Landscapes I
It’s an icy day.
A lifeless wing of morning light
hangs there, mundane
stubborn.
The smell of frost and the red leaves of the plane tree steaming.
Fresh furrows of soggy raw material
my hands
held straight out before me
devout and servile
worn by desire
sullied by the mud of self-indulgent nostalgia
gather their bearings.
Staying faithful to this light
I learn myself more clearly
I remember myself more clearly
beyond prediction or truth.
The autumn smoke rises serenely.
The forest of my troubled thought
rustles above me.
A sound fades red in my mouth.
Close your eyes
Close your eyes well to—
I you and this.
A handful of grief is scattered across the sea.
The sea is glorious.
We have no glory.
Only our hands a couple now
white hands amid green
worn down by desire
sullied by the mud of self-indulgent nostalgia
borrowed hands
live
for a moment almost bright
then eclipsed
a small violent army of regal frivolity
only our hands a couple now
– but without wings –
wrapping and unwrapping promises
forcing back the decay
while we lie silently
in the dark
looking at each other
while we hold each other
silently
in the dark
and the heart asks for nothing
– for we are poor –
just breathes the rhythmical breath
of its own relentless pounding.
(From the collection Three Notes for a Melody)
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Case Study V- (Οn Ethics)
The swirling of the waves lulled us
lulled our language making it frail
so frail
almost a memory.
We didn’t read the “Y” as a dark pitchfork, a path we must take
the “S” a tunnel’s mouth drawing near
the sound of God blaring his name in our native tongue won’t wake us.
We entered history as though it was a jubilee.
Once it seemed we’d merge with the past
then we didn’t.
Imprisoned
with our minds gaping like traps
we suffered from what ailed us
made lyrics that can survive translation
and lost.
If you don’t turn to shine your light behind you
the shadows will always fall before you.
The tip of the consonant drives its rumbling spike through paper.
Τhe chanting endures like a plow
turning the same exhumed soil over and over.
There is no mystery here.
Blinded by aspalathus thorns
and the hairpins of History
we did not see the deafening signals that persisted
cunning
with a crippling nostalgia
– for what; –
and a voracious gaze
we created a god – deus ex machina – who did not save us.
There is no mystery here.
You didn’t keep the lyre tuned as you were taught.
(From the collection The Constant Narrative)
*
Moods XV
Our talks kept us late into the middle of night.
We are in shadows.
Around us objects
all those small familiar things that bound us
animated with peace
recite their names: chair, table, crock.
The soul asks for nothing anymore.
I mull over the great loves
springtime
like a rhythmically heaving chest
your face pressed against the window
and the window
(a strange plant dances in the rain).
The firs steam in the midst of their sleep.
Wind hovers over the stars.
Drowsy colonies of moss
burn side-by-side in silence.
How is the night so dark
if the sky is lurking
if right outside the moon
and this earth’s mystical life—
The eyes of wild animals take in your taste.
Your lips are chilled
and the dawn will come
like snow flooding down from a purple cloud.
(From the collection Three Notes for a Melody)
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