
however we knew the wrist watches of the drowned men
stopped years ago,
and if they looked at them as if to establish a time or
a musical phrase,
bread crumbs and orange rinds were falling from above
as the housewives shook off the big white table cloths;
by chance a knife shone, hit a piano key, then froze.
Then the unheard voice, the logical: are you upstairs
or downstairs? it asked; You see clearer now or not
at all? Vision is memory, she said, same with hearing;
and knowledge is memory too. If you don’t remember,
it is as you don’t exist; the brotherly dolphin passes with
such a beautiful long lasting movement; its shadow
is outlined on the piano; the forked shadow of its tail
delays on the chords; it touched them; it vibrated them;
sound was heard,
beyond memory; woe, woe, the fifteen plus three; the
heard unheard, who counted?
Up on the surface the woman, with water drops on her feet,
entered holding a big silver tray; aroma of coffee;
A curly purple thread, from the pullover she unravelled
yesterday, was hanging off her dress;
the vegetable sellers had placed their crates outside
on the sidewalk;
the curtain stirs like a vague reminder of what
was postponed.
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SMILE
Although she never learned of it she cried
perhaps because she had to cry
perhaps because misfortune always comes.
Tonight the dusk is just a dream
enchanted the ravine remains
the rain stopped and the tired girl
lied onto the moist clover field
her parted lips two cherries
this way as deeply she breaths
her breasts ascent and descent
as if the most crisp April rose.
Sun rays flash through the clouds
and hide in her eyes, the lemon tree
drips moist onto her body
two diamonds stop onto her cheeks
you think she may be crying
as she smiles to the faraway sun.
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BORREAS*
The nails of this pianist
reach the floor
only borreas knows his name
he doesn’t play the piano anymore
he doesn’t eat
doesn’t sleep
he’s a king
Down in the basement the carpenter
nails some planks
and voila, the piano is heard again
the carpenter’s daughter is very pretty
in the shade of the great frozen sun
she washes the tiles of borreas
only the one who knows
how to love
the true poets
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Manolis Aligizakis 