Κεντρική σελίδα Παλαιότερα τεύχη Εκδότρια Επικοινωνία Στοιχεία τεύχους Εγχειρίδιο Ελληνικής και Ξένης   ποίησης Εξαμηνιαία περιοδική έκδοση Έτος ιδρύσεως:Ιούνιος 2000 Ιδιοκτησία/Έκδοση/Διεύθυνση:   Ασημίνα Χασάνδρα ISSN:1108-7617 e-mail:editor@delearpoetry.gr   [no comment]   ΤΟ ΔΕΛΦΙΝΟΚΟΡΙΤΣΟ ΤΟΥ ΟΔΥΣΣΕΑ ΕΛΥΤΗ (1972) Εξαρτάται πάντοτε η κάθε άποψη σε πόσα ακρογιάλια χρειάστηκε να γίνεις _Είδωλο. Τα κτίσματα μιας απέραντης παιδικής ηλικίας και ακτής σημαίνουν το πώς θα αντικρίσεις τα εξήντα τετραγωνικά της ευτυχίας Σου. Φυσικά δεν ξεχνάς την επίσης δόκιμη ιστορία που διαπραγματεύεται την Φυσική Ανατομική, με δύο αυτοκίνητα στην παραλιακή, περασμένα μεσάνυχτα. Πρέπει να μιλήσουν οι αδυναμίες και ομιλούν πάντοτε, τα εφικτά μόνον του παρόντος για μία και μόνον στιγμή, ενός τετάρτου. Συνολικά τα πεπραγμένα ή αλλιώς πρακτικά εικοσιτετράωρα της ζωής σου σε θάλλουν για ένα σταθερό ιδιωτικό. Τα Δημόσια και Ιδιωτικά έχουν τη δική τους ωφελιμότητα στα άλγεβρα της απουσίας. Για να σε δω ...πρέπει, να Υπάρχεις. Εάν (δEν) Υπάρχεις (δEν) Υπάρχω και εγώ μέσα από Εσένα. "Άρα" (η γνωστή μέθοδος) "είμαι εσαεί ερωτευμένη με το Σημαίνον που μου δηλώνει ο χρόνος της εγκατοίκησης στα δάχτυλά Σου μια νύκτα που έγινε συνήθεια, ανεπιστρεπτί". Δεν είναι απλό. "Κατακυρθμεύω" λέει, ένας Ποιητής και εγώ απλώς κοιτάζω με μια _κάθε_ διάθεση να με ανήκει η φύση των πραγμάτων σε αυτόν τον Ποιητή. Ενίοτε τα βλέμματα απομακρύνονται. Τόλμησα ένα μετέωρο βήμα στο Κενό. Οι Πηγές όπου τα κορίτσια των εφηβικών μου αναμνήσεων, με την ίδια Λογική της συνάφειας ή των δοκιμών με έθεσαν σε ένα μεγάλο πρόβλημα. Να βλέπω και Να είμαι σε έγκεντρη τροχιά όπως τα κβάντα σε κάθε μου σχέση. Έτσι, απλώς ήξερα. Να φεύγω. Μέσα από κλωστές η προβολή γεννάται. Συγκίνηση. Και το τυχαίο, αν μη τι άλλο, περιμένει, στη γήινη σφαίρα να φθάσει με κυματάκια μυθικών προσώπων. Στα πρόθυρα μιας αυτοχειρίας με σκοτεινές γεύσεις υπέρτονων διαλυμάτων και δη η ίδια η ζωή να συνεχίζεται χωρίς καμιά απώλεια. Ο Άγγελος της εικόνας _Είδωλο_ θάλλει με μουσικές και το βλέμμα παραπατάει στα σκαλοπάτια της _μιας_ στιγμής αμηχανίας στο Λονδίνο, της δεύτερης εφηβείας Σου. Όταν ο Ποιητής σπάνια υπαγορεύει τις νύκτες Του, ένα μικρό Κορίτσι/Δελφίνι που δεν κοιμάται τα βράδια και στο Σχολείο μαθαίνει γραφή και ανάγνωση με τις δικές του λέξεις σαν να μη συμβαίνει, ποτέ η αναγνώριση της Πατριδογνωσίας και δεν θα ήθελα ποτέ να έχω την καταστροφική έγνοια Σου, να μη μιλήσει Ποτέ. Ξανά για Σένα; Το ίδιον. Αν, εάν η φωνή του "αδόκιμου" και το άγνωστο στην Αυλή της μικρής κοινωνίας των αγγιγμάτων μας και ωσάν τα αποφθέγματα της φυσικότητας, τεχνητής _Ναι!. Α, ναι θα λέγαμε ότι ό,τι ονειρεύτηκα το γεύτηκα στην ηλικία των δεκαέξι στο αμφιθέατρο της Νεοελληνικής Φιλολογίας (μια φίλη), του Πανεπιστημίου Αθηνών και να σκορπίζεσαι στα μαλλάκια που αντικρίζεις στα φωνήεντα των Ανέμων και της Ήβης των Πάντων. Σε ονειρευόμουν από όλη την προηγούμενη μου ζωή και αυτό Το γράμμα όντας ερωτευμένη θα κείται δίπλα από το μαξιλάρι και στη δεξιά μεριά Σου, που μου άφησες χτες. Σε λάτρεψα. Όπως, Σου άξιζε, της παράδοξης δικής μας οικείας Ποιητικής. Έλλογο το Όνειρο και η Φύση των Πραγμάτων ακόμη και αν στο μυαλό σκέφτεσαι σαν _Είδωλο.Πια... Δεν ξέχασα, Τίποτε. Μολονότι, όλα μου τα ψιθύριζες στα κείμενα μου μετά το πρώτο κολάζ από τα γράμματα στο τελευταίο αίτιο της Πανσελήνου στη Μύκονο, κάθε βράδυ. Το εκκλησάκι της Παναγίας της Παντοχαράς, κυκλοφορεί και καταλογίζει τα βλέμματα στα υδροχρώματα ενός τάματος, στη στεντόρεια λάμψη με κεράκι στη συνείδηση. Το ήξερα! Ασημίνα Χασάνδρα Σπέτσες, Αύγουστος 2008 Editor in chief, [since 2000] __________________________ contact: 1. asiminachasandra@yahoo.co.uk & fb NEXT:in press DELEAR [issue 1-12],(Ελληνικά + English)   Επιμέλεια εξωφύλλου   Asimina Chasandra   ASIMINA CHASANDRA [Editor's policy] ΕΠΕΙΔΗ ΔΕΝ ΓΙΝΕΤΑΙ ΑΛΛΙΩΣ ...for me Να το βρίσκεις μετά την μετακόμιση της κολλητής σου στο κομοδίνο της face to face στα χέρια του χρόνου ατσαλάκωτο αλλά και χίλιες φορές μετατοπισμένο στα μάτια της και αυτό πραγματικά είναι απίστευτο δώρο για τον τόσο πόνο, κούραση και δυσκολίες που υπήρξαν όσο και οικονομική αφαίμαξη για να εκδοθεί τόση ποίηση τόσοι νέοι άνθρωποι τόσα ανέκδοτα χειρόγραφα και εξώφυλλα πάντα φτιαγμένα με μεράκι και από εικαστικούς που μαγνητίζονταν από την ιδέα της νεαρής εκδότριας –τότε 28 ετών- που με πάθος έριχνε το Δέλεαρ σαν εγχειρίδιο ελληνικής και ξένης ποίησης στον εκδοτικό χώρο της Ελλάδας και ισορροπούσε ανάμεσα στην πραγματικότητά της και το Άλλο μυστήριο που έκρυβε καλά αλλά όχι για πολύ, μια και… Ένα βράδυ κοιμήθηκα πολύ αργά ήταν δεν ήταν 4 το πρωί όταν μετά από μία λαχτάρα ξύπνησα και το ημερολόγιο έγραφε 1999 και τέλειωνα το βιβλίο μου «Νεκρός ο έρωτας» με ένα ποίημα, κόντευε πια μεσημέρι δεν δούλευα και ήταν Αύγουστος. Συνάντησα από κοντά τον Κώστα Αξελό και μέσα σε έναν πυρετό του εκμυστηρεύθηκα το πιο ακριβό μου πάθος να εκδώσω ένα περιοδικό ποίησης, είχα βρει και τίτλο «Ερευνασάτω» και το ήξερα ότι ήταν οικονομική τρέλα που ακούστηκε να χαλάς τα λεφτά σου σε περιοδικό ποίησης που δεν είχε και διαφημίσεις δεν είχε και το αναγνωστικό κοινό προετοιμασμένο, δεν είχε και εκδότη…Μηδέν σκόρπιο παντού γιατί από το μηδέν ξεκίνησα να μαζεύω ποιήματα από τους ποιητές που είχαν «κολλήσει» πάνω μου γιατί ήταν η μοναδική ευκαιρία τους να υπάρξει περιοδικό ποίησης με δικά τους ποιήματα μόνον και αυτό; Eσαεί. Κάποια στιγμή το ξεφορτώθηκα και αυτό. Δεν νομίζω ότι είναι καλή ιδέα λίγο χαζό μου φαίνεται να εκδίδεις για αυτολαγνεία τους ίδιους και τους ίδιους συνέχεια και για πάντα, άλλωστε αυτό θέλανε, να τους διορίσω και διευθυντές του περιοδικού, να τους δίνω τζάμπα περιοδικά (για να τα μοιράζουν) που τα εξέδιδα με δικά μου λεφτά, κουβαλώντας τα από το τυπογραφείο με ταξί σπίτι μου και από εκεί στα πρακτορεία διανομής, τέλος!... την επιμέλεια του ΔΕΛΕΑΡ την έκανα μόνη μου καθώς και τις διορθώσεις. Οι δημοσιεύσεις τους στο περιοδικό μου πολύ τους ήτανε, μα φυσικά μιλάω για τον «Νάνο και τις Χιονάτες του..» στο δεύτερο τεύχος με είχανε φέρει στα όρια μου και τους έκανα ρόμπα στον Ferlinghetti, τού έλεγαν ότι έχουν περιοδικό και όχι μόνον σ’ αυτόν, ότι θα τού δημοσίευαν αυτοί το ποίημά του στο ΔΕΛΕΑΡ καθώς επίσης ετοίμαζαν εκδηλώσεις, τους άφηνα να δω ποιόν ενδιέφεραν οι ματαιοδοξίες τους και μέχρι πού θα το έφταναν και τότε έγινε η ρήξη, ο Ferlinghetti δεν είδε ποτέ το ΔΕΛΕΑΡ από τα χέρια τους με το ποίημά του εδώ στην Ελλάδα, το κυκλοφόρησα εφόσον είχε φύγει για Αμερική και εφόσον είχε διακινηθεί το ΔΕΛΕΑΡ (τχ. 2) πειραματικά τότε με το πρακτορείο «Ευρώπη» σ’ ολόκληρη την Ελλάδα καθώς δεν έγινε ποτέ η εκδήλωση που με τυμπανοκρουσίες ετοιμάζανε ερήμην μου στην ΕλληνοΑμερικάνικη Ένωση σαν εκδότες του περιοδικού ΔΕΛΕΑΡ, έτσι τηλεφώνησα στην Νάντια Αργυροπούλου να μην στείλει κανένα Δελτίο Τύπου που να αναφέρει τη λέξη ΔΕΛΕΑΡ και Αντρέας Παγουλάτος (ο οποίος τότε την επισκεπτόταν καθημερινά για να οργανώσει βραδιά ποιητική με το Ferlinghetti ως «εκδότης» του ΔΕΛΕΑΡ) γιατί θα ενεργούσα ανάλογα, μάλλον της το απαγόρευσα για την ιστορία του πράγματος… Και φυσικά μαζευτήκανε! Υπήρξανε τότε διαδόσεις από «… τις Χιονάτες» ότι δεν είμαι καλά… Εντάξει λοιπόν, τα είχα πάρει κρανίο… Και ο Ferlinghetti το μόνο που τους είπε ήταν «…με δουλεύετε, που είναι το περιοδικό;» Και όλα αυτά τα ονομάζω γιατί στα δικά τους μίζερα στέκια και καφενεία τώρα λένε ότι παλιά το ΔΕΛΕΑΡ ήταν δικό τους, πολύ καλή ιδέα δεν λέω αλλά γιατί όμως δεν το ανακοινώνουν επίσημα και πως τελικά έμεινε στα χέρια της Ασημίνας Χασάνδρα; Τους εξαγόρασα; Είναι και ύπουλο είναι και ερήμην μου… Δε γράφεται η ποίηση στα καφενεία! Καλύτερα να ασχοληθούν με τις πλάτες που τους έδωσαν την ευκαιρία να έχουν έναν εκδότη και ένα περιοδικό τώρα και τους φεύγει το γινάτι γιατί είναι με το ‘να πόδι στον τάφο και δεν τους βλέπω να έχουν και πολύ μέλλον… Άραγε νομίζουν ότι προσφέρουν ποιότητα με τα αλληλολιβανίσματά τους; Εξοργίζομαι γιατί είναι άνανδρο να διαδίδουν ό,τι διαδίδουν και χτύπημα κάτω από την μέση. Αν ήμουν άνδρας και όχι κορίτσι θα το δικαιολογούσα αλλά δε θέλω να νομίσουν ότι τους παίρνει και γι’ αυτό μόνο επειδή δεν με τιμά η σιωπή αποφάσισα να τους στείλω εκτός δίκην ένα μήνυμα για την Ιστορία του πράγματος και αυτήν την επιστολή επισήμως ότι αν έστω είχαν χρηματοδοτήσει το ΔΕΛΕΑΡ σε οποιαδήποτε φάση και είχαν σχέση με την εφορία μου και τα τιμολόγιά μου θα το βούλωνα. Από τη στιγμή όμως που αυτό δεν συνέβη ποτέ δεν ανέχομαι να με διαβάλλουν... Έτσι ομιλώ! Αν έχουν αντίθετη άποψη το ίδιο να κάνει και ο Μιχαήλ Μήτρας και ο Αντρέας Παγουλάτος… Το τίμιο παραλήρημά τους που το ονομάζουν ποίηση και διαλέγονται μεταξύ τους σε μιαν εικονική πραγματικότητα που στο καφενείο του Κοραή κάθε Σάββατο αυτοαναλύουν τις εφημερίδες και μιας και οι φιλίες τους ψάχνουν να διδάξουν φθηνή «ψυχανάλυση». Ας απαντήσουν! Το 2000 τυπώθηκε το πρώτο τεύχος του ΔΕΛΕΑΡ με τον τίτλο από το αγαπημένο μου ποίημα «Δέλεαρ» του Ανδρέα Εμπειρίκου όπου αργότερα θα μου το φύλαγε για έκπληξη ο γιος του Λεωνίδας και θα μου χάριζε το ίδιο ποίημα «Δέλεαρ» σε μια παραλλαγή του πατέρα του, χειρόγραφο και ανέκδοτο για το αφιέρωμα (τχ.3) στον Ανδρέα Εμπειρίκο με εξώφυλλο τα γράμματα του ποιητή χειρόγραφα και επιμελημένα από τον Δημήτρη Καλοκύρη το οποίο επιχορηγήθηκε από το ΥΠ.ΠΟ. για το έτος του Ανδρέα Εμπειρίκου. Ήταν μια καθοριστική εμπειρία οι εκδόσεις και η έκδοση ενός περιοδικού το πρώτο πράγμα που έκανα ήταν έναρξη επιτηδεύματος στην εφορία για να μπορώ να διακινώ το περιοδικό από το πρακτορείο και γενικά για να μπορώ να έχω λογίστρια και αποδείξεις ότι το περιοδικό είναι δικό μου και νόμιμο, μια και είχαν φαγωθεί οι κακοί Λύκοι ότι το ΔΕΛΕΑΡ δεν ανήκε ποτέ σε μένα αλλά στην ομάδα του Νάνου Βαλαωρίτη με πρωταγωνιστές την φιλαυτία και την κακία σε σημείο αρρώστιας και παρωχημένης φιλοδοξίας…Γιατί; [Γιατί έτσι είναι μαθημένοι αυτοί οι άνθρωποι να επιβιώνουν άφραγκοι και εκτεθειμένοι…] Πώς; Εύλογο… Ο Αύγουστος Κορτώ έγραφε κρυφά ποιήματα και μάλλον από διαίσθηση επειδή είχα διαβάσει τα βιβλία του από τον Εξάντα τού ζήτησα με e-mail ποιήματα για το «Δέλεαρ», δέχτηκε, αλληλογραφούσαμε, τηλεφωνιόμαστε και μετά αποφάσισα να του κάνω αφιέρωμα, το οποίο όταν βγήκε άδετο ακόμη από το τυπογραφείο κράτησα δύο αντίτυπα ένα για μένα και ένα για την Λώρη Κέζα, της οποίας της το χάρισα ένα μεσημέρι στα παλιά γραφεία του ΒΗΜΑτος επειδή από εκείνη είχα πρωτοδιαβάσει για τον Α. Κορτώ και είχε μπει η «αρρώστια» τού Αυγούστου μέσα μου. Πήρε το τεύχος στα χέρια της βιαστικά και εξαφανίστηκε από τότε δεν την ξαναείδα παρά μόνο σε μια εκδήλωση του Βυζαντινού Μουσείου...με τους ποιητές του «Να ένα μήλο» στην Παγκόσμια Ημέρα Ποίησης. Το ΔΕΛΕΑΡ ερήμην! Για να τα πάρουμε από την αρχή τα πράγματα τα τεύχη του ΔΕΛΕΑΡ είναι μέχρι στιγμής τυπωμένα 9 και τώρα ετοιμάζεται το 10. Το 2000 βγήκε το πρώτο τεύχος με εξώφυλλο από τον ζωγράφο Danil και το 2001 βγήκαν 3 τεύχη με ακόλουθα εξώφυλλα του Constantin Xenakis, του Δημήτρη Καλοκύρη στο αφιέρωμα του Ανδρέα Εμπειρίκου και του Αντώνη Κέπετζη, το 2002 βγήκε το πέμπτο τεύχος του Αυγούστου Κορτώ με εξώφυλλο από τον δίδυμο αδελφό μου Νεκτάριο Χασσάνδρα (ο οποίος συνεργάζεται με το «9» της Ελευθεροτυπίας ενώ είχε εκπροσωπήσει την Ελλάδα σε ένα διαγωνισμό εκείνη την εποχή στις Βρυξέλες...και ζωγραφίζει από τότε που ήμασταν εννέα ετών). Χωρίς να είμαι δημοσιογράφος και εκδότρια με γραφεία στο Σύνταγμα... Παράλληλα με τις εκδόσεις έχουν γίνει εκδηλώσεις στη ΣΤΟΑ του ΒΙΒΛΙΟΥ με ομιλητές τον Νάνο Βαλαωρίτη όπου όντας πεπεισμένος(;) κάνει μνεία δημόσια για το ΔΕΛΕΑΡ ότι το εκδίδει ένα γενναίο κορίτσι και από την άλλη; Πισώπλατες μαχαιριές, κουτσομπολιά από την αυλή του, αυτό όχι μόνο άδικο είναι αλλά και ηλίθιο. Από την μεριά μου τον δημοσιεύω γιατί εκτιμώ την ιστορία του και δεν κρατάω κακίες γενικώς απλά μερικές φορές εξοργίζομαι λίγο παραπάνω και δημοσιεύω τέτοια κείμενα όπως αυτό τώρα για να υπερασπιστώ τον εαυτό μου όταν νιώθει ότι αδικείται κατάφωρα μια τόσο δύσκολη προσπάθεια, και τόσο ανοιχτή σε νέους ανθρώπους αλλά και αξιόλογους για ένα και μόνο λόγο γιατί το ΔΕΛΕΑΡ το υποστήριξα μόνη μου. Γιατί άραγε δεν το εξέδιδε μόνη της ολόκληρη η ομάδα του Νάνου Βαλαωρίτη και δεν με παραγκώνιζε από την αρχή, τι δύναμη είχα εγώ μπροστά στο μύθο του Νάνου Βαλαωρίτη, χάρη μου κάνανε(;) και γενικά γιατί δεν έχει ούτε ένα τυπωμένο τεύχος από τα προηγούμενα ΔΕΛΕΑΡ εφόσον ήταν «...