Poem by George Vizyenos

ANEMONE

A boulder on the hill

alone can see

the creek that flows

before it sings its song.

The anemone that blooms

rooted firmly on the rock

attempts to grasp

the meaning of the song

and down it bends to hear,

leaving its rocky anchor

to know what song is sung

by that fast-flowing creek?

It sings of an embrace

that waits with open arms

to hold a lover ardently

at night on a golden shore.

If only, said the flower,

that embrace were mine,

and leaning further down

to touch the rapid current

as it leaned enough to see

the water in its speed

stripped it of its petals

and down the stream it went.

Now without petals

the stem stands in loneliness.

Ah, why, ah, why did that anemone

deserted its anchor in the rock?

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REPETITIONS, SECOND SERIES

Many Men

This year the judges lost it — they don’t know who

          to recognize —

(wasn’t the same other years?) surprised, naked bodies

gleam in the sunshine and the sweat adds beauty and shine

as it rolls down the chin and temples, the legs, the belly and

          the chest.

To whom the bull or the wreath belong? this thigh, these

knees, the ischium; this panel of judges measure, weight,

search, become absentminded and this sun strikes with

power, it blinds you. To resort to the solution of a draw

        or a tie?

The marble sparkles, the toenails of men, the nipples;

the temples buzz. A broken water pitcher. The flowers

of the wreath at the podium already wilted. The tied bull

moos. The twilight comes. The judges delay a lot.

However the people don’t seem to mind — they observe

silently and as if saddened. At one point they come to

their senses, they exchange a couple of words — an

out of tune, forced laughter is heard, then it stops abruptly.

Oh, we understood well: the embarrassment was justified;

no worries; let’s postpone all other disciplines for

tomorrow of the day after tomorrow, or let’s cancel them

        all together —

all the events stop here.

                                   And we should, ah, yes, with no

delay; the city will declare a new order: the burial processions

will be forbidden from passing in front of the Stadium because,

thus, death loses its force and its right analogies — no one

pays attention to the dead anymore and perhaps the dead

        might get angry.

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Πώς επηρεάζει η ομορφιά τη ζωή μας

Poem by George Vizyenos

PARABLE

The morning star can never shine

as you when you appear, joy-giving lass

nor does the green clover have as much

as you have freshness on your sweetened lips

nor do the flowers of narcissus have

such fragrance as your lightest breath

nor does the bird know how to sing such

sweet songs as your inventive lips.

One only it can’t learn—to sing I love you—

and for this, I dare to say, another soul may die.

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Lighthouse Keeper

Quite often I imagine the passengers’ hands lighted

by my lamp as if they were turned golden from

the breath of a distant friendship. I also imagine, when

they jump onto the quay and their relatives greet them,

that some of them squeeze my hands; and more so, that

the small locks of their suitcases have retained the light

of this lighthouse like small icons, beautiful and well

kept because of my care and vigil.

There’s always a way for us to give something and

perhaps we might identify with what we give: there

will always be a colour that will blend in our glance

each morning. This is what I wanted to emphasize

and sign like a letter without any date and with no

                 recipient.

Now, I’ll better keep quiet and light our lamp.

Wait for me. Two minutes. I won’t be long.

Wait.

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Whispers

Whispers

their song silking through

maiden pubic hair

their lust searching for

tender vulva

Whispers

rhythmic resonance

in kiss of fingers

and their excitable hunt for

youthful consummation

Whispers

movement of legs

under the light bed sheet

impelling space between

a raised leg and the angled one

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REPETITIONS SECOND SERIES

The End of Dodoni I

We had the altars, our churches, the oracles. With

our own eyes we had seen the golden she-dove and

the axe of the lumberjack falling on the ground. Secret

voices — the leaves, the birds and the fountain, told us

what to do, what not to. The enchantresses with their

cauldrons and the coffee cup were a good support. And

over the deep-voiced oak.

                                    We too had somewhere to go, to

ask about the sheep, our children, the pomegranate tree,

the one-eyed cow; about the donkey, the orchard,

the casserole. And always the same answer, (as it changed

each time it was given in the same tone:) certain, firm,

commanding, irreversible. We relaxed somewhat —

others had the responsibility of deciding for success or

failure. We only had the submission and execution, and

our lowered eyes.

                            Now

everything is reversed, altars, churches, cemeteries.

The bones thrown in the street. They burned down

the holy oak — our confidant. We have no one to ask,

no one to trust. Arkis walks around the agora with the

bloodied axe on his waist; there is no golden fluff from

the sacrificed oracle-giving dove that shivers on the kitchen

skylight or on the dusty oleanders; only the denial water

that drips in the empty stable late at night, and it is quiet

an ambivalent quietness like the first one, like the last.

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 Picture Germain Droogenbroodt

Poetry Day*

So grey
this cold winter morning.

Within sight the monotony
of by passing cars

Behind it
the sea devoid of the sun
disconsolate and dull
like this inspirationless morning

Poetry Day.

Germain Droogenbroodt

ΜΕΡΑ ΠΟΙΗΣΗΣ

Γκρίζο πρωί

κρύο χειμωνιάτικο πρωί

κι η μονοτονία

περαστικών αυτοκινήτων

στην άλλη μεριά του πρωινού

η θάλασσα στερημένη ήλιου

θολή και απαρηγόρητη

σαν το ανέμπνευστο πρωί

Μέρα ποίησης

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Μάρω Βαμβουνάκη – Η μοναξιά είναι από χώμα

THE WINDOWS

In these dark rooms where I spend

leaden days, I go up and down

looking for the windows.—To open

one would be a great consolation.—

But they are nowhere to be found, or I can not

find them. And perhaps it is better that I don’t.

Perhaps their light will be a new tyranny.

Who knows what it will reveal?

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