Glory of the Ptolemies
I am Lagidis, King, absolute possessor
(with my power and my wealth) of carnal delight.
Neither a Macedonian nor a barbarian
can equal me or even come close. The son
of Seleucus is absurd with his vulgar hedonism.
But if you search here for other things, these are clear.
This city is the teacher, the center
of the Panhellenic world,
in every word, in every art, the wisest.
Daily Use
Of course, all these were somehow vague, perhaps even inexplicable for the ones who raise their glass emphatically over the table without seeing who holds it, until slowly the everyday use makes us mortal.
Thus, I always tried to look elsewhere when the doorbell rang and when everything was quietened: where is the host? Why is he hiding? I leaned on the table so that I wouldn’t fall; then, bowing my head.
I opened the door and followed my path.
And at night, at dinner, in horror, I listened as they narrated their stories, which, in a way, silenced the dark, remote outside—there, where we had lived.
Peace of a Full Stomach
Citizen watches TV ordinarily
beer belly exposed
tight T-shirt
jogging pants
fluffy comfort
mind mutated by fat
extreme superiority
over masses of colourful citizens
of the faraway places where beasts live
mind mutated by the notion of entitlement
revisionists accentuated
underscore the importance
of new smart bombs
that outsmart foreign defences
calculations, exact results
deleting hypotheses and estimates
The unprecedented precision
of missiles controlled by a computer
dark green glow of a screen
fingers manipulate the Enter button
boom
Excerpt
Her smile disappeared. ‘Oh I’m sorry, Ian. I can’t. Liam’s going out. Tomorrow afternoon I could. As long as I’m back by tea-time. Before Liam goes out.’ Nora looked expectantly at this Scottish builder who was beginning to invade her daily thoughts as she his. Her heart started beating with an excitement she hadn’t felt since Joe Carney was alive.
‘What time?’
‘Half-one, or thereabouts.’
The ash-blonde poked her head round the door. ‘Will Mrs Liam Dooley please stop flirting with the customers and come home to her husband and wee’ns?’
Nora laughed. ‘I’m coming, Bridie,’ she called. Then in a quiet whisper she said, ‘See you tomorrow, Ian.’
Ian walked back into the bar, but his feet did not touch the carpet. ‘One for the road, gentlemen?’ he suggested light-heartedly. ‘A wee deoch an doruis.’
‘Make mine a double,’ said Copplestone. ‘I have a wife upstairs.’
‘And you should have a double yourself, Ian,’ Copplestone’s colleague suggested. ‘To celebrate your victory.’
‘What victory?’ Ian asked innocently.
‘If I’m not mistaken, Ian—and I’m something of an expert in these matters—you won yourself a black-haired beauty this evening. She’s yours, Ian. Heart, soul, and body, she’s all yours.’
҂
‘What will you have to drink, Nora?’
‘Just tea, thank you, Ian. And maybe a couple of digestive biscuits or something.’ Nora looked at the young waiter behind her. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Certainly, madam. Would you like cheese with the biscuits?’
‘No thank you.’
The waiter turned to Ian. ‘And you, sir? What can I get for you?’
‘A Drambuie, please.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘What’s Drambuie?’ Nora asked as the waiter glided away.
‘It’s a Scottish liqueur made from Highland malt Scotch whiskey and heather honey. Just superb. Would you like to try it?’
‘Not just now, thank you. It sounds good, but I’m just gasping for a cup of tea. Maybe some time again.’
Ian caught the words ‘some time again’ and held them like something precious.
Untitled Events
The memory couldn’t match the things. Events that remained
without a place, vanished. You could certainly imagine
an ashtray somewhere else, a hanger, the fragrance
of cologne in the neighbourhood barber shop just before
they close the stores on Saturday evening and
the beautiful woman who a little later after scratched
a mandarin with her nail, slowly, smelling her fingers,
vanished under the lights of the Station. Forgotten,
forgotten, exiled, not adaptable to the chaotic storage room
with the ammunition and the nylon curtains.
(If this poem spoke to you, find more about it in the following links)
I’m the pounding hammer
who forms a few unnatural
flowers instead of swords and
I’m the tamer gypsy who makes
circles, shadows, griffins and
spells out of fire, some royal
crowns, ghosts, fairies, mermaids
for ships, for palaces that don’t
exist anymore useless, unwanted
and peculiar, sometimes missing
the face, the body and always
missing a name; and what angers
the people who sleep with their
eyes open and all that passersby
expel and all that root in this land
and all that love never woke up
and all that never found any fans.
And I’m the hammering man
who surprises, startles and still
keeps going since all easy work
suited another craftsman though
my breath blows onto my work
something barbarous and new
harder than the hardest granite
and when one expects in his
hands from my hands a creation
steady, motionless and hard
I unwillingly bring to him a soft
soul, a sun ray or a wave’s froth.
Worm
Green grass in brown soil
moist in air, overburdening
black clouds on brown leaves
death in fall or spring
rich dirt excreting a fat worm
dressed in his nakedness
like a general declaring war or
a middle-aged man running to a feast
naked worm on his destination
to his daily walk along brown
leaves and saddened atmosphere
pink orphan worm with no arms, no eyes
just his instinct to stay alive
like tree roots leading to food
worm at the edge of nuisance
brainless, yet wise enough
to crawl on his skin
defining rules of destiny and
declaring in a respected posture
and with all expected fanfare
rules of life on his way
to the next page of history
(If this poem touched you, you may find more about this poetry book in the following link)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763939
Excerpt
“Nope, that’s not me,” I said with definite weight. “Have you seen
the movie The Rain Man? The story of the brother who has to be looked
after?”
She nodded and I continued, “Well, same thing here. I have an
identical twin—a talented guy, but one hell of an idiot and my job in
life is to look after him while he tries to make this into a better world.
Now, if you were in this position, you wouldn’t want a lot of attention,
would you?”
The women were properly sympathetic and I congratulated myself
on my escape. I shared the story with the Harris’s and we had a good
laugh. A little bit of humour was returning to my life, and it felt just fine.
Each day Ken Harris would ask how the story was coming along
and I’d reply that I thought my ruse might actually work. Some months
passed, and he couldn’t stand it any longer so he went up to the little
store to tease them about how I’d pulled their legs. And that was that.
My cover was blown.
As a result of jokes of this nature, there are many who consider him
either a walking ego, or a complete asshole. That doesn’t bother him either,
“Our assessment of ourselves and our place within the universe is flawed
at square one. What is missing is a sense of humour. It keeps a person
balanced.”
Don’t Talk to the Driver
II
(About Winds and Waters)
Eternal memory to the master, the Kindest Ottoman
Ali Hantzar, a servant of the Empire, the great world
Benefactor, helped by the Italian Guglielmo Tzitzi.
This was also the opinion of Madam Artemis, whose
Confirmation consoles the wandering souls and greatly
contributes to the efforts of the sixteenth-century French
poets who tried to create the New School named
the Pleiades. Besides, none of us forgets that the monk
Schwartz discovered gunpowder. Thus, for the rest …
(If this poem spoke to you, you may find more about this translation book in the following links)
