THE GATE

(Excerpt 7)

I wait for the three women, and the fourth one;

they might not come; I wait for them;

the bicycle is in the basement

the chicken walked in the shop with the big saw;

the man grabbed it by the leg; the chicken cawed

I don’t know whether all saws have the same number

             of teeth like people;

I wait, I didn’t give up, didn’t cross my arms,

oh, my old women, my old women, he said,

you who burned your two feathers one by one

over the flame of the oil lamp or the fire of the hearth

not in the fire of half of the city — the bone inside

              still whole

to poke your back, so you’ll graze like runaway mares

oh the nights, with the mid-night cries of the dead,

the howls of dogs and wolves,

with the scratched skin of the moon nailed on doors

with the mirror, the glass door, the river, all angry

             in the pitch dark

that we couldn’t notice the severed head of your son

             in the laundry basket;

you’ll freeze at dawn — moist eaves stuck on your

             soles

thistle poked through your dresses, entangled in

             your hair

when the first explosions are heard in the gorge

and the statue tumbles as his testicles stir and

the mule drivers carry double sacks of whitewash

             on their mules

marking the path with two white lines up to the

              hill

high up by the half built church with the half

given forgiveness weighing heavy the olive grove

              with what the bells didn’t chime.

The others, still shuffling the cards, argued about

               various scenarios;

I left their company, sat by the window; I wasn’t

                listening to their complains,

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 Painting: Higorca Gómez Carrasco, Spain

Before the Flood

In the evening trees

figures of pure air

elongated like cries

from afar

and I wonder

if this is the farewell

or another sign

of the end

Because the earth is sinking

behind its horizon

nothing works anymore

that is clear

and what continues to exist

is a whimsical reflection

from all of us

just for a while.

Günter Kunert (Germany, 1929-

Translation: Germain Droogenbroodt

ΠΡΙΝ ΤΟΝ ΚΑΤΑΚΛΥΣΜΟ

Κάθε βράδυ σχήματα του αγέρα

μακρουλά σαν μακρινά κλάματα

κι αναρωτιέμαι

αν είναι αυτό το γεια χαρά

ή άλλο ένα σημάδι του τέλους

που επέρχεται.

Κι αφού η γη βυθίζεται

στο τέλος του ορίζοντα

τίπτα πια δεν δεν είναι ακριβές

κι ότι απομένει

η ιδιότροπη αντύγεια μας

των μερικών λεπτών.

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//Translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Revelation

I admitted I had my way

to express compassion for

the widow’s empty bed

for understanding her ache

when ancient sobs came

through the cracks

of ravaged floor planks

it was the era for achievements

by knights while lone women

enclosed in towers

embroidering passion

for that simple touch

no one ever paid attention

yet would I had taken

the poet’s path 

I could had been able

to reveal my courteous self

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Picture Germain Droogenbroodt
3

Today is Sunday.
They took me out for the first time into the sun today.
And for the first time in my life I was amazed
That the sky is so far away
And so blue
And so vast
I stood there without a motion.
Then I sat on the ground with respectful devotion
Leaning against the white wall.
Who cares about the waves with which I yearn to roll?
Or about strife or freedom or my wife right now.
The earth, the sun and me…
I feel happy.
1938

3

Σήμερα Κυριακή
Μ’ έβγαλαν για πρώτη φορά έξω στον ήλιο
Και πρώτη φορά στη ζωή μου κατάλαβα
πως ο ουρανός είναι τόσο μακρινός
και τόσο γαλάζιος
κι απέραντος.
Έμεινα ακίνητος σαν μαρμαρωμένος.
Μετά έκατσα στο χώμα με σχετική ευλάβεια
κι ακούμπησα την πλάτη μου στον λευκό τοίχο.

Τότε γιατί αναζητώ να παίξω με τα κύματα;
Γιατί τότε ν’ ανησυχώ για την ελευθερία
ή για πώς είναι η γυναίκα μου αυτή τη στιγμή;
Τώρα μόνο η γη,
ο ήλιος κι εγώ
Ευτυχία.

1938

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis

NÂZIM HIKMET, Turkey (1902 – 1963)

ALIENATION OF ATTRACTION

The flesh became page

the skin paper

the caress a vague concept

the body a new theory of the inexistent.

Truly, how can I describe

nature when it has abandoned me

and only in the premiere of autumn

sometimes it remembers to invite me?

I hope to find the courage

to express my last wish:

to see a naked male body

to remind myself and to carry

as my last image, the male body

that isn’t flesh but a future

substance beyond the flesh.

Because that is the meaning of lust:

to touch the perishable

and push death aside.

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Pointless Solemnity

He remembers nothing Not even why

the napkin is lying on the floor Yet he insists

to give order to things completely lost

to find a word with less death – one word

that could save him from the lottery vendors

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Δημήτρης Τρωαδίτης: Εξαγγελία

Haste

Still too early to choose our new path

yet we headed to the open door

of the morgue into which

we’d identify our dead relatives as

people hid their money in worn out

mattresses, finger pointed at the scale,  

lone feather on one side of it

his heart on the other, when the speechless

Hades with no hesitation scribed  

accurate weight of his soul

representing size of coffin wherein

its eternal beauty would finally fit  

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Agianapa II

            Verses for music

Under the old sycamore

wildly the wind played

with the birds with the branches

but never spoke to us.

Welcome, breath of my soul

we opened our hearts

come inside come and drink

from our desire.

Under the old sycamore

the wind got up and left

to the castles of the north and never touched us.

Oh my thyme and rosemary hold your breast tightly

and find cave and find a den

and hide your oil lamp.

This isn’t wind of Palm Sunday

it isn’t of the Resurrection

but it’s wind of fire and smoke

and of the joyless life

Under the old sycamore

dry the wind returned

it sniffed gold coins everywhere

and it sold us out.

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THE GATE

(Excerpt 7)

I wait for the three women, and the fourth one;

they might not come; I wait for them;

the bicycle is in the basement

the chicken walked in the shop with the big saw;

the man grabbed it by the leg; the chicken cawed

I don’t know whether all saws have the same number

             of teeth like people;

I wait, I didn’t give up, didn’t cross my arms,

oh, my old women, my old women, he said,

you who burned your two feathers one by one

over the flame of the oil lamp or the fire of the hearth

not in the fire of half of the city — the bone inside

              still whole

to poke your back, so you’ll graze like runaway mares

oh the nights, with the mid-night cries of the dead,

the howls of dogs and wolves,

with the scratched skin of the moon nailed on doors

with the mirror, the glass door, the river, all angry

             in the pitch dark

that we couldn’t notice the severed head of your son

             in the laundry basket;

you’ll freeze at dawn — moist eaves stuck on your

             soles

thistle poked through your dresses, entangled in

             your hair

when the first explosions are heard in the gorge

and the statue tumbles as his testicles stir and

the mule drivers carry double sacks of whitewash

             on their mules

marking the path with two white lines up to the

              hill

high up by the half built church with the half

given forgiveness weighing heavy the olive grove

              with what the bells didn’t chime.

The others, still shuffling the cards, argued about

               various scenarios;

I left their company, sat by the window; I wasn’t

                listening to their complains,

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/w454dzp?page=1&pageSize=10