Poem by Kostas Karyotakis
IDEAL SUICIDAL MEN
They lock the door behind them, take
their old well-kept letters
read them silently, then they drag
their feet for the last time
life was a tragedy, they say.
God, how macabre the laughter of men
the tears, the sweat, nostalgia
of the sky, loneliness in the world.
They stand by the window, they gaze
the children, the trees the far away vista
the men of the quarry hammering
the sun that always goes down.
It’s all over. The note is written
short, simple, precise, as it suits,
indifferent, full of forgiveness
for the one who will cry reading it.
They look in the mirror, notice the time
question whether it’s craziness or perhaps a mistake
it’s all over they whisper, now
certain that they’ll finally postpone it.
Orestes (excerpt)
And I remember now the eyes of the cow — not that
it is so important — dark, blind, huge, round eyes, like
two little hills made of darkness or black glass; a bell
tower was imperceptibly reflected on them with crows
perched on the cross; and then someone yelled and
the crows flew away from the eyes of the cow. I believe
the cow was a symbol of an ancient religion. Keep
these ideas and abstractions away from me. She’s just
a common cow good for its milk, the plough, with all
its wisdom for work, endurance, and usefulness. Yet,
the last moment, before the animals returned to
the village, you remember? — she let an agonizing
moo to the edge of the horizon, so agonizing that
all birds, branches, goats, sparrows, horses and
farmers scattered away, leaving it behind, alone in
bare circle from which the spiral of constellations
rose high up into the space until the cow ascented too;
no, no, I think I discerned it in the darkness among
the herd, climbing the brushy path, silent, obedient
cow going to the village at the time when they lighted
the oil lamps in the courtyards, behind the trees.
V
We didn’t know them
deep inside it was hope that said
we had met them in early childhood.
Perhaps we had seen them twice and then they went to the ships
cargoes of coal, cargoes of crops and our friends
vanished beyond the ocean forever.
Daybreak finds us beside the tired lamp
drawing on paper, awkwardly, painfully
ships, mermaids or conches;
at dusk we go down the river
because it shows us the way to the sea
and we spend our nights in cellars smelling of tar.
Our friends have left us
perhaps we never saw them, perhaps
we encountered them when sleep
still brought us very close to the breathing wave
perhaps we search for them because we search for the other life,
beyond the statues.
DANGEROUS THINGS
Said Myrtias (a Syrian student
in Alexandria, during the reign
of Augustus Constans and Augustus Constantios,
partly pagan, partly Christian);
“Strengthened by theory and by study
I shall not fear my passions like a coward.
I shall give my body to carnal delights,
to the pleasures we dream about,
to the most daring erotic desires,
to the lascivious urges of my blood, without
any fear, because, whenever I choose,
and have the will, strengthened
as I shall be by theory and by study—
at the critical moment I shall find
my spirit, as it was before, ascetic.”
THE GATE
(Excerpt 13)
The other passes with a sack on his back; all his
belongings, a pair of socks, an undershirt an
undergarment — he wears his shirt — two slices
of bread, no razor, his beard has grown long, no
notebook, he has paid off his debts, doesn’t need
to borrow anything, he had seen a naked woman
in the twilight, hadn’t seen her clearly, he shuts
his eyes, imagines her the way he likes, short legs,
long legs,
big breast, small tight, you can’t control the body;
the other’s body or yours, it slides on the light,
escapes its shadow,
whole, cut in pieces, each piece, water well
in water well
hill upon hill, tree next to tree over the other tree
circle on circle, secure circles, you run around them
you see one piece, you miss the other,
Oh mother of mine, he yelled, you gave me a circular
mouth,
circular hand too, to see, to lick, to touch the whole
circle.
POETIC POSTSCRIPT
Poems can’t be
beautiful
when truth has turned ugly.
Experience now
is the only body of the poems
and as experience is enriched
the poem finds nourishment
and it might become strong.
My knees hurt and I can’t
kneel before poetry anymore
I can only gift it with
my experienced wounds.
The adjectives wilted
I can only use my imagination
to embellish poetry.
Yet I shall always serve it
as long as it too wishes
as only poetry makes me forget
the enclosed horizon of my future.
Manolis Aligizakis 