Eight o’ Clock
Eight o’ clock
a vacant chair
stars half dimmed
your insistence in filling
the void with hope persists
brightly lit vessel divides bay
your unbearable insistence
as the hour shifts to anxiety
when fragrance of sea
fills your nostrils, your assertion
in filling the sensual void with
spent dreams and myths
long-gone, unbearable
as the first cricket arrives
stroking the comb of spring
Poem by Odysseus Elytis
II
Games of the water
in the shadowy passages
they speak of dawn with their kisses
where the horizon
begins —
and the echo of wild doves
vibrates in their cave
glaucous waking in the spring
of day
sun —
the mistral bestows the sail
unto the sea
the caressing of hair
to its carefree dream
freshness —
wave in the light
rebirths the eyes
on which Life sails toward
the gazing
life —
THE BRIDGE (excerpt)
Our humble needs don’t humiliate us;
on the contrary, they save us; they give us ground
to walk on again, to stand erect, to work, and
their knowledge and approval is our brotherhood,
it’s the beginning of our profound freedom,
it’s that sacred truthfulness,
the first and last truthfulness of man, so much so
that you could cry out of tenderness,
for this confession of yours, for this humiliation,
for this pride with which you were born and will die,
for this work that was caused by these needs of yours
that it will be offered to the needs of others,
to the eternal needs of man, an eternal commitment.
I always come back to you, and it’s my great joy to know
that you await for me, to know about your beautiful
patience and your deep trust. Allow me then to repeat
the articles of your faith with the simplicity of the novice,
with that sweet enthusiasm of the young proselyte who
recites off by heart the articles of life written in large
red letters
on the façade of history and the horizon:
I believe that the first step to progress is the correct
distribution of bread,
I believe that the first step to progress is the increase in
the production of bread for all
I believe that our first duty is peace,
I believe that our first freedom isn’t our loneliness
but our comradeship; as for the rest, there will always
be time for them too, but only from there on.
It was about this bridge that I wanted to talk to you —
Inheritance
He knew I devoted all my
earthly love to him
I pronounced him heir
of the world I kept
away from the traitors
for this he dug
his grave deep
he threw
inheritance in it
and, somber, standing
on top of the slab
from the depth
of his lungs
he wailed
we’ve dwelt
in this darkness for eons
you and I
the two disinherited
you and I
the two exaggerations
Relatives
The stories I’ve heard
from relatives about endless
battles and heroics always
more powerful than the enemy’s
moulded me into the savior
of the world I wanted to become
though even my guardian angel
refused to hear my plea as
I paid attention to the stars
and since I was desperate
I was preparing for that day
when I could open my window
and salute the first swallow
while some prisoners stood
behind the barbed wire looking
towards my family home
ORESTES (Excerpt)
I like this damp quietness. Somewhere close by, in a humble
house, a young woman is combing her long hair, and next
to her, her spread undies are breathing in the moonlight; all
of them flowing, slippery, happy. In the baths, water is poured
out of big urns onto the necks and breasts of young girls, the
small aromatic bars of soap slide onto the tiles; bubbles split
the sound of water and laughter; a woman slipped and fell;
everything slips because of the soap — you can’t hold
the bubbles nor can you get a hold of yourself — this slippage
is the reoccurring rhythm of life — women laugh and blow
the white, weightless, tiny towers of soap-bubbles from
the little forest of their mound. Isn’t this happiness?
Manolis Aligizakis 