δικό τους το περιοδικό παλιά» ενώ τώρα; Τι το έκανα το έκλεψα; Δεν είχαν λεφτά! Ένα βράδυ καλοκαιρινό σαν αυτά που μ’ αρέσουν γνώρισα την Ελένη Σικελιανού μια νέα ποιήτρια και δισέγγονη του Άγγελου Σικελιανού η οποία ζει στο Colorado και γράφει στα αγγλικά, ήταν η αρχή της συνεργασίας μας μια και μεταφράζω το βιβλίο της «The book of tendons» και ενίοτε της βάζω ποιήματα στο περιοδικό μιας και μου αρέσουν πολύ, έχει κάτι το παράδοξα σκοτεινό στο βλέμμα της και στην καρδιά της αλλά δεν είναι μόνον έτσι... Ακόμη από τις εκδόσεις ΔΕΛΕΑΡ τυπώθηκε και το βιβλίο της Εύας Μυλωνά με εξώφυλλο ένα κόσμημα του Γιάννη Μόραλη. Τον Γιάννη Μόραλη τον γνώρισα στο καφενείο που συχνάζει στην Αίγινα μαζί με την Λένα Εγγονοπούλου σ’ ένα ταξίδι μου στο νησί του ένα καλοκαίρι που το λάτρεψα... Ή ήταν μοιραίο να γραφτεί το κείμενο αυτό ή έπρεπε να το απαιτήσω από τον εαυτό μου κάποια στιγμή... Μια και το πάνε γυρεύοντας! Και το δημοσιεύω εν ζωή του Νάνου Βαλαωρίτη ξέροντας ότι θα αποκτήσω εχθρούς... Για κάθε επιτάφιο! ASIMINA HASANDRA THE DEATH OF AN EQUATION [e-book] THE DEATH OF AN EQUATION by Asimína Hasándra Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas Ah, simple things mean more. The way a circle comes upona square and falls in love with it. And if I wait a lifetimewill you come? Yánnis Antióchou PART ONE THE DIZZY FIRST DAY 1 Suddenly, I saw my age in a tree trunk. Thirty-one years old. I also saw my death in Time. Thirty-one years old. They woke me up, and I didn’t know whether I should see the moon. The wind howled, and I sat on the back of a phoenix. Came poetry. It was you. And I couldn’t sleep. They took me away one night in November, nineteen eighty-eight. I woke up in the morning. The steepness and Angelo. It was very late. I kept swallowing, and wanted a coffee. I did my household chores. Time to turn in on myself. And it was you at the front door. You were late again. Angelo in Thessalonica and I in Athens. We met on a train, actually. He was extremely charming. Like a child. In the summer: coincidences and true escapism. Paris and Athens. The train and his fingers. His beauty was hellish. It trapped me. I, who knew so well how to retire into myself. I fell passionately in love for a body that was given me at a tender age. He enchanted me like a star. I waited for him to wake up. The island was of his choice. A while longer and we’ll split up, I’d say. We stayed together for over nine years. Household’s secret and burnt materials. He always wanted to look at me. I suffered. Once we separated, I had to surface. To breathe. To see the sun and the moon like a wild charioteer. He kept chasing me, although he wasn’t there. The wrought iron gate sagged. The courtyard reared the darkest girl. Me. She kept her identity a secret. When I saw her for the last time she burst into tears. And it was as if nothing had happened. She and I. A slight gesture under the table. She froze. A couple of months earlier I rested my head on the table for the first time. An unknown quantity filled the room. I was hiding from yet another love. But this too was a lie. Suddenly she came. I’d travel to Thessalonica every three months. Peace reigned supreme. I went through hell lately. I was ready to ascend. I wasn’t hard done by life. I stood on the wharf and waited. The waves were lapping on my feet. I was alone on Wednesday. Summer had set in by morning. And I’d leave for good. If this didn’t happen to me. I fell in love. The uncanny behaviour was the magma of arrogance that beset me as well as her. It was something I could never forgive. And she’d never come, except to have sex. She never came. But then again. No self-control. She didn’t catch on. Angelo was precious to me. My letters were late arriving, and both of them knew it. At the age of two, the child was in a bad way. And it died. I knew only too well how to be something beyond silences. I didn’t give away my heart as though it rightfully belonged to another, and that’s it. I didn’t know less! There was something feminine about his manly body. The niches in the house had mirrors. He went up and down the stairs naked. Silence - don’t tell me - and finis. Every morning he and the newspaper. We never slept for long. It was the very reason that we could see each other. His sighs had feeling, and he kept his life a secret. I didn’t realize it. And why should I? Days we never shared. We got used to it. We burnt out! That’s why I fell in love with him. He looked long and steadily at me; she didn’t exist; that was the end of me. Haughtiness and hardness. That’s why Angelo was after something terrible. To verify death in his love affairs. He’d have nightmares at night. It was too early. I can’t stand it any more. Solitude shines when she leaves. I’ll go away, I’d say, and that was it. How else say it? There’s no other way. Even though inevitable. The others shared, experienced, and breathed her. Very well! I’ll go. I was slow to catch on, but even so. Her philosophy was questionable. Her name bled in my mouth and in my dreams. “Good night” sparkled. The sense that something was happening. But no one returned. And the night perspired. It’s no longer something else. Angelo was asleep. And I wished him nothing. He had everything. He had won the past and the future. The others around were in a quandary. People are like that, aren’t they? We are together, he’d tell me. You mustn’t be afraid. Tonight I learnt what it is to pain in a lagoon of elephants. The bitterness of memory’s death. That’s why! Don’t ask me. Our locked bodies shine. They shone. They’ll shine in the absence of memory. I pray that I may forget. He laid his fingers on me and hugged me. He stays up by following me. The vowels were mouthed slowly. He adored me. In the world of giants. Words cut me. In the end no one learned about the afternoon that you came, your agony lacerating me as to whether or not I’d leave you. I shouldn’t. You had already told me so! Everything came back to me, like a vicious circle that refused to round off. It was a sore trial. Not to exist and to do away with my universe. Angelo himself was aware of the death of equalization, which scared him stiff. Beyond, the wind blew against the windows in this darkness, like love. The fire was burning in the fireplace. When you want to say your last word, let me know. And stiff as I felt leaning towards the void, so the chasm came closer and closer to me. Her gesture was quite clear. I thirsted for it. So did Angelo, and it was late when the phone rang. There was no one on the line. My hands trembled. I sat speechless in the drawing-room. Something united me with her, the inconceivably distant body that for me was complete happiness without her knowing. Passion. But… Angelo held our child in his arms. The corridor squeezed us. We were walking through a dense forest. But he never complained. The priest was chanting. After the child died, we never touched each other again, and I daren’t ask why. The shut-up room collapsed as though hit by a bomb. The courtyard darkened like a dream. The rain’s alcohol. He gave me back the child to hold. I walked up the stairs. I got lost in a world unknown to me, but he was there for me every day. He left suddenly without my knowing. And I was left in suspense with the words “you are always leaving”. The fire burnt my insides. There was something that dominated my mind, an obsession, or better still: desire. The house had old rooms, which Angelo kept locked. But what if he loved me? My last word refused to be uttered. I was driven by a mute feeling, and I was scared. Scared of being unmasked. For years the past haunted me, and yet I played ball. The tragedy of the musical scale, and music that cannot excuse faults on the conductor’s part. The empty room. Scenes from a protracted childhood. We were late. What do I want from you? I wondered. From very early it was you. The other in the mirror. Have you orientated yourself? I suffered greatly while returning every night to my office, yearning to bury once again the day’s universe. The bed awaited me, but I saw no reason for it. Angelo watched me sweating blood over it. I hid my thoughts, but he understood. It wasn’t fitting. One day the child woke up thinner and lesser. It was losing weight all the time. It had taken after Angelo, but he wouldn’t admit it. Angelo refrained from asking questions, and kept quiet. The room remained empty. The stopped pendulum fooled me that it was noon. It got dark, and my soul was bitterly cold. My child was dying. I sat beside it as though nothing was wrong. It opened its little eyes, and I cuddled it. Surely this was not happening to me. Right? Darling, All night long was truth, and if I didn’t want for us to part, if I didn’t want to leave you, this occurred because I didn’t give it much thought. I left, only to come to this. I carry you in me every second. I enter the house and feel that everything recognizes me, because in my clouds there are things of yours. Your breath is as hot as my tears, the more I think about it. I tremble in the nightmare of this ending, if in fact we have ended. At least not yet, not now that I’m in a foreign country and we wait the birth of our child. Your Angel. I went down into the drawing-room. I threw the letter in the burning fireplace. With stealthy steps I went up to the window and looked at the sea. Pale-faced. I hadn’t slept for days. His last word gnawed me, I was trapped. Something dreadful was happening. It entered the house, my body, my thought from all around. And she observed it all. I picked up myself through the cracks in the door. Reality and the marvel chased me without my knowledge… Arrogant dark that will not speak. 2 I had fallen asleep for long on the train. I was on my way to Thessalonica, and I didn’t want her to see me in such a mess, my heart’s conflagration. I had already told him: “I want something more than this.” He kept it for me in the dark. He walked up and down the room. The raindrops hit the windows. I trembled. It’s Sunday. I felt her in my throat. I woke up, and all night long I had her longingly and noiselessly, all scratches, close to me. Apparently we were in one of those old Egyptian public baths, in the buff. The water was clean. Perspiration crystalline. I waited … To die. If only I would die. She was incredibly beautiful. She entranced all about her, whatever she could stand! Me she couldn’t stand. I didn’t exist in her frigid world. I was torn to pieces, she didn’t give a damn, only at night that dimple of hers which drove me scatty when she smiled. She’d see it in bed when she looked at me and we slept like children. Angelo knew it all along. He knew I’d leave him one day but he wouldn’t give up. I never left him. I was brassed off. One evening he came and scattered on the floor, with a single movement, the box containing her letters. He wasn’t habituated from the start. He looked for better vows other than his own and that wasn’t all. When he was away I didn’t exist. Daybreak, and I’d choose the best words, thus saving him from burning in his best past. I got peeved with that little green monster that gnawed him. From Paris her bitten lips were purple on the ink and the blank page on the poem. I never understood why she had made such a choice. She had penetrated into me. My own space. I no longer recognized myself. And when, prompted by natural instinct, I neared her misty eyes, it dawned on me that we wouldn’t cut off that easily, she kept inviting me with her body. To the limits of darkness and of love. I was sinking, wrapped up in a dark feeling, which was shortening my life. And this was dense. Your bad habit of eating me with your look made my knees knock. I was obliged to tell you so. I didn’t, so you kissed me. “Don’t do this to me, best you kill me.” You didn’t listen. Confound it! Cheap summers in the Aegean. And I contented myself with chamber music, you were stiflingly close to me, though I liked it. This enraptured my aim. The way I saw what I saw. A wail rose to my throat… Little by little my breasts began to fill. With dreams and an inclination to bleed. I was relieved for a moment when at the age of five I saw death in the face; I wanted to divulge this to you and listen to your breathing. When lying on my pillow I’d see you waking me up. Ask me whatever you want… under the dream’s bedclothes. “Chase me.” I tore up what remained of her letters that was finishing me off. Whatever remained to remind me of her. My fingers got entangled in the hair. And I thought, I’m thinking. Pray, tell me. Why am I suffering hell again, and whence it came this time? And who’s wearing me naked? The curtain is unstitched. The window ledge supported despair for you held me by the arm. In fact, I was standing there. A winter, a Spring more or less, and one hundred and two summers on your islands with your body’s cavities. You were maturing