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Peter Lyssiotis
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Bogazi, Koma Tou Yialou, Trikomo, the pain is profound
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.
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gleaming in the slow drizzle
flowers of the rock, faces
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in this room
faded lime green paint is chipped
touched-up photographs
remind me of the origins of my name
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and a makeshift καντηλι
behind a hand-embroidered curtain
keep vigil over me
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You could hear the sound of bird wing.
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On the bench, Mulberry, Frangipani tart,
Gold foil hued biscuits.
A pan of fish on the stove,
Dutch potatoes being smashed.
Vivaldi music gently permeates the air.
I sit and drink my tea.
The D’Entrecateux Channel now forms relief patterns.
My miniscule notebook/sketchbook is being scribbled in.
Like Flaubert, I observe intently,
Oh! If I could only find the right word!
Just a squawk and a misplaced vowel from me.
People arrive by sail boat.
Fisherman, tourists looking lost,
A bevy of women flock to a corner,
One with great presence and authority,
Forceful opinion.
Ambience has changed.
Ruby red wine, bubbling white.
The fish is served, utter simplicity.
I give thanks to being in this place.
Individual taste and flavours give me hope.
I get up, say ‘Au revoir’ and walk up the road to home.
I carved her name above the entry to the cave,
my chisel picked from the rock-strewn shore,
then beckoned to the girl to see the… inscribed lore!
She dived and was carried on the rise of a wave.
The word “KATI” should bear an echo of her name,
casting a swell to a foamy crest in a rainbow band,
to its final rest on a sea-soaked strip of land,
as the wind whispered ”KATI- KATI”, all the same.
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[tab title=”English”]
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We looked all around the cιtadel for the whole morning
starting from the shaded side there where the sea
green and without reflection, breast of the slaughtered
peacock,
welcomed us like time without any chasm in it.
The veins of the rock descended from high up
twisted vines, naked, multi-branched turning alive
at the touch of water, as the eye following them
struggled to escape the tedious rocking
of sea growing slowly-slowly weaker.
Manolis Aligizakis,
Canada
You said: “I’ll go to another land, to another sea;
I’ll find another city better than this one.
Every effort I make is ill-fated, doomed;
and my heart —like a dead thing—lies buried.
How long will my mind continue to wither like this?
Everywhere I turn my eyes, wherever they happen to fall
I see the black ruins of my life, here
where I’ve squandered, wasted and ruined so many years.”
