The Bookshop on Saint Andrew’s Street

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It’s no longer there…
a “We’ve Moved” sign placed up high…
some things can’t be moved immediately or afterwards
such as the pages, folded at the edges, to be read less
than to be recollected,
such as the queue in front of the cash register
such as the backbones of saints
I search for the bookshop on Saint Andrew’s Street…
terribly ill by its absence
after all, this is where the hours passed
their hours with me, and the hours search insistently
for that which can’t be moved or migrated,
which oppresses and suspends generations… Continue reading “The Bookshop on Saint Andrew’s Street”

Foretaste

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A little further from the light cast by the lamp there begins another world, an unknown world – who has ever gone there? who has every returned from there? – and then there are nights – ah! how many adventures there are dreams, so many that you life becomes insignificant (and hence dangerous) – Continue reading “Foretaste”

City of London

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N.N. Trakakis
Clearings, Nov 2010

Here books and bookshops
have a distinct fragrance
like incense rising
offering itself
to a venerable pious congregation.

Here people and palaces
have an ancient architecture
Roman and Romanesque at once
not led astray by flights of abstraction
only trusting in the everyday and concrete
joyfully signing in the underground
at peak hour
or biting their lips to not let in
the winter
enjoying as long as possible
the leaves auburn and golden
falling.

Continue reading “City of London”

Seabed

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Seabed

The rupture in the voice propels the course of the blood clot and at the summit there gapes the joy of the coming of another long-headed woman. Her petals folded and the necklace she bent over to grab provokes and protects her copulation far from the corncobs and velvet of the seashore. Continue reading “Seabed”

Desire

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Desire

Prostrate and with sugar on her lips she lay down on the luminous wreath of love. It was not long before the summons was heard. Initially two birds took her, followed by the wires of the compassionate conspiracy, and finally she was taken away by five roosters which looked like horses that were literate, and they touched her private parts. Continue reading “Desire”

Bitter thorn

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Bitter thorn

The young lady I encountered in my drawer appeared and then vanished. In her place a wisp of smoke carries the phosphorus of her frieze. Emigrants exploit the expanses she left behind but the child of our memories brings the tentacles which resemble the six different delights of the young lady who was basically a mother to her child and my mother. Sometimes I live inside the drawer. Continue reading “Bitter thorn”

The Virgin Mary with the fish

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The Virgin Mary with the fish

Better even than the soil we give to the friends of water lilies, the getaway signal was spurned. Lying down she feeds her donkeys and the lean ravens without abiding in the injustice of fierce appeasement. That’s why she will still bloom, that’s why she will cry out, that’s why the supine and spineless men and all the secret ravines will be demolished and she will remain a lustrous and likeable crucible thriving in the colours of matter. Continue reading “The Virgin Mary with the fish”

Alone, from the depths of the drawer…

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Alone, from the depths of the drawer…

…the second mistral took off. The motions of the slender hairbrush against my self were successfully negotiated. A tropical warmth, but one transformed before martyrs who had been set on fire, was definitively registered in the proceedings of the giant warriors, instead of the worthless honour of an esteemed odalisque. On her legs anklets glowed, on her face tears, on her breast three droplets. Continue reading “Alone, from the depths of the drawer…”

Signs of The Times

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N.N. Trakakis
Translated from original by Tasos Leivaditis

And the episodes continued with minor variations, the epidemic advanced,

confused messages, we didn’t know who they had left out,
the saints in fear took refuge in the calendars, scarecrows no longer took off their hats
____when the trains passed by,
Continue reading “Signs of The Times”

Listen

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Nick N. Trakakis

Her life was so sad that it was almost too beautiful to be true.
– Katherine Hattam

Listen:
this could all be false, I know
the brilliant light in the park
on that Saturday
no promises, not today
stranger things we could not say
but you could see
the hand that held you
Continue reading “Listen”

This morning we could sense

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N.N. Trakakis

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud…
– John Keats, “Ode on Melancholy”

Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
– Mark Strand, “Keeping Things Whole”

This morning we could sense
the sun was powerless to rise
Looking outside the window
as the instructor was busy explaining
tenses and moods
our gaze fixed on the cypress tree
handfuls of snow caught in its outstretched palms
as the instructor’s voice rebounded from the walls
Continue reading “This morning we could sense”

In a time when words are wasted

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N.N Trakakis

In a time when words are wasted. Repeatedly. In a time when one must struggle against becoming yet another living platitude. Defiantly. When everyone has depression, and pills will help you find yourself. Predictably. I look up at the skies of the infinite winter, attempting to read God’s handwriting. Confusedly. Standing at the edge of the night, I notice that the worst is yet to come. Fatefully. The smell of darkness encircling me, I remain still, pondering the silence. More and more.

Continue reading “In a time when words are wasted”

The British Museum

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N.Ν. Trakakis

Outshining the statues of Hathor and Ramesses II
truer to life than the coffin lids picturing Osiris, Isis and Horus
the bright Aegean light
revealing the half-clothed and voluptuous Aphrodite
Demeter seated on throne
Apollo holding kithara
Dionysios wearing ivy wreath
Hermes overlooking procession of fine girls
Homer apotheosized
Continue reading “The British Museum”