and - I discovered - very near the steps. I walked up to bid you goodnight without seeing you. I didn’t find you and I still had your keys. I found only a heavy darkness and your flustered love. You never felt sorry for me. I had a failing. You. And you took advantage of it whenever desire overcame you. Sailing in the open sea… Angelo arrived at noon by plane, tight-lipped, it was winter in Paris. Our child was frozen. It felt cold on the floor. It was on top of me, I had fainted. Pale and thin that I was, I tumbled to my last joy, my past. She had phoned me. “Have pity on me, and I still love him,” I told her. Yannis was in the know but he kept mum, he knew everything that to me was impossible. It was she who decided to split up, what was I to do? I didn’t want to see anyone anymore. My mother was taken aback; once again I took to turning in on myself, I was a grown girl, had reached the age of nineteen, when in August I fell into a coma, and the only thing I remember were nightmares; well, this I saw, it recurred, because I couldn’t breathe without you, I needed to see you. I put down the phone in a hurry, she was alone in the house, she was sleeping next door. “And why I never found you in my bed again?” she said. Nothing. I was always somewhere else. Better dead, I thought, and Yannis observed fiendishly the shadow of my eyelids, my anxiety to pass away! No one made a single move, everyone was petrified, even I, before such blight. Time shifted back and forth, and the child was dead. Blood filled my mouth and I watched it blued filling my blood-stained sheet with lost years, bits of nostalgic paces in the city lights. My fingers gone to the bottom. I was sinking. A shiver ran through me and I was in a cold sweat. The woman stared at me. No one felt sorry for me… “You’re a pin in the mouth,” I said and he laughed. So much irony, so much vanity is unbearable. So much despair? Essential mourning removed me from my story. “When will you think of Angelo?” my mother yelled. Yannis hugged me. The woman crossed herself. While the other tore my heart to bits. All this happened on a night of war panting. Leave me! Let me get drunk, let me bleed before the mirror and the mountains of Helicon. Let me die. The sky was darkening. Your languorous body leaned over. I took a shower. The sun was shining. Marks of pregnant kisses on my body. You had returned to my life, again and not only like this. The woman dressed in black sang Angelo’s praises and I didn’t dispute her right, besides I didn’t care two hoots. The ice was melting on the table. You were sleeping sweetly on the sheets and I was looking at the ceiling. You were away for years. Don’t tell me again. Hands gently holding the child. Silences between us. It can’t be only like this. A frenzied clatter of feet was heard outside the house. There was no one there. A blank look on my face. A profound ill was approaching, I knew it. Kisses on the breasts and bursting pain in my insides. You slipped and I just managed to hold you. Besides, Circe always awaits in the depths. And she’s been waiting for years! 3 I returned from Thessalonica and didn’t know where I was going. I missed you and didn’t wait for you long enough. The woman in the house kept staring at me, but I paid no attention. I was afraid of trouble. Now all three of us were sunk deep in the ocean. She remained motionless. For hours. The dream was shining and I had to hide that she would forget me. Much as I wanted to, it was futile. Yannis came like a stranger into the story, what was self-evident. The angles of his body were approaching and he came towards me from the stairs, another reason and another moon in my soul. I turned abruptly and the weight rooted me to the spot from the waist down. I felt the woman staring at me like a ghost. The bedcovers hid me in the room. Silence, and you bade me to approach. I wouldn’t. She got up, her fluff naked. It reminded me of the years in salinity, again the dawn of love and the tempest. Choking between your legs. I wanted to. And the woman kept staring at me. She stared even as I was leaving. I held the letter in my feeble hands. The hour was approaching. She started shouting. Thunderbolt tears fell to the floor. A wild beast. I tossed about in my embitterment. Only the night remained. But I was taken apart when Angelo appeared in my life, the past and the world emptied. Harshness and flaunting superiority struck me heartlessly. Evil. Enough. I dressed quickly and went out. I had difficulty in looking at the future. The woman looked fixedly at her death. She didn’t want me anymore! Paradoxical exaggeration. She stood between me and the wall. She wept. She winced with pain. Your image sealed my gaze. We were two slaves. Summer suffocated. Chilly emotion, our hands a turn to the table. I burst into tears. My shattered body could hold nothing. Dreams resemble nightmares. I woke up to have coffee. You were away. The woman stared at me. The room was upside-down, sweltering and rigid with sexuality. I bent my legs. I could hardly walk. I fell down. The carpet was a muddle of clothes. You drew near. You went to lift me up. I avoided you and you passed on. That was it. Your queries were answered at once. There was no space for you. The woman kept on staring at me. How callous… Angelo unlocked me and entered my heart. I was just a remnant. In my room I could cry. But I didn’t. There was no need. Although I was suffering then, I never told her. That’s why the woman kept on staring at me in the room. It was a bad time. Once again she visited me in my room. Unasked, just when I had explained to Angelo that I was through with her. Let me be. The mysterious woman caressed my face, my hands. She kissed my mouth once I was tired. I was thinking of the child. Ah, poor child. Only his smooth skin was visible. Angelo was getting ready for the funeral. I jumped up. Again the woman looked at me fixedly. And again it was to no avail. I didn’t know why. I got dressed. I couldn’t get the sight out of my mind. I was overcome with passion. I took the tram. Sunday is painted deep purple. All relations are gathered together. I can’t bear it. She bursts into tears. Angelo is sipping brandy - the woman stares at me. This woman has ruined half of my life. The mirror is broken. She is hiding her indifference. The crime had been committed in absentia. At night she shampooed her raven hair passionately and waited, she always waited for who knows what! At the time basil blossomed in the garden. She’s a beautiful woman. Inflexible years. Years that collect me for some years now. Years that live in me. The woman - now I know - will stare at me till she breathes her last, to her declining years. This woman levitates. 4 Tears fall to the ground. Floods of tears. It’s a bad time. The mountain wanders in the mind. Outside the rain is consenting. Memory’s magic imprint on the luggage is sprouting in the Garden. The eyes are deeply set. Children surround the garden. They play some odd games for two or three players. They chase each other at the station around the trees. They whoop with joy. Jerky hours. Jerky movements… The train is leaving. My flesh is aflame. I’m a mental wreck, in bits and pieces. She knows. I don’t know whether she can help. She doesn’t want to. Unfortunately. Coal-black darkness is what looks to me eternal in the room with the windows. She is sitting still by my bed. I’m afraid of her dying. She longs for me. I’m bleeding. Helpless. Suffering hell for breathless expectation. She is sitting still. And waits. She is sitting for a long time, thinking only about yourself. “Keep away!” I tell her. A teardrop on Pasiphaë’s body. On Sunday everything will be white. Like a white poppy! Everything white. Everything white, I tell you. Night was coming on. Yet again I woke up needing. The irresistible was approaching. All day long I went back and forth the room. Angelo was away. The child was asleep. “I was sitting on the sofa in a tangle with her legs, and I could feel her hot breath on my neck. I began perspiring. To burn. She put her mouth gently on my fingers, and whereas I had trouble breathing, I felt her tongue swallowing me. I hugged her tightly. It was me.” The woman came up to me, bent forward and took the paper. A thousand pieces. Blue moon in my sleep. That’s what I’m afraid of. Dawn’s bedding. Love had again bewitched me. The way I didn’t know it and never did know. That’s what I want. I wake up, I don’t eat, I’m not hungry, I don’t want you, and here we are together again. The depth of laboured breathing. The sleeping child. Sleeping an eternal sleep. The woman standing by, the voice another voice, and the children in the Garden. Hullabaloo, racket, and I was the other - me. The eyelids petrify and she miles away. Dreamland’s Pasiphaë, the scales turning at midnight in the rain. Of dreams? “You’re in the wrong place,” tells me the woman in black. And at the wrong time, I muse. Incalculable pain. Opposite her an empty armchair. The depth hyaline. The little fish in my dreams are countless and they tear me up, they swim around the Labiatae. Do look at me. I’m burning. Melting. Only for a moment, as darkens falls, do I want to see you. Is it too late? At night one opposite the other. In summer I sink in the past. I fall ill. I fall into the void. I feel dizzy. No one understands me. Around me shine stardust, the meadows and the wind. The pin piercing my dreams and making them bleed, but with what aim to make you my own, absorb you in a glance. Love that’s on the wing. Angelo is away again and again and yet again and never again. Noontime, and the stars are resting on my hands, if that’s possible! I’m creating something with little stones on the table. In the photograph the nude body of a girlfriend from an ancient postcard with an 18th century painting of one Van Deel in the office so that no one asks why I’m always the first to leave. The instant she was in the house I could see the dream in our bodies. Before I started crying. We separated and the entire universe separated from fear of the flame and its strength. With Angelo we would make up again, but that’s another story. I fall sick. The nightmare burst into my insides and I’m suffocating. The child is sound asleep, only then do I exist and think. My reasoning floats on feeling. Love that cannot be controlled crushes out… And this is something else. What if this body belonged to me? Me either way! Paradise is too near for us to ignore it, suffice it that we bite the right flesh with its “poison”. That we are born again with the elixir of equation’s death. Joint bodies, a must, rather, perhaps I don’t even know! My embrace is in the light. Ample in the room… His face prevails. His smooth face and my mistakes. I look at you… how very much my poisons have darkened you. My Angel always leaned patiently on my sorrow. The door opened. He didn’t see me. He came in and looked fixedly at the baby’s empty bed. “Where is it?” asked the Void. (the Void answers) “It was sacrificed!” And if the room is deafeningly and completely empty, small, and too dark to contain my worship. Wake up - that’s as far as it goes. “Go on… I’m ready to hear it all” her voice is barely audible. The Void is playing its own game. The black-haired woman is suffering, she tries to look at me again after the death’s announcement, she refuses to accept it as fact and will not look it in the face, she refuses… What’s happening. The child is in ward 504, first bed on the left. The nurse is asking much. “Please, only a few visitors and the next of kin should remain in the ward. Where is the mother?” Silence. Angelo is not absent. I release my face from my hands. I get up and go in. The ward looked immense, the child hasn’t yet turned two, it was christened after Saint Simon, and for its sake is being built an entire thought memorial, and it is leaving miles away without asking anything or being asked by anyone. Isn’t it how it usually happens? Am I asking too much? I can’t breathe. I sit on the wooden chair as if nothing was happening. The rust on the chair sticks on my fingers and I carry it everywhere. I wipe my hands on a paper hankie… My mother is dressed in black and giving way to tears. And I’m the reason why she hasn’t broken down. I lean for a while against the wall and it’s as if my heart has experienced nothing. Truly, how much feeling and devotion give these fingers strength! There’s a strange smell in the ward. The hospital is situated in southeast London and we don’t know anyone here… Is the child asleep? It