REPETITIONS THIRD SERIES

Extract

From all we read, only that messenger remained

who was striking the bronze door knob of the temple,

not what he said nor what was said by the angry king,

who was moving his wide sleeves. Only the sound

of the door knob echoes in the dark rooms and

in the empty pedestal of the wooden statue

of the Deer Goddess, which stolen and

on the ship it now travels to Athens — the sound

of the oars along with the sound of the door knob.

Luckily, he said, we retain things like these,

consoling things, unaltered, united

as if we are unaltered too.

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THE FUNERAL OF SARPEDON

Zeus is deep in sorrow. Patroklos

killed Sarpedon; and now the son of Menoetios

and the Acheans charge in

to seize and humiliate the body.

But Zeus doesn’t agree with all this.

His beloved boy—whom he left

to perish; that was the Law—

he will at least honor in death.

And, look, he sends Apollo down to the plain

well briefed on what to do with the body.

With reverence and sorrow Apollo lifts

the hero’s body and carries it to the river.

He washes away the dust and the blood;

he closes the terrible wounds, not letting

any trace of them show; he pours

ambrosial perfumes; and dresses him

in gleaming Olympian garments.

He blanches the skin white; and with a pearl

comb combs the jet black hair.

He straightens and arranges the beautiful limbs.

Now he looks like a king, a charioteer—

twenty-five, or twenty-six years old—

at leisure after winning

the prize in a very famous race

with his golden chariot and fleet steeds.

Having finished his task

Apollo sends for the two brothers

Sleep and Death, and orders them

to take the body to Lykia, the rich land.

And toward that rich land, Lykia,

these two brothers Sleep and Death

walk, and when they arrive

at the door of the royal house,

they deliver the glorious body,

then return to their other labors and cares.

And when they received the body there, in the house,

with processions, and mourning, and honors,

and with abundant libations from sacred chalices,

and all things due, the sorrowful burial began.

And after that, experienced workers from the city

and famous carvers of stone came

to build the tomb and the stele.

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THE BRIDGE

And again, in the evening, she was possessed by

that gleaming truthfulness of her sadness like something

restful, something of her own, hers only — herself

totally submissive and closed, whole yet totally alone.

She then gathered the rest of the strings in a paper box,

took her weeding tool carefully

with that inevitable moderation and attention to order

and turned on the garden light knowing the consequences

which follow a change in lighting,

calm, retired, acceptable to herself. Soon after, she felt

an exceptional joy in her grief,

she felt that her grief was her attachment to what

had been, to what is, to what will be,

to everything around and above and below

to everything within and without, a silent attachment,

a touch of immortality, a distant and balanced eternal light

that annuls the difference, erases the distance

between here and the beyond, among foreign

languages, nor does it need any translation

from her smile to the star, from the star

to the garden light, from silence to confession,

from a carnation to the weeding tool and to her hand,

from one hour to the next. She then turned on the faucet

and with the garden hose she started watering the flowers,

the trees near and far under the familiar starlight and the

           garden light.

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In The Name of the Goddess I Summon You

Oil on limbs

perhaps a rancid smell

like here on the oil-press

of the small church

on the rough pores

of the stopped stone.

Oil on the hair

crowned with rope,

and perhaps other perfumes

that we didn’t know

poor and rich

and statuettes offering

small breasts to the fingers.

Oil in the sun

the leaves shivered

when the foreigner stopped

and silence got heavy

between the knees.

The coins fell;

‘In the name of the Goddess I summon you…’

Oil on the shoulders

and the flexing waist

gray legs on the grass,

and this wound in the sun

as the bell chimed for vespers

as I spoke in the courtyard

with a crippled man.

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Pleas of the Children

                              “The houses should not burn.
                               Bombers one should not know.
                                The night should be for sleep.
                              Life should not be a punishment
                                     mothers should not cry
                                  No οne should kill anyone
                            Everybody should built something
                              where one could trust the other.
                                 The young should achieve it.
                                        The old as well.“

Bertolt Brecht, Germany (1898 –1956)

ΕΚΛΗΣΕΙΣ ΤΩΝ ΠΑΙΔΙΩΝ

Να μην πυρπολούνται τα σπίτια

να μην γνωρίζει κανείς τα βομβαρδιστικά

η νύχτα να `ναι για τον ύπνο

να μην είναι τιμωρία η ζωή

οι μάνες να μην κλαίνε

κανείς να μην σκοτώνει κανένα

ο καθένας να χτίζει κάτι

εκεί που εμπιστεύεται ο ένας τον άλλο.

