Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards

2023 Longlist Announcement

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Memory

Yes, we lived, once, in the little white houses with

the whitewashed fence, the shade of the grapevine near

the lake’s song, though when we returned from faraway

we found inside the house nothing but our childhood

innocence and the hallway mirror with awkward

faces wanting to jump out and run to the streets

like wild animals. We knew none of these faces yet just

behind the door the secret we shared signalled to us

discreetly, as if it witnessed all our concealed messages,

our darkest thoughts, uncertainty and timidity of youth,

purposelessness I would say, yet since then we had known

the path we were to follow later which has led us here

before our mighty Hero.

I like those who become pneuma of virtue because only

thus they will be able to go as light as a feather over

the bridge.

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FLESH THE BESUTIFUL DESERT (1996)

THE WIND PERKED UP

My friend laughed and suddenly he looked like my father

who closed his eyes tightly when he laughed

his shoulders would jolt and he would hold

together his hands as if clapping.

My friend, standing in front of the fireplace said:

The wind is perked up; we have to try to survive

and my father dived in his ashes again.

Reality locked up itself

inside its present castle

raising the white flag of the unequivocal age

days of joy re-locked themselves in a few teardrops

something insignificant was coming through the air

something of an insignificant love suddenly was in the room

something insignificant we said and life passed by.

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Mistakes

The man was sitting on the couch he was speaking

he was listening to his voice he corrected its tone The woman

fixed up her hair before the mirror

Her hair was dyed

The man’s voice was dyed They knew it

The lights went out They kneeled opposite each other and cried

After that they made love on the floor And outside the old

woman knocked the latch of the metal door

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A YOUNG MAN, ARTIST OF THE WORD—

IN HIS TWENTY-FOURTH YEAR

Mind, work as best you can.—

He is wasted by a one sided pleasure.

He is in a nerve-wracking situation.

He kisses the beloved face everyday,

his hands touch the most impeccable contours.

He never loved with such passion.

But the beautiful fulfillment of Eros

is missing; that consummation is missing

which both must desire with the same intensity. 

(They are not equally given to this sensual pleasure.

Only he is completely overcome.)

So he is wasted, and he is completely tense.

On the other hand he has no job; and this makes it worse.

He manages to borrow small sums of money (sometimes

he almost begs for it) and he barely gets by.

He kisses the beloved lips; takes pleasure still

with that exquisite body, but feels that it only consents.

And then he drinks and smokes; drinks and smokes;

and he drags himself to the cafes all day long,

drags in weariness the ache of that beauty.—

Mind, work do the best you can.

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Poem by Manolis Aligizakis

BURDEN

He put his bag on the floor,

he lay next to me

he raised one leg and

leaned it against the wall

as if to leave

a fleshy mark on it

a faint human trace

the other leg was resting

on the cool cement

suddenly as though he remembered

something very important

he got up

walked to the table

leaned down and smelt

the last bloomed rose

then he let a sigh float

in the darkened room

as if to release

burden of his last breath

and without any word

he collapsed on the cool cement

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FINAL VICTORY

He brought his hand on his face hastily

just as his fingers touched the spit

he stopped; he didn’t want to wipe it.

He pushed it into his face, to go deep and eat

the flesh, reaching his teeth, bones, tongue.

He breathed in a new way through

the hole he opened

and raising his body a bit he continued

his walk.

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Shrug

He sleeved his cold hands

shrugged his shoulders didn’t

see the prism bent by

leaden clouds

cursed for his bad luck pointed

to dark glass of his room

resembling empty sockets of

his skull

two different fates hover

one for him the one for others

staggering on flagstones

considering

café garbage bin 

pile behind the pub

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Lampposts III

In the shadow his eyes were asking: can I look

straight in the eyes? Can I look sideways? Can

I jump from above?

                                    Black trucks were passing,

black nights, black children, black mothers. Nicolas

had high fever; how could they take him now while  

he had cold and the wind was blowing?

Dress well, be careful what’s the need for goodbyes,

for emotions now, words written with a blue pen in

              the lining of the hat?

Others have said the same things, others were saying;

it’s always the same; thank God the dead aren’t hungry.

              How can one die?

Very early in the morning with birds chirping among

the cypresses, with just a bit of rosy colour on the window

               panes,

the clear reproach (for who?) He too shared his secrets

with an old curtain or with the lower part of the closet

or with one old ravaged army blanket; many secrets,

such as the holed sock in the left shoe, as when

evening comes and the water carriers often stumble

              on their way,

although the road is flat and familiar to them. A little

further, lined small community restaurants turn on

their lights for the students, longshoremen and small

vendors amid the steam. What have they gained,

              he asked,

them and these? And Maria with the sawdust

in her hair? I pretended I didn’t notice; the opposite

wall was painted yellow as if it had a childish sickness

and him, dead for a while, looking at himself in the big

mirror; his coat that was laid on the back of the chair,

also reflected in the mirror; three buttons were missing;

he must had felt cold. I proposed to sew his buttons

outside of the mirror; the mirror wouldn’t come

to agree; all three buttons were in the fruit basket:

one of them, not matching, red, the other brown,

the third black. They were not matching, how odd,

              my God, how odd.

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