looks as if it’s asleep. It no longer begs for a caress, a hug. Here we are again… Its hands hang on ours and Angelo is talking to himself. I get up to leave. Endless nights will follow when again and again the same crime will be committed in my soul! I lock myself in sorrow. I’m burning with death’s fever and I don’t know what to do… I’m not there though I am, only breaths away from the body’s mental logarithm, which connects us with our second life. And not the only one… I try not to look and I’m not there. A steel wall rises around me. And yet my heart trembles… “Go!” I tell Angelo. He embraces me. Silence in the ward. Entire grief unfurls in the eyes of the morning landscape. The trees are shedding their leaves and its drizzling outside. It’s as though the sky is weeping. Everyone is getting ready for the funeral and the body’s transportation to Thessalonica. The plane is leaving that same afternoon and the district hospital is in contact with British Airways for transportation by ambulance. Everything seems weird to me. I let Angelo take care of the stretcher, and I leave. My mobile phone rings strangely now. I’m not expecting any message from her. Besides, she waits for me to return to Athens as if nothing had happened. She’s oblivious. “The stretcher is ready,” Angelo called. The door opened and I’ll never forget the sight. My entire past darkens and, as I’m told, whatever strength I concealed at the first sight, nevertheless I passed out. 5 The black-clad woman comes up for the second time. She takes a position. Weak. I’d gone off early. It’s the one and only time I’d see her so beautiful. She is dolled up, my mood is unresponsive and she floats on such ecstasy, you’d think she’s sick… The sea in the harbour is sick, and so am I sick... I left her picture there and ran like mad. I realized there was no other way. Once upon a time there was a woman with a fierce look who went after flowers and herbs, who cherished the medieval legend because she was a witch, whereas now the legend floats on formalin. The receptable fills with ashy words. I drink formalin to forget. She relaxes. “It’s nothing,” I tell her. I set out again and feel the cold ground on the mind’s curb. Each time she same cause and the same reason. The scene - an ocean. The night accompanies our conversation. I cup my hands which are full of hair. I want to cry. I can’t. The days - aeons. And aeons the end of the road. Not true. I grow up both happy and unhappy on the sailboats of a rhythm of yours. And the ocean a sweetness. I just want to sleep. “You’ve been away from the room for some time and I’m wondering!” says Angelo. The world is a pillow and it too grows. Pews in the evening and I hear my mother crying her eyes out. I don’t know. I want to get away from this lie. My heart - Jonathan the seagull. I think only of her so intensely, the black-haired woman, that is, my mind’s red page. Like a stroke. I’m scared! PART TWO IN THE DARK OF PASSION 1 I’m looking out of the window. I see a skyscraper pertly entering my mind and playing havoc with my memory. I don’t know where to look. It’s because I feel sorry… The early morning is like the one on Spetses last May. Right across is a big ship sailing on the open sea. The ship appears again and again in my dreams. I don’t know where to look. The ship takes me like silk fabric from my pillow and anchors me close to you. I don’t know where to look at you. And it’s an afternoon in the past. Memory keeps mum. The room stages a grievance. The paper is wet with tears. I look outside and see nothing but a dumb, oppressive darkness. I wake up on the high sea and you are my imaginary pilot. I mourn. She is sitting beside me; she doesn’t speak; she feigns nothing; and it’s as if she’s uncomprehending. The landscape smells of ether and is full of gauzes. The building has been renovated, and in it I seem to be hanging in the air. I don’t know what to do. It’s almost daybreak. I pick up the letter and look at it. I daren’t open it. I have just received it and once again I find myself unprepared. Outside it’s raining and she has arrived holding a black umbrella. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started snowing. She lies down on the couch and looks at me sitting tight-lipped at the desk. For me this affair is over, but I don’t want to push things too far. I don’t know whether it’s early or late. The child is still fresh in my memory… I leave the letter on the table. “Aren’t you going to open it?” she asks. And she has such an enigmatic look, I forget I must leave shortly. I endure in the same enigmatic look and don’t respond. It is both early and late. The letter must be long, written on paper with a vellum finish, for it looks like pouring out of an azure watercolour envelope. She knew very well that this would not leave me unmoved. And yet after the last trip to England, even then I daren’t imagine she’d still have feelings for me. Ah well. You never know what the next day will bring… “I must go,” I utter in a faint voice. I get up and go to the large grey window; this is no time for effusions; I try to be quite clear. Those sleepless hours at night are beginning to exhaust me. Her look, too, is beginning to exhaust me. Angelo comes down the stairs and is astonished to see Sophia sitting on the couch. No one speaks. It’s the right moment for me to speak, but I don’t get the chance to make a move. Sophia gets up, snatches the letter out of my hand, and makes for the door. I just manage to get hold of her hand, and she shrugs a shoulder. “We need to talk,” I tell her, and once again is heard her impetuous exit in the morning, and here am I not knowing if she even heard me. I’m soaked through. Truth is, my eyes are again clouded with tears. I don’t know what to do. Angelo is looking at me sympathetically; he is suffering but won’t show it. “This is a disease, it’ll ruin you one day, it’ll put an end to you, don’t you realize it?” That’s what he seems to want to say, though I’m anticipating him. I’m taking his place without his knowing… and I remain hanging in the air. The hour passes. The train for Thessalonica leaves in thirty minutes. A block of ice between us. For the first time she keeps her distance from me. Maybe this was the case all along without my realizing. My feelings swamp me before I see her; that morning is so fresh, I want to believe that tonight, also tonight, it’ll be something different. I don’t know what to say to her; I’m muddling my words; and truth is something apathetic and even more confusing. I get this feeling to escape, as though not having sorted out this question, which is still in suspense. A nonchalant Sophia is sitting at the desk. She places her hand on the papers and the papers start leaving her hands. Her hands are trembling. There’s a smell of ether in the air, and that of a strong perfume, a strong perfume for men. She gets up the moment she sees me. “It’s OK,” she says, “I was taken aback because I didn’t expect us to meet. Do sit.” I swallow with difficulty, I haven’t the strength to say anything, actually I never expected her to be so friendly. She is wearing something light although it’s getting chilly up here in Thessalonica; it’s not yet noon and my reply is hazy. “I wanted to see you.” and I clenched my fingers on my shoulders. I feel so helpless. I’m shivering. I’m in a state of panic. I’m in distress. My hands weaken, so do my knees, and I can’t think. It’s as if the doves are coming to nest in my body and I grow wings. I go round the room immaterially, as if my entire past was chasing and crushing me. I can’t look her in the eyes, as if something strange was happening. As if that black-clad woman looked at me when my child died. And as if everything was happening at once, everything I thought of telling her and are so easily written off… The landscape is blueing! For a long time I’ve been trying to change the scenery around me and forget. But that’s not it. Well, it is or rather things must change. A deceptive feeling springs up that everything is fine, but this is hardly the case. Sophia understands more than she shows, and I feel - yes, I feel - that she’ll embrace me. “I don’t want only this,” she whispers. The nightmare is flickering. Things will start all over again. I’m shaking. From the end of the corridor I see the architectural desk in her study with the mirror a breath away. She comes towards me. She’s not what she used to be; now she’s more resolute. Her black blouse makes her a child in my eyes. She puts on Bryan Ferry’s song “Slave to Love”, and the whole season seems to magnetize the midday sun. The room is shining in my eyes with that light of hospitals which doesn’t provide clear-cut information if it’s morning, afternoon or midnight. I burst into tears. And try to get out of here. We allowed coincidences to spoil feelings. “I feel nothing; I don’t know what’s wrong with me; why I came and what I want from you,” I tell her sobbing. She hugs me! The atmosphere runs wild, or rather the environment, everything darkens; she turns off the lights; what I was afraid of was happening. We remain on the tips of the Universe and the deadly water flows. She holds me tightly, her clothes are soaked with tears. Never before have I mourned so much. Something inside me was uprooted. The child awakes in my most agitated dreams, and I’m wondering what I would do without Sophia. I don’t speak. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Everything is awhirl, as though I’m in the centre of a cyclone, the maelstrom of death. As though something beyond my strength was calling me. I don’t think this love will ever die. And I close my eyes. I’m whacked. She helps me to the couch and fastens herself on me. It’s as if a new day is dawning. Suffice it that I see her, as long as my organism can’t stand her, and I relax. I close my eyes… 2 Sophia has a friend. I know nothing about her except that she’s in Germany. I don’t know where she lives, only that they were inseparables since their childhood days. And they talk about everything… I know that in the evening, especially on Fridays, she prepares a small travelling bag and goes off to see her. This occurs when she must decide about her career and her private affairs. So she was just preparing to go. And I was next to her, touching and smelling her. That strong perfume for men was hers, and she seemed to have had it for long, because in a lighter atmosphere I smelled it in Athens and Strasbourg - our only holidays together - seeing that she wore it when she was up in the morning after we shampooed each other, playing with the water and the soaps as though another day was dawning. And now I couldn’t look in her eyes. It wasn’t worth pestering her with an affair that would only cause her affliction. I didn’t want that. Angelo would get out of my life; we had failed as parents; Yannis didn’t know how to save the situation; and the black-clad woman was out of this world. Never mind… It was an endless game. Her car was parked a block away from the office. She suggested going for a ride. The hours empty our shelters; the windows shut and barred; and I so emotional, what could I do. Day and night nothing but tears, writhing with pain, and the body tortured in the absence of love! I hadn’t said anything to her… Angelo had abandoned his latest intention. And that was it. For my part, I had become a pendulum. Sophia hived off. Rarely. We are born like statues and become another’s love unwittingly. And even if we do consent, it’s a flash in the pan. We go different ways. The sky is dark. The images are imaginings. The stars were falling gently on the pillow. I felt so good that moment. The dream is sailing slowly. It twists and turns. Becomes the cosmos. Methinks it’s enough for this love to become significant. 