And Another Night

That silver candle-holder placed
between two empty spaces He tried
to put the candle out and go to bed Then he
compared the strength of his breath
by the resistance of the flame
he discerned the flame’s contour – its faint
bow (to him) a consent
and then the trembling upright pose
He didn’t lie down
He stayed observing within the flame
in an immeasurable forgotten depth
that same body naked invincible
in a new ascension not at all illuminated
while on the right foot of ascending the same
rope was tied and kept following him

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ANNA KOMNENE

In the prologue of her Alexiad

Anna Komnene laments her widowhood.

Her soul is in vertigo. “And I have rivers

of tears” she says to us “around the eyes…

alas, for the waves” of her life,

“alas, for the revolutions.” Her grief burns her

“to the bones, and the marrow, and the splitting of her soul.”

But the truth seems to be that this power hungry

woman came to know just one intense sorrow;

this proud Greek woman had but one deep regret

(even if she is not admitting it),

that she never managed, with all her cleverness,

to gain the crown; that is was snatched,

almost out of her hands, by the impudent John.

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POLITICAL DRUNKENNESS

Political drunkenness has given me my life

and still enthuses me, attracts me, stirs my wonder.

It’s drunkenness, my dear, that fires my soul and makes me

ardent for my country, fierce to claim my right by any means

to transfer judges when I please, to hire my people

for all positions, and to expel my enemies.

I yearn to be the leader, call it my mania

but I live just for this, I only want to govern.

Why would I want to live if I can’t rule?

Why would I want a homeland if I don’t have the reins?

Let my homeland see me govern and let it go to waste,

let it call me its salvation and let it go to Hell,

let my legacy remain and let my homeland be vanquished.

Even nature craves its drunkenness in politics

and if nature wants it, why not I? What do you care,

you teachers of moralism? Do you think the ones

who rule use different measurements?

They all pursue my way, all follow my direction,

and to achieve their glory, push aside all others. 

Oh, my reverent religion, oh, please, come help me,

assist me to the throne, come help me, oh come and help

and introduce me to the crowds with palms and joy

that I become a proper Christian, a churchgoer,

to be voted winner in the first and only ballot

for any government position that I choose,

since I now bow before you, my only wish to follow you

and to be worthy of the leadership.

Even nature craves its drunkenness in politics.

It is nature’s wish, and what you say I have forgotten.

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UNKNOWN

The mountain, light-blue at the distance, rolls down

           to the sea;

two horses rest in the shade of the church building;

the endless day vanishes in its light.

When you clapped your hands five birds flew away

          from the trees;

you looked at them and forgot why you clapped:

perhaps in despair or was it perhaps a lone

clap for what you didn’t know?

Then, looking for what was to follow, you didn’t clap

again. Therefore is death so natural?

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Summer Solstice

7

The poplar in the little orchard

its breath counts your hours

day and night;

clepsydra filled by the sky

.n the moonlight’s strength its leaves

create black footprints on the white wall.

Along the border a few pine trees and

then marble and beams of light

and people the way people are created.

Yet the blackbird sings

as it comes to drink

and sometimes you hear the voice of a pigeon.

In the little orchard just ten yards

you can see the light of the sun falling on two red carnations

on an olive tree and a bit on the honeysuckle.

Accept who you are. Don’t

drown the poem in the deep plane trees

nourish it with the soil and the rock you have.

The rest of them—dig in the same place and

you may find them.

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Stop

The reflection of dusk slowed over the seashore;

a dark boat, the silent fisherman, two cats of the café;

the shadow that takes the place of things; a Thursday,

a Friday, loneliness;

Saturday is defined by the same repetition.

The anchor fell at the edge of the quay noiselessly

and with a wide gesture as if to stop the stopped.

The reflection of the sea flashed for the last

time on the ring of the old woman.

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Three Poems About Sorrow

III

People with age resemble stones

less sculptured

more and more of faded color.

Passing by among them

I get emotional as long as

I can help finish my day.

I pass, I hardly touch anything;

only the birds get startled

by the movement and

fly away to the blue.

I survive in compassion

dreams give me shivers

I feel numb.

And all my plans

turn into reality

what little choice I have

when I think of all

the shapes spring takes

all the possibilities of my birth

with little imagination!  

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