Cicadas

The olive tree leaves slide

on their ellipsoid song

which accompanies the cicadas

and my palm arouses

the shiver of your skin

soft breeze effecting

and August halts its movement

momentarily to enjoy

the image

of two bodies

becoming ONE

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SHAPE OF ABSENCE XXIX

How then, can time pass again with noisy steps

               on the sidewalk? How can

people sit around the table again, slice their bread

               and talk to each other

while the spoon hits the plate, the knife hits the glass

and the glass shines in the sunshine? A woman sings

in the room of the opposite house while she washes

               her feet in a big bowl.

A young woman keeps two or three light-blue little islands

              in her apron;

the shoe maker’s apprentice has tied his unravelled hair

              with a string. How is it

that we hear and we see? And life can tell apart these

things of memory, and those things as hers — it tells

them apart along with all our pain of separation, and

all our guilt — bitter invincible life, may it live its life

               with us

and without asking us, with that clever canniness that

does this, that we miss so much, that is more ours.

The ship has gone down on the horizon already —

leaving behind it a whistle like the shadow of a ship

like a different ship that floats across the space. How

              is it?

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POEM BY MILTOS SACHTOURIS

BEAUTY

He sprinkled beauty over ugliness

took a guitar

walked along the river

singing

He lost his voice

stolen from him by the crazy woman

who severed her head in the red waters

and the poor man has no voice to sing anymore

and in the river the serene head

flows with closed eyelids

Singing

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Deluge

Tears of my family filled

creeks and rivers that flowed

against the ancient balance

and suddenly what was valuable

turned into a consumeristic parody

deluge that roared along

evaluations of the ancient wisdom

and the gardenia’s faint smile

the finch’s soft murmur, scent

of the night flower became

their annulled paradise

and the peace of their souls

sunken deep in the deep bog

and in the shadow of illusion

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Humbleness

II

Grief is welcomed from your hands, she wrote to him;

I kiss your empty cigarette packages stored in the good

side of the chest. I have kept a curly hair from your

underarm, my son, my master, and I place all my hardships

there and I relax, my boy and if it isn’t much to ask, please

send me a bag of sugar so I can bake the cookies you like

come Easter time.  

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ON AN ITALIAN SHORE

Kimos, son of Menedoros,    a Greek—Italian youth,

spends his life    having a good time;

as is customary    for such young men

from Greater Greece   who are raised in riches.

But today he is   despite his nature

quite gloomy and disheartened.   Near the shoreline,

in utmost melancholy,   he sees the ships

unloading their spoils   from the Peloponnese.

Loot from Greece;    spoils from Corinth.

Ah, today, of course   it is not expected,

it is not possible    for this Greek—Italian youth

to desire    any amusement at all.

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Return of the Émigré

—My old friend, what are you looking for?

after years in foreign lands you’ve come back

with images you’ve nourished

under foreign skies

away from your country.

—I’m looking for my old garden

the trees reach to my waist

and the hills resemble terraces

yet when I was a child

I played on the grass

under the great shadows

and I ran for hours breathless over the slopes.

—My old friend, rest

little by little you’ll get used to it;

together we shall climb

on your well known paths

we shall rest together

under the dome of plane trees

little by little they’ll come to you

your orchard and your slopes.

—I’m looking for my old house

with the tall windows

darkened by the ivy

I’m looking for the ancient column

looked up by the seaman.

How can I walk into this sheepfold?

Roofs reach to my shoulders

and everywhere I look

I see kneeling people

as though praying.

—My old friend, don’t you hear me?

Little by little you will get used to it

your house is the one you see and

this door your friends will come and knock to

welcome you back tenderly.

—Why is your voice so distant?

Raise your head a bit that

I may understand you as you speak you gradually

grow smaller as though

you sink into the ground.

—My old friend, think a while

little by little you’ll get used to it

your nostalgia has created an nonexistent country, with laws

beyond the earth and people.

—I can not hear anything anymore

my last friend has sunk

strange how often enough everything around here sinks

here thousands of scythe chariots

run and mow everything down.

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