3 She - for she is the issue as always and surely elsewhere - unmoving. With a deep blurred sorrow. And I am she. I can’t stop laughing - I’m the only one - everyone is looking at me, and then Yannis puts his arms round me! Hands and colours and deadly questions. I was the first to leave, and the gathered bodies a shower. The same thing every night… Oh leave me alone! You are not the woman, the dark woman with the kerchief in the open sea. Before and whenever you come it’s always night and the fact is utter despair… I couldn’t find you anywhere. She is happy and I am she! It is night supposedly and she’s far away. In my frequency vowels stick in my throat… and my oxygen is running out and each time I die… and that’s all! I have avoided lots of natural things and here am I heaped in your sadness… You still feel sorry, even when I saw you suddenly on awaking… For the first shy touches, his strength of how a dream would be together… and how I avoided it all my life! Life’s witness, who recognizes me, comes out one night and, young and handsome, goes to church to light a candle and pray. The children and the boy have left the churchyard. The door banged shut and it was you. Angelo loved this child very much, along with the church of his youth, because the child was himself and the church the most beautiful one he’d ever seen. A chapel atop a rock before you turn seaward and walk on the stones that you so wish in your morning trips to the coast, and which chapel is situated opposite the island of Spetses. Too near to be true… A thousand times I went as far as the sky and returned real in the depths of hell. I suffered, and you weren’t you, but some other moment: my most secret pursuit of happiness that’s nothing more than your smile, which I sorely miss! It was absent, and the future which absorbed you upped, disregard-embroidered… I was in hell, I can tell you. I’d look at you those mornings as though nothing had happened, and you were the reason why I couldn’t utter a word. Love bewilders you. And - yes - this too is another matter. My heart touches you in the shape of the body that adduces you. Yesterday I spoke with Yannis. Like another image that holds Luck’s pomegranate in one hand and the stole that covers the breast, thus setting off a woman’s whiteness that she rebuffs and everything around is crumbling with the word that narrates. The path leading us to the inconceivable is in a dream’s light where only love prevails. Lasting integrity is nothing more than silence which possesses the bodies in the morning before the poets speak and smell life out. And you are my dream. In happily-fixed tears and low-voiced for the first time everyone looks at me speechless. How can you? I miss you when it’s dark and all is vowels. Your sound shatters the eardrums as it comes and implies the fog between us. Your face, so smooth and so distant, doesn’t seem to stem from current reality, but to come from far away like your Luck’s knot of truth. You slept and I didn’t wake you. I avoided you from the start, and when I set eyes on you I felt everything would slide like an avalanche. But nothing happened between us. For the first time in my life I didn’t have what I had fallen in love with. And it was inevitable. What I can’t endure now rows… 4 That night I slept elsewhere. You were he… Our touches were a myth in the lake that spread on our bed and you brought me springtide for the moment you first talked to me. Love was another matter when in front of me you clutched the letter as if it were for you. You had indeed written me a letter, but this too is another matter. I read it after we had a chat, and anyway I had to go away in order to find it neatly arranged among my papers. Your entire self was a letter! Sophia came into the house and looked in a strange way at my sick body curled up at the bar. I was drinking and your tobacco-smelling self spread throughout the house. I couldn’t bear that this unsuitable honesty of mine should drain me again, and having to wait for rain to fall at the wrong moment of our parting. She came next to me, left her keys on my face, my hands clasping a glass. I must have looked a mess each time you glanced at me. I let myself go. I was drenched, I must have had a high fever. In my girlhood I was an avid reader of poetry. I refused to adhere to any social responsibility and my friends were but a few. This cost me when I came of age. I was more alone than others imagined and I suffered as a result. I went through terrible agonies, and when at the age of thirty I thought I could make out, I denied my two greatest loves, Sophia and Angelo. Until a dream came in the night to change me, enabling me to look deeper into the bodies that conversed with me! It was too late; I had fallen in love with the past and this was no cure. Sophia persisted, and Angelo was the young man who charmed me, and Yannis was my best friend. I couldn’t back out, my very life was missing, and she was in a small orchestra. I’ll divorce him! I said and left the office, his well-nigh alcoholic power mesmerizing me… Circe enjoyed me, formal medicine against death and even if you were to be in my place, good luck to you. I was stupid to vanish and we were stupid to waste ourselves in strange lives, even if I had taken after your anger. And your choices. If you think of it, you can’t change or be reborn in my arms, and it’s futile… Official loneliness! It’s better this way. I woke up yet again with anguish on my chest and that’s it. I was lost. My decision next day involved the other life’s vain Universe. Sophia came and sat next to me and I talked to her. “I’m so close and you throw me away… just as I was beginning to understand. You’re very sick... You take away my life and the chapters begin. My love for you is a season in hell! I’ll leave but you’ve ensnared me…” She didn’t answer. Alcohol was burning my mouth and I wouldn’t stop drinking. Sophia no longer had a name, no specific body, her hair was unclear, and I was in murky darkness. No one paid any attention to me and it was a bad time. Night found me with a high temperature, my voice was very strong, and as a woman I bore pain like sensual pleasure since I caused and provoked it… This and my grief. Fatally. My whole body awoke on the sheet with Sophia next to me… I spoke and the creature fell asleep, and this is more or less how my panic subsided… Like a full moon in her look, just this way. 5 We were lost. I was lost on the rock of absence and the lake in my bed. It was night when I dreamed that you were flying in the sky with universal wings, opening out in my eyes with wind in your gaze. And one of your tears fell on one of those small vases of sweets we keep as souvenir for me to sweeten. I was sweetened by both your erotic and friendly disposition, and I fell in love with your two azure wings embracing me in the sky. You were my guardian angel, the star falling into our arms. I was returning dead-tired from a steep slope when I found you waiting on the parapet of my house and I spoke to you. I imprisoned you. Never before had I sat so close to a rivalry out of the blue. I felt as if God was listening to me. And coming towards him was heard the brilliance of my footsteps, the night I couldn’t sleep a wink for weeping. I loved you on tiptoe, though not destined so… My angel unlocked himself in Paradise, divulging my absence and making a dream of all. He danced in my heart, and a tear of yours that I was keeping I placed on the table with the spices and adorned it, for this tear was shed for my own sorrow, and I loved it as my own. The most probable “after”. You came for a while, and on my forehead rested the hand lost among the sheets of sea and the saltiness in the summer just frozen. So be it. A secret sign. That I woke up with a taste of hypertonic solution in my mouth, a taste of the newborn body in the vibration of the last rock… Saltiness in fact. In the room, the music of Manos Hadjidakis, “The Era of Melissanthi”, came full circle. The circle I passionately watched locking me. The beauty of a word bounding me in my mouth and refusing to come out… Afterwards it rained on the floor pieces of sadness. Angelo plunged into the sea and the strong waves drowned my last sigh, not unexpectedly. He loved me. And what dawned was yet another stormy deep blue wall in his stead. I was trapped! PART THREE THE WOMAN I FELL IN LOVE WITH 1 The woman flowing between the trees and the omnivorous Lake stared at me from across, and for a moment I forgot my name… The dark penetrated into me, absorbed me, and it was the woman flowing, changing, drifting deeply in the blue, and relying on her strength. She upset my reasoning; she made me look for that mysterious glance whenever I woke up; and she compelled me to want her at my side and especially in my bed… but how? I unwound memory’s ball of string and went way back to my childhood days. It was this woman who held my hand when I was ill with a raging fever in the huge bed, sweat scoring the sheets. I grew to love this woman very much. She was the now flowing woman. And I simply thought I was still a child when an ordinary cold brought her near me. Although she was missing from my Universe, nevertheless she came and dominated it. I hurt a lot when I left. In the small shut room I observed the flowing woman and her movements, and I frantically locked my body lest I should touch her and break her, fragile that she was! Be they my look and my heart imprisoned in her fateful movement, flames that warmed me at night… And she forgot me, she wrote me off, she killed me. The previous night I saw the flowing woman in my dream, saw her as the mother of an angel dressed in crimson haze; the sun was setting and her voice washed the angel’s hair with such tenderness that I became jealous because I came to love her as if she were life itself. The water was crystalline hidden passion on my fingers, and I felt the day was over. Your body only just yours! How much you resemble my dilemmas; but never mind, my love. Ah, how much you resemble my imagination’s flowing waters, and the circle comes and goes and leaves and rises. I still have your odour in my mouth from first having talked to you, he and you everywhere, the flowing woman. By chance poetry’s tempest had hemmed me in a permanent present, and I lived the instant like fancy and like a small kite that you fly and are alarmed the higher it rises, lest the string should break and the kite is lost forever in the universe of the good day. And yesterday was a very good day. Darling Angelo was opposite my lips when I spoke to him about the flowing woman. And he paid special attention to the vowels and consonants readible on me thanks to her and so be it… I was smashed to smithereens, heart-broken and crying with roses that burnt my face. “You must dare!…” he hid the word, and a voyage began on his body. My life darkened and it rained vowels in the house. I felt sad and walked up yet another step on the open seas. Wuthering heights. The waves raised me to the tip of his tongue and my hand was caught in his mouth. Afterwards he fell asleep. Truth is, I find it difficult to speak to her in the singular of my arrhythmia, and the more she realizes this I panic and can’t even utter how much I want to spend the night on her body. I want to feel her electrocardiograms on my fingers, and I die when I think how much I love her, and the myth continues. My thought was attached to her pain and I couldn’t wait - and why for that matter? I didn’t expect to be sleepless so many days and nights. So close, her voice begged to pass away on my face and my shoulder was obstructed by her hands. I didn’t suffer, although I let so much dust cover my romance. I left the next day, because I felt the frightened goggling of muddy makeup stare encircling me on the panel of public life, and such it was… I gave you a call! 2 Tell me a word… “A word, I just can’t find this word. Why is that?” It was the voice on the other side of the phone. Puzzling voice. Emotions are strange: now this and now that. I find this very odd. The most durable night was lying on the floor and I betrayed myself for real. How walk up the stairs of my sadness on the horizon of your ocean? Poetry penetrated me, overcame me, and ever since it was fated that I should live my deepest midnights… A heavy sea, and I was wholly drained of my passion. Sophia left for Asia. Angelo may still have loved me… The flowing woman gleaned my past thoroughly and was next to me from a truly endless, distant and safe, parallel road. The black-clad woman was now wearing an elegant costume with a snow-white blouse and lace collar. She was smiling and tears streamed as blood. Yannis was an angel in my amorous heaven. My whole life was one of beauty and happiness, regardless of my concern for my child’s sea, my most diseased low-voiced absent-mindedness. To forget death’s open space in me and in his laughter. The gloom of seriousness! The flowing woman is always reticent; she speaks only when she wants you to fall in love with her and talk to her in despair. The light was vacant, then it leaned to the ground and became nocturnal. I was in the Grande Bretagne Hotel drinking coffee at the bar. The darkness had an abrupt atmosphere, my face glowed, so did the Dunhill Lights