Catharsis
And time for my catharsis came
vague redeemer that I was holding up
my body erected next to the icons
before the whip took aim at my back
feeble churchgoers had kneeled
nightingale started its composition
no one ever knew what it meant
yet deep in their consciousness
a glimmer of hope shone
like a soul lost in darkness
and begged for its deliverance
when time for my catharsis came
Γράφει ο Bill Hunchback
Με τον Θεόδωρο Μπασιάκο γνωριστήκαμε ένα βράδυ «ποιήσεως στο δρόμο». Αυτό έγινε στο ουζερί της Τζένης στα κάτω Πατήσια κατά τη διάρκεια μιας βραδιάς που είχα οργανώσει εκεί πριν από 7-8 χρόνια βλέποντας ότι η ποίηση και γενικότερα η λογοτεχνία στη χώρα μας έχει εξοκείλει σε μια ακαδημαϊκού χαρακτήρα μικρο-ομάδα αλληλοχαϊδευόμενων αστών που προπληρώνουν τα έργα τους ώστε να μπορούν μετά να μιλούν για αυτά με μια ελαφρά (ή βαρύτερη) κομπορρημοσύνη και να χρησιμοποιούν δύσκολες, δήθεν, λέξεις ή συντακτικές κορδέλες για να δικαιολογήσουν την ομάδα και τον εαυτό τους εντός της.
Ό,τι πιο φρικτό για την τέχνη και τη Μούσα το βρίσκω αυτό. Την αγιαστούρα της συντεχνίας. Τους κύκλους…
Εκείνη η πρώτη βραδιά ήταν ένα σκληρό ρίσκο για το οποίο καλό ήταν να έχει κανείς χαλκό στα έντερα και στο στομάχι, καθότι εννοείται πως η επίθεση υπήρξε αμείλικτη, ειρωνική και, ως συνήθως, ψίθυρος από μακριά με…
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Separation
With teary eyes I stared
at the woman
dressed in black with
her well-made hair
silver pin holding it up
surprise of the day
my sigh in the air
when she came near me
with open arms
as if to embrace
the whole world
that imperceptible laughter
on her lips burnt me
when she leaned
to kiss me
for the last time
His Last Profession
This is it – he says – my last profession – one villager’s
handkerchief large with blue and white squares
I unfold it I fold it I wipe off my sweat
or even my eyes sometimes Here I gather my belongings
some books one armchair my cigarettes the lighter
the magnifying glass for shaving and the other one
a size reducer as if to look at unpleasant things
or those others that they call unachievable
In this handkerchief
exactly in the middle there is a hole Through there
during the darker nights the secret bird comes in
my bird hops on my shoulder or my knee
and feeds me with an ear of grain with a star or with a worm
Poem by Gesthemani Sideridis
ROUTINE
And the routine that wage war evaporates
naturally and without special choices
with coffee and cigarettes
the smoke comes from the East
like clacking
all the rest are from here, local
the television promotes our habits
what is blood, you may ask me
red fluid that makes a mess
therefore I see the messy landscape daily
as I have coffee and cigarettes
the lies smell through the windows here
and treason’s everywhere
it’s the same, you may say
here simply
the blood is messing noiselessly
“…εν τούτοισι και ο Σιληνός τοίσι κήποισι ήλω, ως λέγεται υπό Μακεδόνων. υπέρ δέ των κήπων όρος κείται Βέρμιον ούνομα, άβατον υπό χειμώνος. ενθεύτεν δέ ορμώμενοι, ως ταύτην έσχον, κατεστρέφοντο και την άλλην Μακεδονίην”.
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Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards
Childhood Memory
During the summer siesta when the adults sleep, a bucket
of water tumbles down the stairway onto the hallway tiles.
At that moment, and under the hallway, at the same spot
where the bucket emptied, a fresh, forgotten for years,
storage room appears. Birds with their violins roost in there,
the linen kerchiefs, starched napkins of old tidiness,
two broken chairs, a basket of grapes, a pair of red
sandals, a high glass, the chalk, the school bell, the young
woodworker who saws the big stairway of the cicada.
Soon a light breeze starts blowing from in there wrinkling
part of the sea and the forehead of poetry with that
neglected, funny, childish frowning.
Teaching
And Themis was put in a dark dungeon
while I faced my kin’s delirious eyes
yet, though I had much to say,
I kept silent, momentarily, to give
time to their simple-mindedness
bubbling along with the creek’s murmur
innocent smile of child upon which
I entrusted my hope to rediscover justice
with spring flowers rejuvenating
the veins of impeccable Eros
my distraught friends remained imprisoned
and I, dressed in rags, walked over the lands,
and being soft-spoken and with new symbols
with new follies and new anecdotes,
I tried to revert the beliefs of
new Judases born with sharpened teeth
ready to devour each other
nothing to leave for the winds
the rightful inheritors of my teachings
SHAPE OF ABSENCE XXV
The distance lengthened between hands. People in love
don’t join hands anymore, not to reveal their lonely frost,
afraid that
the cry of absence might be heard from their joined hands.
They remain like that
as if in a dark tunnel gazing the opposite time
or the distant, vacant tables
that have changed shape and place to a solid silence.
Only
the alarm clock on the night table,
like the eye of an adult that has grown before its time,
shows a familiar time, unapproachable, already outdated;
and slowly-slowly death withers
like a unused forgiveness.
Manolis Aligizakis 