The Man of God is drunken without wine
The Man of God is sated without meat
The Man of God is rapturous, amazed
The Man of God has neither food nor sleep
The Man of God is a king beneath a humble cloak
The Man of God is a treasure in a ruin
The Man of God in not of wind and earth
The Man of God is not of fire and water
We adored this Earth so, my Lord
with a love that I am afraid what is waiting us as we depart
is to find our minds thinking only of her
always running back to our own village
I, the most perfect syllable in the world.
It encapsulates me and all that is mine
And all that I perceive or have perceived,
All that I encountered or experienced, the
Totality of my existence and its meaning
To me and the ripples of its influence, little
Or large, on the world around it, completely
Ensconced within this one tiny utterance
That takes a fragment of a moment to
Attain its meaning in its full complexity
That mocks at any naive attempt on the
Part of the “Categorizers” to encumber it
With a fixed definition or to decipher its
Ever variable, ever evolving, ever fluid
Semantics. Definition may bring solace
To the rationalists, but it brings not Truth.
Is this the red that should have been
dispersing art on a painter’s canvas?
Is it the red that matadors withhold from charging bulls,
perhaps to spur the fire on a fare lady’s smile?
Research sheds light on the missing persons of Cyprus who disappeared without a trace during the Turkish invasion of 1974. Andrea Stylianou talks to “Neos Kosmos” about her academic achievements and being a human rights advocate.
You only felt it
didn’t hear it
though you turned
without saying any word
and looked at me
Στο στόχαστρο του βομβαρδιστικού
χώρα που πρέπει ν’ αλλάξει ηγεσία
αποτυχημένη κυβέρνηση
ν’ αντικατασταθεί
βόμβες και τηλεκατευθυνόμενα βλήματα
θάνατος ακρίβειας σ’ εφαρμογή
εταιρεία αμυντικού εξοπλισμού
σ’ επιφυλακή
Κάποια καμπάνα
από το μακρινό παρελθόν
χτυπάει ακόμα αδύναμα στ’ αυτιά μου.
Η έρημη εκκλησιά
όπου το μισοτελειωμένο κερί
αγνό και μυρωδάτο
A church bell
from the distand past
keeps sounding powerlessly
in my ears
The lonely church where the half-burnt candle
pure and fragnant
still stands by St Mamas’ icon
Δεν θα το δουν τα μάτια μου
εκείνο το νησί. Δεν πρόλαβα…
Με πρόφτασε ο καιρός που χάλασε,
μ΄ εμπόδισε η φουρτούνα που έπιασε.
«Απαγορεύεται ο απόπλους».
Κι αυτή η κακοκαιρία φαίνεται
πως θα κρατάει για πάντα.
Απαγορεύεται η Φολέγανδρος για μένα,
ακόμα κι αν το επιτρέψει η μπουνάτσα
να αμολήσουν τα καράβια.
The old lady had never learned anything else in her life except to drop blessings from her lips, as if the blessings sustained her.
Her eyelash colour faded, her face was a mass of wrinkles. ” Daughter, give me the votive candle so I may light it, and may you reign like a queen one
day”.
On Sundays, in the courtyard under the vine, they’d turn on the radio.
“Daughter, bring the radio, and may you pick up soil and have it turned to gold
in your hands”.
That familiar,
deep redness of the sunset:
Is it the sunset or is it blood?
A question posed by the sun, or a slaughter?
Not a deep feeling did we declare,
nor did we live a great love affair.
Wrong or right,
we only shared a night.
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…
When you’re out on your way to Mt Olympus,
let the road trip be a long one
full of wonder, full of autumn colors
full of yellow-green trees and mountain plains.
Ο νέος που πρόσμενες να `ρθει
δεν ήρθε μήτε απόψε.
Μα τί θα του `λεγες; Γιατί;
Άσε τα μάταιο να χαθή.
The young man you expected
hasn’t come tonight.
What would you tell him? Why?
Let the futile vanish
cut the unfortunate sprout.
My friend Rena called yesterday,
She said,” It’s summer and I’m going away.”
I asked, “Do you think that’s right.
We won’t see each other for a fortnight?”
She responded, “I’m going to Skopelos.”
I queried, “Do you think that’s ophelos?
There, there are thousands of trees
But no breeze.
Spring sometimes visits us in Melbourne,
midwinter
while pansies cannot tell the difference,
so it seems;
fountain waters flow unabated
of rocky spills.
Shadows in their solace
can have a room
a sofa, or nothing!
Can have water
a piece of bread
or nothing!
They hang
their curiosity
over balconies
buildings
or gorges!
They are blasted
by “friendly bombs”!
Είμαι ηθοποιός, κατά βάθος πολιτικός,
στο καμαρίνι λύνω σταυρόλεξο, ψάχνω
πράσινα άλογα, χαζεύω στην τηλεόραση.
Ένας σπουργίτης ραμφίζει το τζάμι μου
να δω τις ειδήσεις: ένα παιδάκι ξαγρυπνά
μπρος στα πτώματα των γονιών του, μετά
το ανεβάζουν σε βάρκα, προσφυγόπουλο
το βγάζει η θάλασσα στην άμμο για αιώνιο ύπνο,
στην τσεπούλα του ένα τετράδιο όπου έγραψε:
‘Θα σας καταγγείλω όλους στον Θεούλη μου…’
I first saw you,
by the sea shore…
Oh, Antigone!
Your white robe, soiled
made your face
unbearably pale!
There was a heavy
earthy smell
in the air,
that of a burial site!
Give children
as little as
a smile
and they will
smile
back at you.
Give them
your hand
and
they will
stretch out
to reach you.
He stood at the edge of the old castle’s parapet
below it the hungry abyss and
even lower the gleaming sea
ready to splash its first wave
onto the yellow soft sandy beach
when he raised his arm
as if taking an oath
as if promising to come back
at another time when we’d need
one to stand against
the greed and gluttony of the few
who comfortable and fat
dwelled in their satiation.
A piece of my life, in a tight embrace
is my splendid land, my living place.
A westerly wind makes my spirits rise
for this earth, Athina’s paradise.
The sparkling water and shadowy cave
your mind and body will now enslave,
your very soul will be captured too
in the swirls of foam from a sea so blue.
Come
Up on a white multi-peaked mountain
To search and find our warmest shelters
Among the charred remains of January’s winter
Ensuring our tokens of slavery are not erased.
Only but a few tracks stay out of our bustle city
And on the snow that just fell
Like a crafty veil, a tight fit
Around our worn out shoes
Prompting us to forget all past traditions
And find some foreign thoughts
That spread across a nature gone wild.
Draw two columns
one for the day’s gains
and one for its losses.
The serious concepts
your bright thoughts and readings
your from one side to the other
unsparing passages
mark on the column of the gains.
no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbours running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
τα λόγια χάθηκαν σε μιά στιγμή στο σκότος στο αίμα αθώων,
που χρωστάνε τη ζωή…σε ποιόν;
Γιατί πληρώνουν τόσο ακριβά,
το βλέμμα , την ανάσα, τη ζωή,
i have been ,and these are
what my prayers look like;
Dear God !!
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