cigarette dangling from the fingers of my right hand. I wore a gold ring with my initials carved on it, ring bought in New York. “Have you something to say to me?” And her face darkened somewhat. I had resolved to repeat the word that characterized me in my life’s intact landscape, thus falling for you! I fell madly in love with you… I was embedded in the future of my silence, and this affair came to a tragic end. I felt something lethal inside me, so I unbuttoned my blouse, passed my hand over my breast and felt so soothed that I wrapped myself in the aortal bow as if wearing a scarf. At length I rested in the pitch-black earth. The earth reddened and believe me I couldn’t get you out of my mind, not then and not now. You jilted me! And one Saturday I was lost deep down the world. I ached… Lake Acherousia dictated something to me, and where the day was coming to an end the white of blackness opened up, at midnight, as I was sitting on the settee and my interred mortal body phosphoresced on the crumpled sheets, seeing that it never returned safe from the mind’s wanderings. I could stay up all night. And think of my happiest summer nights overcome by passion and falling ill as a result. My interred mortal body… 3 “Tell me what?” she whispered in the car and her body moved leisurely whilst Yannis turned back his journey to the maximum, coming at me… in my mind imagination folded up and I must tell you that I fell in love with the moment I did the most proper thing. Leave almost for good, I avoided you! I cried and the north wind pulled me apart; I was torn to a thousand pieces and I returned to you, to your neighbourhood, you had no need of me. As I had told you. How small is our great big world. You never loved me, although I was destined that you should show me round the curves of the World, to get to know a Universe, and to pretend I’ve forgotten your nameday. You were the woman flowing in the Moon’s whiteness the night I fainted and went blind on the veranda, unable to think anymore. We were two beloved nights, the black-clad woman in Yannis’ look and Angelo sick. And if I want you and your absence languishes me. I quit… The signs and omens are sleeping side by side and I, sweetheart, can’t see them! My movements are bleeding… they extended and found you nowhere. My wanting only you, and you perhaps somewhere. I fell ill. I never forgave myself for imprisoning that sweet expectation. My life away from you was theatre of the absurd. To be more succinct, my gaze had acquired a mystery and a darkness. In his eyes I saw the future and I was troubled. I was everywhere and nowhere. He loved me. Worship was in my mouth and I was reborn. The double meaning of the unknown, the equation that can never be solved. Sorrow cast a shadow over my face; what was happening to me was terribly unfair. The flowing woman - who can doubt it? - lived always at my side. It was fate struggling to come outwards; it was me and it was she, breath of the beyond. The poet’s exact equation. In the afternoon I heard a confession, the supernatural’s confession. And I was embittered. I felt awful. It was you when in the past I was involved in an iniquitous affair, you absorbed me! I was blinded… I don’t know, my heart tried its best to be literal, and inevitably so. I couldn’t manage and it was you, never setting, in my closed mouth. The shore of no significence to the present, and God rained vowels from on high. I made a night of it. Opposite me a voice, the omen’s human voice, and I all in white. The enchantress of Physical Anatomy. I was a landscape, an open book, and I grew alarmed… When I rang you picked up the phone and, as usual, the few times became absolutely nothing. Besides, you seemed to be elsewhere, ignoring me! I had been blinded… Poetry and clumsy handling struck again the keyboard which vibrated against memory, and that’s it… I spoke to the silk of your skin and you fell asleep beside me, to birth’s trauma. That’s how it is; I had my heart in my mouth and the slaughtered wood became a voyage in the future, sex on the desk, and the two lovers suffering the greatest sorrow… 4 The path to find me is a crystal that clasps the floor, the sweaty floor and the final sun. Divine Justice brought your queries to my heart the moment - what are you saying? - we parted after almost nine years, and parallel affairs in my mortal dream. The shooting range, yes, a murderous habit on the pillow’s journey to Hydra and our bodies full of marks… it was so early, the kiss wept carnivorous on the mouth. The secrets I kept in my head from my youth passed before me like winged reptiles and difficult men and women lovers, that I opined the End must be much easier. Angelo’s attempted suicide after the death of little Simon came undone from the past as though I envied yesterday itself. “You and me” was the issue. I or she, he or me, I or he, and this took me on a trip to the future, which I imagined like the Moon in the room my relation with metaphysics, fated to come across on the island where I learnt the flesh’s Logic. The grief of lonely poets bogged down. You were in me imperceptibly, like a little carpenter, although I hadn’t embraced you. My blood flowed like a woman, it slid in the blood vessels, in the vascular system, like a snake and like the tentacles of an octopus. It continued throughout the body, and it took only a moment for the look to deaden and thus frigid to gaze at you from the infinity of your world. I’ll look at you afterwards as well, you said. Guilt fulfilled me like a coup de grace. Summer declared itself abundant and if I needed you that was something else. Little by little the amorous knot rose to my brain and I was losing weight, I had no appetite whatsoever… I fell ill, and in my panic I changed my mobile and phone numbers. My reasoning was desperately hot. Afterwards I slept… Finally the cloud sagged down and at long last I entered your mouth’s cave. You were alone and went past me, but this had no bearing on what I assumed and made up. It was sickness! Little Simon, who went and hid in the woods, loved me once and planted himself on my face. It was a mercy and death boiled inside him, whereas at night, that particular night, he ran a temperature, was delirious and his childish sheet smelled of sweat… The flowing woman was in America at the time and didn’t even know that I existed; but it was written that her unusual voice would win me. I didn’t know how, but she held a parcel of drinks with an awkwardness that her loveliest smile gave away. In the office, her hands were so smooth that just gaping at them sufficed. One day, when she carried her body into the courtyard, the whole Universe lit up like a fairy tale. At dusk, she suddenly sat up in the duty doctor’s bed on hearing the telephone ringing from afar. She didn’t answer… I stubbed out my cigarette. The day and the gravel in the courtyard chafed my soles, so I lay down that they may win back my imagination. My eyes were brimming with tears and my shadow harassed me. I never believed in you. You wrote me off at one go. My pride was reduced to a rag. I never forgave you, right though you were. Everything happened all at once. Sweet expectation ruined me, my constraint was instantaneous. I didn’t expect it. And although from the very start I wanted to come back, this didn’t save matters. She stood in fear of me. But there was another way. 5 And even if iced tea provided the reason, we did go out to have a talk. The corridor was never so empty and so unwrinkled, unfulfilled dream, serenade by the pillow… I begged her, I kept telling her “don’t go,” and the black-clad woman squeezed my arm - “let’s go!” - and I cried… My frightened look was unnatural. I was only twenty-one, my hair waved in the breeze, and the tight-fitting pair of jeans, together with the top I wore, made me look prettier, so… Certain less steps in the future, and I promised myself never to do it again, at long last to give myself to Angelo who kept running after me, and live together. My childish shoulder was bare and I didn’t know how to tell him; death’s boat and the cellophane-wrapped carnations; the large empty settee… The touch’s contortion made me fall in love with him, there, on the station platform. It was never the same as the model of city life. I was used to inhale love in confined adolescent rooms that listen to music and nothing else, that read poems and lean on a past as provocative as visions. But again nothing... Angelo was coming down the mountain and nothing of him was visible, only the echo of his voice was audible. Even if a few years earlier I’d believe something was going on, but this was also nothing… Nothing in fact was happening… The flowing woman was next to me and listened to my voice during the intervals she was with me, we drank our coffees as though nothing had happened between us, and that’s how it was… My fingers touched her breasts unwittingly and I drew back instantly. Maybe this wasn’t the proper thing to do, but then again it was unintentional… She stared at me as if begging for this touch. In a flash I thought of Angelo. I feigned lateness and left without finishing a sentence, left as though chased… “Is something wrong?” asked the black-clad woman who was sitting on the settee at the time, but since I didn’t reply, she presumed that no. Then, tired out, I went to bed. The cup shook in my hands. It was precisely this, a story that departs and its place is taken by absence, and afterwards the same voice again… Absence visited our night, fated as it was, but explain this to a dying girl… Motionless, I imagined that something was wrong with adolescent years. That I’d wait to join a ship far from ordinary people. So I took the letter, wrapped it, and ever since I’ve been trapped without my showing. Tell me, could you love me for winter’s song? Could you touch me in the future? No response. And everything was so fateful, I never understood why! The morning you invented an excuse to have coffee with me, I had been up all night and felt bashful that you should take an interest in my body; in how I fell bodily against the door to open it; and in how I handed you a pen while holding your fingertips in the office. I’m talking about some old amorous prescriptions… It’s nothing… PART FOUR A MOMENT LIKE ANY OTHER 1 Rarely did I drive, and when I did, I paid due attention to the music and the dangerous bends, the glances of passersby and the other drivers, and naturally the mobile phone near the windscreen - the “hermaphrodic” age! You were telling me “fragrant feelings and we apart, as if the entire earth was missing from the Vega galaxy”. And I fell sleep on the table, whilst reading your poems. Yannis paid much attention to the unpriviledged and knew the flowing woman long before me. The flowing woman had a peculiar name which got tangled up in my mouth and my travels. One day I said: “Everyone missed me…” and withdrew as though nothing had happened. And she stared at me impatiently. Ah, my love! My love had been wronged. And was angered by birth. Suddenly I asked for a second chance and, of course, a distressing work arose in my writings and I never saw her again. Shores of infinity, chit-chat and past games and sorrowful manias… Sophia was relieved, because she knew she was killing me. My anger was like the last adieu of separating couples, and thus I vanished from the face of the earth. Nor did she see me again. I remained with an incontestable longing flaying my body to rend the wrong path with the machinations of impetuous spectators. And of course she knew nothing. Angelo couldn’t stand it any longer and burst into tears in my room, eavesdropping on my soul, why did I come back… He took my hand. “I’m dying can’t you see?” he whispered on my mouth, and a crystalline tear reminded me of our child, and the deadly memory… With the new year I prayed for the gift that children have to pass into the adjoining scenery. Sunday’s scenery in the house where wakeful and rounded I travelled over the floors, shuffling along, and in my mouth I had as a wish only happiness, sadness, joy and sensuality, with fear and superiority as if you still wanted me! Really, how far from the truth was I. Sophia waited for me at the front door, we were to go for a night stroll in Zappeio under the stars. How am I to save my body from despair, I kept thinking in a fit of temper. “Tell me the truth,” answered Angelo in the room with the toys. Because I was afraid, I also made the wrong moves which justified nothing, and more often than not the