George, the Cretan cook, was more animated than any other time in presenting his argument “Let me tell you stupid ass” he said addressing Tyson, “say you travelled abroad, anywhere on earth and you stopped someone and asked, if I mention to you the word Greece, you know the country in the Mediterranean, what comes to your mind? The person surely will answer, civilization, philosophy, Acropolis, and arts; then if you asked the person, if I mentioned to you the word Canada, you know the country in North America, what comes to your mind? The person surely will answer fast food, hockey and beer. That’s what you’re all about here in your Canada, moron, that’s your civilization and your arts, and your philosophy. That’s who you are.”
Tyson didn’t say a word; only he turned and like a dog with his tail between his legs he distanced himself from George, the Cretan cook.
THE GATE
Excerpt XXVIII
V
At that exact moment the huge harp, leaning softly
against the breast of the chimney, was heard from
the roof,
as if the chimney with its black peplum was
the harpist; and
the harp, its sound, and the chimney were clearly
visible
and with five flashes at the edge of each note they
multiplied into comets
criss-crossing long white ribbons and
a light small woman’s kerchief floating across
the horizon, just a few inches over the harp.
Maria’s candle was out. Helen wasn’t laughing
anymore; cigarettes were burning on the ashtray.
Then suddenly the chords were heard breaking
one by one, noose after noose, small nooses fluttered
in the air, catching head and hand.
Be careful, he said, don’t look only upward, don’t
listen only to upward. The saw knows better;
the same movement forward and backward, it cuts
the tree, the second plank in the needed size: table,
bench, bed
where we lie to make love, to give birth, to sleep;
the law of usefulness, he said, discontinued
continuance; lasting knowledge.
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In Memoriam
To Kevin, 1983-2012
Et copiosa apud eum redemption
Psalm 130
This morning Death
came for you.
Who sent her?
You, merciful God?
There is no cliché nor verse
that may console
when Death
knocks at the wrong door
at three in the morning.
Miguel Alejandro Valerio (Republica Dominicana)
ΜΝΗΜΟΣΥΝΟ
Σήμερα το πρωί
ήρθε ο Θάνατος
για να σε πάρει.
Ποιός τον έστειλε;
Εσύ φιλόσπλαχνε Θεέ;
Καμιά εικόνα
κανένα ποίημα
δεν σε ξαλαφρώνει
όταν ο Θάνατος
χτυπά τη λάθος πόρτα
τρεις το πρωί.
Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//Translated by Manolis Aligizakis
English Translation by Florence Russo
Persephone (excerpt)
At that time the rabbits go down to the roads; their eyes
shine because of the headlights of the last cars. Totally
flat silence is spread, you can’t fold it; one of its corners
is dipped in the river, the other rises to the south, faraway
into the sea, the third one vanishes in the opposite island
the fourth one behind the moon with the yellow grass.
It’s nice during the autumn. I breathe; the sun loses its
dominion, its powerful conceit; they all relax and become
themselves again, so much so that I think, perhaps death
is our true self. The crystal, diaphanous evening star, rises
higher, shines auspiciously over the forest, like a tiny drop
of crystal water, radiating close to us, as if glued onto the
window panes, and at the same time far away; a white
glow, a purified tear full of glitter joy and futility,
a silent, deep certainty of the end and of eternity.
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Eternal
Calligraphic neck slightly raised
lips expecting my spring song
eagerly opening to faint breeze
closed eyelids erotic image
galloping in my mind
as I lower my head
hair touching
lips approaching
fiery yearning conflagrating
finger caressing your chin
the lock at last
the kiss: Eros blushing
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Manolis Aligizakis 