Οι νέοι να το καταφέρουν

κι οι γέροι επίσης.

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη/Translated by Manolis Aligizakis

REPETITIONS SECOND SERIES

Septirhea and Daphnephoria

We said: this year we’ll stay here. Enough of the stupid

           trips.

Man’s only wisdom: loneliness. Therefore why we now

run, in the night, with torches, stumbling on rocks, not

           knowing

the meaning of such thoughtless symbolisms — the putting up

           of the wooden shack

the secret procession with a child up front, the arrow that’s

           nailed to the door,

after the burning of the shack, people running to the Tempe

without turning their heads back not even once. And after

          the sacrifices

we turn back loaded with oleander branches. The same and

the same every nine years (perhaps so we might forget in

          between, and truly we forget). Eh, no,

this time we don’t take a step — thus we said. But when

          we heard

the faraway nightly drums and the torch bearers passing

          noiselessly in front of the house,

we couldn’t stop ourselves, we all ran to the road, mixed

          with the people,

we took part in the fires, the running, the sacrifices and

returned through the Pythian Road towards Delphi, past

          midnight, holding

oleander branches although we didn’t have (for years now)

          anyone to crown —

and this was a sadness together with pride that no one knew

although they all considered us theirs. The shack was

still smoking at dawn. Returning home, we gazed at

the sky, clear, milky, light-blue, rosy; we noticed on the soil

the tumbled little paper flags, a child’s sandal, a kerchief with

          sperm;

we looked in a serene, ecstatic way, with certain vague

          politeness and nausea

with the happy tiredness and the blindness of the nightly

          vigil,

like actors who took their make-up off, at the end of a nice

presentation, who leave retaining their sleepy hearing,

the futile buzz of the clapping and some bother, as some

gum is retained on their chins, from the graceful beard of

Oedipus or Prometheus, which they had put on for one

          more night.

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Saving Fall

You’ll carry on with the conversation – you who so often

stopped at the meaning of pause or pauses carrying on

the old dilapidated pushcart (with the dignity of a responsible

day laborer of course)

the furniture of the poor student (who honored you with his

choice)

from one basement to the other or the loft on Periandros Street

being careful as you carried down the narrow rotten stairs

the two unmatched chairs so that they wouldn’t scratch the wall

because the stony merciless landlady stood at the top

behind the railing with crossed arms observing you

when you tumbled down the stairs and landing on the ground you

simply sat on one chair having the other chair on your head

upside down like a strange impenetrable helmet

with four antennae or four legs raised in the sun

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WHAT POETRY GIVES, WHAT IT TAKES

What does poetry give and what does it take?

When under the weight of a cloud

all your internal body parts lean sideway

when one glance scratches old wounds

when a new handicap opens new wounds

when the sky’s lanterns shine

at a close distance to your future

and when the pieces of life you’ve saved aren’t enough

when a sorrow that hasn’t yet come tyrannizes you

when pain has neither name nor color

then poetry touches your forehead like a soft hand

and convinces you of your special purpose

that your verse won’t end with your life

that poetry if the accountability of your soul.

Then you take the pen

and you think of being one

with beauty and immortality.

But what sacrifice is poetry asking of you?

What does it want in return?

Only one thing.

Don’t demand anything

of the soil you walk on

you don’t expect reality to reward you

nor to enrich you

with infinite ties nor to become

the way you wish it to be.

You better crave only one thing:

that reality will remain around you and that

you’ll love it being there

even if it is frowning, even if it is grumpy.

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Execution Squad

Since everyone always liked to know

where they belonged, the Fates played their role:

not only they embroidered everyone’s history

but they also helped externalize one’s true self

that stood opposite the Abyss and we took

up arms to fight against our virtues, to obliterate

all our golden grace that we would stand naked

before the intuition that sprang up from deep

within us and from the lips of our initiate.

And since the desperate were afraid of inexistent

ghosts, new curses and dirty etiquettes,

we drew images of the Inferno on snow white pages

and we presented the gleaming Purgatory to keep

them eager to learn and blindfolded before

the execution squad.

And this, He said, was good and just.

I like those who resemble heavy drops of rain that

slowly fall from the black clouds which cover men.

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AFTER THE DEMONSTRATION

Protect yourselves from the panic that

spreads soon after blood stains the asphalt

protect yourselves from the club of the cop

the accusation of the informer

from the indifferent crowd

who will fill the streets again

protect yourselves from the spring, the following summer

the travel arrangements and personal reveries

from the two future husbands 

who argue where the dead people were laid

protect yourselves from the poets

who steal verses from graves of the unknown.

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