future’s challenge reached a peak. There was nothing between us. And she leaned more towards me, until finally we slept together after the stroll. But I never answered her as to why so much fuss, passion burning us again! My dead friends … came back to life and took their place with their death masks by the French window along with the flowers or, rather, the flowing woman’s hanging gardens. And I was left looking straight at Phaliron bay with amazing understanding. I had no other option. We kissed each other… 2 My melancholy inundated his breathing. And it was only to be expected because in fact I didn’t know how to protect him. We sat in a dim bar and imagined that the snow outside was the whitest black that could hide our pain. And sensuality rose to the top, and the seat kept sinking as I was sinking, until a sudden movement in the air reminded me that it was only a dream, and my fingers played an unrecognizable melody in the garden on the table but it was he who made an exit from life’s snapshots… Elena, who knew from the word go how to deal with the burning question of her love affair, came in without warning and sat back on the settee… As he was about to leave the drawing room, Angelo took her by the hand, led her out of the house, under the wooden steps, and after listening to her breathing, my melancholy dispersed in his body’s universe. He slept in a hotel. That night I knew I had won a flower and a note under the pillow, and why the floors were strewn with petals and summer dei ex machina. I wasn’t aware of anything else. The date of her arrival was xx/xx/xxxx. When she left alone for Milan no one waited for her at the airport, let alone her house. I didn’t know how to deal with the situation, seeing that I, too, was bleeding for an answer to a question I had never posed, and thus simply winter life continued. Until a sudden shiver ran through me like an electric shock. I longed to write and write I did and still write. I’m in a darkness, I am darkness and I am blind. At night I turned on a small light above my bed and opened to read the last letter I wrote. I’d never send it if it weren’t for my fateful despair, so I had no option. All at once I heard my latest wish to live free whatever the cost… She must have realized this afterwards, but the car was involved in a crash and left lying around, which was a good reason for me to go to Thessalonica to find her but again. I don’t know what haunted me and to what avail! In the sea, right on a wave, he pressed himself to me. I felt the water undulating way below the legs, on a level with the backbone, and I kissed his fair-haired chest. Angelo was thrilled with delight and held me gently… He had a hard-on which he kept rubbing on the bushy pubic triangle in spite of its being soaked in the salty sea. We went to a remote place where there weren’t many people about, rocks everywhere. Whatever he enjoyed was aglow in his dimples with laughter and sexuality. I lied down under from his kisses; I could hardly breathe, for his tongue licked my face and my fingers which went deep inside his mouth. Suddenly, I turned my head, and what did I see? I saw his Adam’s apple throbbing and all his arteries and veins bulging. He was drinking sea water, thus letting go of my waist. I stood up, I blinded and he dead… His entire body was swollen, and I turned over in our bed, as I always did when seeing such strange dreams which made me jump up panting; when on fire with passion he embraced me and woke up almost breathless, lithe thought and nightmare; but now it was to be expected - how did I know? He got up and nearly choked me when he embraced me so tight. I was perspiring and dog tired. He was already dead; I thought of all the way I had to go in order to find snow in summer, and Sophia kept on changing her mobile phone number. Today something very odd happened to me. I enjoyed my death behind a door when, of a sudden, entered sex and bubbled as I was on top of you who leaned on the void. I was alight, my entire self was a burning matchstick… snap! Thus I burnt out, rolling on my sheets and in the superb feeling her look left me. So be it… good for them… My skin stretched and Yannis was delighted, relaxed and refreshingly lustful. I felt him laughing, and the child I was came into the world and was recreated like olive oil in salad. I made a mess of things, I admit… Look at me, I’m mystery itself; and my mistake in such circumstances is that destiny is reborn in my whole body and his body, and that light and truth end up as horror films. Never mind, good for them! 3 I burst into tears, because I was still trying my best. Unwitting unmoving uncertainties and the body feels pleasure. Terror, because I felt I was begging her for my heart, and this had never happened before with anyone. I took it badly. The fire was now burning; I knew it; it was a fit of temper and my heart was tidying up its feelings. My heart was alone and the body propped magic powers. Relatives regarded me with awe. But why? The rest of the people became martyrs to the existing world’s small screens. If only it would rain allowing me to breathe. Tuesday was the entire world. But Thursday was necessary. I was obliged to accept love like a kite; I was obliged to verify myself; on a Thursday I was born in the year two thousand. From that time tears welled up in my eyes, even in the Garden well… The flowing woman flowed and still flows on! But pardon me, she’s thick-skinned, devoid of curves, and this can be seen on her right hand and in her voice how she made notes and how she spoke on the telephone. She wasn’t prepared for very much. This was to my advantage, when I decided to talk to her and she was obliged to talk to me, but once again without avail. Like hell if she ever thinks of me. Here am I making a hole in my head, probably for nothing! A wild goose chase… That’s not it, but why should it be? Trying day and I felt her breath smack on my face, hot and protective, loving for just once and my heartbeats quickened. It’s not that I was running water; that is, eyes misted with tears well-nigh every morning; and what about strength? I left. Sophia was repulsive, and I made a virtue of necessity by enjoying seeing her on the beach, in a winter morning setting, wearing a thick jumper, blue jeans and a hippie scarf… Her crying beauty was in her blood! I want to tell you something. It’s a secret and I don’t want anyone else to know except the two of us and the forest… I’m his daughter and you hate me and fear me and I’m desperate. I feel death approaching and wonder why? You know I’m suffering and you do nothing… You leave me sailing in the open seas and among the celestial butterflies which welcome me in French bistros. Please love me; that’s what I want; you can’t rate this feeling, alas! You, too, are desperate! 4 It’s applied theorem, the three triangles and the sea at the sight of three dead bodies lying on the floor. Dead after passionate unto despair love-making, like gulls of a bottom opening in the surgery of dreams, on the wave of receivers and the dormitory of divine inspiration after pleasant dreams… To see for yourself, in the words of a poet! You need children’s sugary fingers, and I add a couple of glances from lovers who forget themselves night after night in their lap-top computers in order to carry with them each time their moments of love and the vowels they whisper to their nightmares when they have a chat, as if absolutely nothing was happening in their common referential setting. Granted, Sophia lost heart. So did Angelo. And Elena together with Yannis created their own secret version of the fairy tale about which I’d like to give a blow by blow account another time. I, writing this book, am the character of an exorcised and deadly fury stemming from my love, which is not bound to measure up to these words and punctuation marks, but wants its body lacerated on the paper and the fixed points of a circle that falls for it. I mean to say, I write because I’m out of patience when it comes to looking beyond the ebony eyes to see what’s hidden in the few words the flowing woman wants to say, when she parks right next to me in order to arrange, so naively and so gauchely, an appointment for the black-clad woman in the basement of a building. I don’t want to! 5 Otherwise neither this nor something else would sicken me, and that’s the truth. The woman who cost me my life was raised in a middle class family and racked her emotions in her impenetrable psychic world. She gazed at my movements and the distance between us grew dramatically. This isn’t of any importance, only she may have been swamped in the margin of the page reserved for her. I knew this was the future, and nothing but nothing could change matters… The woman with the long raven hair came to the house yesterday and handed me a neatly-packed little parcel of white stationery. I left it on the desk and got up next morning to go on a trip. I felt the top to see how wet it was from the rain and how much exposed to the sky, but she was determined to bring it to me. I wasn’t aware what her future had in store for me, and that she’d now dream of me from a different angle. But I was destined to assume responsibility for our parting. Did the photograph of Manos Hadjidakis on my desk stare at me? Her diseased character wouldn’t accept human faults, and as such I aspired to make the same dyslexic mistakes. Whenever for whatever reason I resorted to my girlhood, my skin came off and remained on the bed, and high fever made the day unbearable as now, at an unholy hour in the night, I’m sleepless and keep on thinking of you, the interrogations tormenting my innocent pain. But this again is inevitable. I mean to say, even in childhood illnesses are unavoidable, and so with me I couldn’t do otherwise. You were just a step down before you put me through it. But true enough you didn’t want me to suffer. One day I held you by your hand and felt like crying. You were so frail and slim that you magnitized me as though I were full of negative ions and you the moon’s other pole. No one is to blame. MANIFESTO OF LOVE or HOW ONE BECOMES A POET If you want to take your own life, here’s a good suicidal way: hang yourself on words. If for a moment a poetic vision came true, this responds to emotion and not to touching things. A body speaks! And speech is recorded in texts in detail, owning poetry being no more than the sense of a deep-blue ah… on the verge of boredom - though it is so. The issue here is the reenactment of poetry and how it is interpreted in the so-called existing universal world, seeing that love is the motive power. Be it the one and only in need of his infirmity and the dream fastened to the eyes, the way you teach a child how to read, the poet of “chaos”. If, for example, we suppose that a dream fastened to a lime wharf is fulfilled, it darkens and always, at all times, the hand moves slowly, betrayed before a telephone. Love is eroticism and eroticism is an autumnal embrace in a man’s or a woman’s just uninhabited fingers, the look level with the waves. I want to say that eventually you reach what matters coming from afar, but oh what happiness when next to you on the sheets wakes your second life. And you realize how precious is the breath of a poet in love, in the summers of his life. When I read poems, I feel I’m rinsing my face with pure heavenly water, as if I’m visiting an ailing body. And yes, to recuperate you must first fall ill. Love sickness is a chapel in a storm; it is the seven a.m. stormy rendezvous on the shredded sailcloth; it’s what your intuition or else your instinct tells you under the sea. Honestly, I never felt such a sharp pain in my heart, in my insides, and indeed in the aortic arch, except when I fell in love with that smile. And I spent days and nights of my life trying to capture it, if possible in an image, a poem, a word in love’s vowel. Never mind. I did run the risk, but what if it were true? The minefield of darkness is commensurate with an existence, which if we want to name it that would be pride. Yes, pride, and aurora borealis! Moving the body’s traces on the beach and in midnight’s cells, we encounter other aspects speaking another language, the language of the blues… On the other hand, the bow’s outer shoots and the breaths that enact the atmosphere are the only thematic part that falls to our share. And on high the phoenix birds appear different. Paramedics are music on a permissible level. And imagine they do nothing more than what their heart tells them. I mean to say, when we move along the minefield, we discover our passions and our love that explode in the depths of the horizon… So be it! The cinema is my life, and if there was yet another islet on which Saint Simon had landed, with the outer world I would have no azure thought. However, everything is that immense Wisdom the moment you live in a flower pit, although it’s a dream. You see it and awake from your job’s seven-day lethargy. Time goes round in circles and loses clusters of check rocks. Round your neck hangs nostalgia for all to see, and love as a bayonet. I mean, the entire magic of love at first sight lies in its noons and, indeed, in the most secret phosphorescent consumables. That time when you hugged me, the little birds on the pavement were eating my memory and died instantly… Besides, idiotic consequences came into operation… That’s why I fell in love with you! Then again, as they say, the natural phenomena of his painting is the profoundest “soothing sorrow”. And it’s not only this. It’s also love that never and nowhere abandons itself. If it is to be born, it leads you tenderly to sheets and hypodermic feelings. How can you circulate in the landscape if now and again you suffocate in the most archaic construction, even if it protects you in time of war. I mean, if you are to fight a duel with everything in the sea’s powers, you write on the bodies that offer themselves to you - write about that invisible aspect of you. If only those angry people understood you, regardless of the problem in question… But usually the problem isn’t this; it’s in the words of Elytis: “I have no relations, of my life I tried to create a stony youth. I filled love with crosses.” And still no hope. Odour of perfection… Juvenile cuddling takes the place of poetry, and the otherwise enchanting words are lost in a gaze, and you follow me if possible to love’s sanctum. Everything talks to me, even the obedient rectangular, horizontal and vertical body that weaves a story, a memory, a past, thus delaying charm! I mean to say, love is one thing and lovemaking is another. Lovemaking lasts as long as a solstice in the middle of the Nile, flirtatiously touching the female body on its lunar module, and love always girdles significance without the fall in the deep-blue waters of Niagara Falls being feasible. Provided it is said and said forthright in breath’s blueness, irrespective of how slow-burning it may be. I’m dying for a truth, truth hovering over a book’s crimson cover. The river flows and whispers are heard; the bodies darken and cries are heard; it’s the hour I must see you in my dream; I need to understand Mésagros site and the radius of precision. I’m overwhelmed by emotion and can’t sleep; the hours are struggling with the tempest-tossed sheets. Spring has finally arrived, words will blossom again… My anxiety is poetry and the magic verses breathe in my soul. My insides explode and I learn to see my vision: a rocky shadow that deepens for a wave to receive the sea gnawing the body with brine and the moon’s lapping in dreams. Death no longer exists! Poetry and love need a human body to coexist. They need a poet in order to get drunk. Thus, the translucent word mirrored in verse is the truth that’s at stake in the city, mindless and senseless, dark atoms like a sunbeam, albeit under a magnifying glass. And if, seductively, I ask you for the Universe’s visible lips, will you kiss me? I must say that the scale of disaster appears to be wholly rewarded by fit encounters. If I want something, I want it now, and so on. Love’s jugglery never makes you rich. Poetry’s innocence comes forth and fascinates, and so you write. How else? To be or not to be a poet is a state you verify in your innermost dreams. You wake up knowing that to fall in love you must write poems and vice-versa. The most precious thing I ever received was an avalanche of physically attracted souls and bodies. Destined was also the occasion with empty wine glasses, with a circle round the table of our desires. Then came emotion. We fully understand imagination’s and choice’s body if already known or unknown. We must spend ourselves on the back of a phoenix bird and on an erotic spree when a girl falls in love with a man and vice-versa, without the totally indifferent different being incriminated. Love should drown and resurrect bodies from a flame as that of the yellow Roman candles at the back. The room is shining and silence hovers and I want to touch you, to smell you, and poetry is taking long, but it comes with a girl’s gaze on the floor, because that’s where the heart is, submerged in mist, and from where I’m speaking to you! It seems fingers resemble serenades by an orchestra in the middle of the stage, playing the piano or preferably the violin, on the track of a fibrous heart some ten years ago, and so be it. One finds truth inside one, and it’s important that writing queries be solved introspectively, the way love is also analyzed… Even though it’s not in vain! Love’s misspelling… ------------------------------------------------------- Copyright: Asimína Hasándra 2006 Translation Copyright: Yannis Goumas 2006 “Manifesto of Love, Or How One Becomes a Poet”, was read at the Hellenic Centre in London on March 21, 2006, on the occasion of World Poetry Day. STEVIE SMITH [1902-1971] Poems in Greek, translated by Markos Dragoumis, in Athens [2004-2007] Νύχτα στο Κοιμητήρι Στα πένθιμα τα χιονισμένα μονοπάτια, Γύρω απ’ τα μνήματα, οι θρηνούντες περιφέρονται Στοχαζόμενοι τους νεκρούς τους Οι φράχτες του αυλόγυρου μαυρίζουν μέσ’ στη νύχτα Και το χιόνι γύρω πιο έντονα ασπρίζει. Στο μέρος αυτό ανατριχιάζω Όπως και με κάθε φεγγαρόλουστο πενθούντα Απ' αυτούς κανέναν δεν γνωρίζω Μα παράξενοι, πολύ παράξενοι, αλλόκοτοι μου φαίνονται Μοιάζουν μ’ αυτό το τυρί το γλυκόξινο, αν το ξέρετε Τα πόδια τους μυρίζουν. Κι όμως να βηματίζω πρέπει Τριγύρω απ' τους νεκρούς μου, Και να μαντεύω τη μορφή τους μέσ' τον τάφο Ν' ακούω της κάθε μασέλας το κροτάλισμα Καμμιά αγάπη δεν μπορεί να αναστήσει Κι' όμως στέκομαι δίπλα στο νεκρό μου όπως κι εκείνοι στους δικούς τους Ω! Χάρε πικρέ που τις αγάπες μας έκλεισες σ’ ένα στενό κιβούρι. Λουίζα Γιατί ’ναι τόσο το παιδί χλωμό Γιατί κάθεται μονάχο σα χαζό Σε μιαν ανάποδη βαλίτσα Εδώ σ' αυτό το θλιβερό σαλόνι; Λουίζα πού πήγε το χαμόγελο σου; Χαιρέτησε με «πώς είσθε» και «τι κάνετε» Τον κύριο Τιζανίου. Γιατί ’ναι τόσο το παιδί χλωμό; Μα με το τρένο ταξίδευαν ολονυχτίς Από τη Βουδαπέστη. Ω ! το καημένο το παιδί. Κι έμειναν από λεφτά Και γι’ άλλα τηλεγράφησαν στο σπίτι Και τώρα, φευ, μένουν εδώ Σε μίζερο ξενώνα Με το ζεύγος Τιζανίου (Ξέρετε από την Αστόρια) Αντί στου Ritz να ξαπλαρώνουν Την άκρα πολυτέλεια. Το πρόωρα ώριμο παιδί είναι ωχρό Της Ευρώπης όλες τις πρωτεύουσες γνωρίζει. Ξέρει για τα Wagon-Lits τα πάντα Και για της πρώτης θέσης τις φροντίδες Αλλά στο ίδιο μέρος ποτέ δεν έμεινε αρκετά Να προλάβει τις βαλίτσες της ν’ αδειάσει Στον πλησιέστερο σταθμό του τρένου Η σκέψη της πάντα τριγυρνά Η μαμά, η νταντά και η Λουίζα Η καπελιέρα, το μπαούλο και οι βαλίτσες Και μια που χάθηκε στη Μασσαλία Κι εύχεται θλιμμένο το παιδί «Να μπορούσα, αχ, να μένω Για δυο βδομάδες, έστω, σ’ ένα μέρος» Μ' ένα φλυτζάνι τσάι Της μαμάς της έφτιαξαν τα κέφια «Μη κορούλα μου μουτρώνεις Γράμμα πήρα απ' το μπαμπάκα Δήθεν του σώθηκαν τα ντόλαρς, ψάχνει να βρει... Τρίχες, παιδί μου, τρίχες, Βοήθα τώρα τη νταντά Τις βαλίτσες μας ν’ αδειάσει Θα μείνουμε εδώ αρκετά Πριν ξεκινήσουμε γι’ Αθήνα – Μέση Ανατολή» Στο θλιβερό αυτό σαλόνι Λίγο χαμένα τα ’χει η παιδούλα Πώς της εισακούστηκε αμέσως η ευχή Της φέρνει κάποια ταραχή. Ο σύζυγος της ζούγκλας Έβελιν αγάπη μου συχνά σε σκέπτομαι Με του κυνηγιού τα όπλα εδώ στη ζούγκλα. Ιπποπόταμο χθες βάρεσα Και για σε του πήρα μέτρα Μα τα ’χασα μεσ’ στο κομφούζιο. Ελάχιστα πια πίνω, πίστεψε με Το κλίμα εδώ δεν το σηκώνει. Μονάχος αύριο θα χωθώ στη ζούγκλα Βαθιά μεσ’ τη καρδιά της το γκρίζο βασιλεύει Και πρασινάδα μόνο στα ύψη της διακρίνεις Και κορμό κάποιο αν βρεις πεσμένο Ο ήλιος (ω τι φρίκη) σε ζεματίζει. Κι όταν καίει θα ήταν λάθος Σε λίμνη να βουτήξεις ιδρωμένος. Έβελιν τριγύρω σέρνονται ανακόντες Που λίαν χορτάτες μοιάζουν. Αυτά ειν’ τα νέα απ' τον άντρα σου χρυσή μου Τον Γουίλφρεντ τον αφοσιωμένο. Ο Φάφνερ κι οι ιππότες Στη γαλήνια Του δάσους λιμνούλα Ο δράκος Φάφνερ Τη γλώσσα θα δροσίσει Θα τη δροσίσει Και τη μουσούδα του θα βρέξει Ως να ξεπλυθεί γλυκά Του ρύγχους του η άκρη Πλάσμα μακάριο, απλοϊκό Θωρακοφόρο, ο δράκος Με βλέμμα πράο, λαμπερό Κι ουρά που κυματίζει Μακάριος ήσουν δράκε Το πάλαι ποτέ Πριν δίσεκτοι οι χρόνοι Για τους δράκους γίνουν Σύντομα της Αλλαγής οι Ιππότες Ιδίοις χερσί τους δράκους Μεσ’ στη καρδιά θα σαϊτέψουν Ξεκληρίζοντας τους Όχι ακόμα, αλλά θα ’ρθεί Η μέρα εκείνη η ζοφερή Όμως εν τω μεταξύ Γλυκά η σιέστα να σ' ευφραίνει Ξεκουράσου Φάφνερ Όσο σ’ αφήνουν Στα ψηλά χορτάρια Να ξαποσταίνεις Εσύ πλάσμα απονήρευτο Καημένε πού να ξέρεις Ότι οι Ιππότες έρχονται Να σε ξεκάνουν Το σώμα Και την περήφανη ψυχή σου Θα κατακερματίσουν Θάρρους παράσημα να πάρουν Όταν το αίμα σου χυθεί Και το πράο Είναι σου Με φόβο και οδύνη Απατηλά στο θάνατο οδηγηθεί Φάφνερ τότε θα σου πω Καλλίτερα νεκρός που είσαι Γιατί πυρπόλησαν οι Ιππότες την τροφή σου Χορτάρι πια δεν έχεις. Ο άμυαλος πατέρας Μικρέ μου Λόρδε Επιστρέφοντα-απ’ το- Κολλέγιο Να το τσιφλίκι που θα διαφεντέψεις, Πώς νιώθεις με τον άμυαλο πατέρα που έχεις; Με υποθήκες και τα τοιαύτα Με τη μοίρα του τα ’βαλε, χρεοκοπώντας, Και το κεφάλι του τρύπησε με σφαίρα. Καλός άμυαλος ήταν, Μικρέ μου Λόρδε Επιστρέφοντα -απ’ το- Κολλέγιο. Η θείτσα γιατί φοράει τέτοια καπέλα Και τα λόγια της μπερδεύει; Σαν παλαβή μου φαίνεται. Τόσα άλογα ο μπάτλερ τι μου τα φέρνει; Η μάνα σου το τέθριππο γιατί αποφεύγει; Μάλλον κάποια έκπληξη, για το τσάι μας μαγειρεύει. Μικρέ μου Λόρδε Επιστρέφοντα-απ’ το- Κολλέγιο Η μάνα σου κείται νεκρή και παγωμένη, Την ανόητη ! Δεν άντεξε η καρδιά της. Καλπάζοντας τα άλογα προς τον σταθμό οδεύουν, Κι ο μπάτλερ γυρεύει να μαντέψει αν κάτι ξέρω. Και φθάνει (τουτ-τουτ) ο Μάστερ ο Επιστρέφων-απ’ το-Κολλέγιο Που είχε έναν πέρα για πέρα άμυαλο πατέρα. Κούτσα – κούτσα Τα όμορφα λουλούδια σου δεν τα ξεχνώ Ούτε και το θαυμαστό κιμονό Που στον καναπέ φορούσες, όταν Σαν κουλουριασμένος τίγρης κάθισες Και «δεν σε αγαπώ» μου είπες. Πώς τότε ένιωσα ρωτάς, μα δε θυμάμαι Να με πονέσεις τώρα δεν θα μπορούσες Πιο ήρεμα τη λύπη, το θυμό, ο χρόνος μέσα μου Που πέρασε καταλαγιάζει. Κούτσα-κούτσα πλέον βαδίζω. Ο πενθών κύκνος Μελανός Κύκνος Στη λίμνη Σαν πλάκα σαπουνιού. Κύκνος Μελανός Γιατί στη λίμνη; Ελπίδα πλέον δεν έχει. Μελανός Κύκνος Εν πλω Την κεφαλήν κλίνει. Ω ! ας είχα αποθάνει λέγει Για εκείνη την κειμένη Κι από το βλέμμα μου κρυμμένη Στο σάβανο της Σύντροφο μου. Το πήδημα του Χάρολντ Πού είσαι Χάρολντ, μήπως κοιμάσαι; Ποτέ δεν ξεχνώ το πήδημα σου Για τη ζωή σου μεγάλο ήταν το ρίσκο Κι όμως τόλμησες με θάρρος. Κάθετα στον ουρανό σκαρφάλωναν δυο βράχοι Απ’ τον έναν πήδηξες στον άλλον Και βούτηξες στης θάλασσας την ταραχή. Φοβόταν ο Χάρολντ τα ιλιγγιώδη ύψη Το φόβο του γύρευε να υπερνικήσει Κι ήρθε η ώρα του να δοκιμάσει Δεν είχε άδικο νομίζω Μα μόνο θάνατο κατάφερε να κερδίσει Εσείς κύριοι τι λέτε; Να λοιπόν τούτα τα βάραθρα Γιατί «Πήδημα του Χάρολντ» τα ονομάζουν Κι όμως τόλμησες με θάρρος. Περιπλανώμενο στοιχειό Την άκουσα, καθώς τριγύριζε, να κλαψουρίζει «Πάλι να βυζάξω θέλω, μωρό δε βύζαξα αρκετά» Τα τζάμια χτυπά καθώς περνά Μα πως είναι μάταιο δεν καταλαβαίνει Στα φτερά του ανέμου μεσάνυχτα πλανιέται η φωνή της Μέσα πιο καλά θα ήταν μήπως; Έξω καλλίτερα μακριά στου ανέμου το λυσσομάνι Όπου καμμιά δεν έχει πόρτα ή παραθύρι Τούτο το αξιολύπητο στοιχειό κανείς δεν είδε Ίσως μόνο να τ’ άκουσαν τα τζάμια με σκούντημα ελαφρό ν’ αγγίζει Ή ξανά όπως και πριν να κλαψουρίζει «Πάλι να βυζάξω θέλω, μωρό δε βύζαξα αρκετά». Οι γάτοι μου (Μιλάει μια μάγισσα) Μ’ αρέσει σαν τη μπάλα να τον παίζω Δεν είναι δα τόσο βαρύς Ταμταρίκι-ταμταρέλος, ο γάτος μου ο Θαλής. Μ’ αρέσει στα κρυφά να τον τσιμπάω Όταν κανένας απ’ τον δρόμο δεν περνά Ταμταρίκι-ταμταρέλος, ο γάτος μου ο Μενελά. Μ’ αρέσει να τον πειράζω, να θυμώνει Να τον βλέπω στην κουζίνα να τρυπώνει Ταμταρίκι-ταμτάρελος, ο γάτος μου ο Ρόνι. Γεια σας Θαλή, Μενελά και Ρόνι Και ποιος στο μνήμα που καθόσαστε εσάς δεν καμαρώνει! Πνιγόμουνα, δε χαιρετούσα Τον πεθαμένο κανένας δεν τον άκουσε Κι όμως ακόμα στέναζε: «Από εκεί που νομίζατε, πιο μακριά βρισκόμουν και πνιγόμουνα, δε χαιρετούσα» Τον καημένο, τόσο του άρεζαν οι πλάκες Και τώρα κείτεται νεκρός Θα ’ταν το κρύο πολύ για τη καρδιά του Έτσι είπαν. Μα το νερό παγωμένο ολοένα ήταν (Του νεκρού οι φωνές ακόμα αντηχούσαν) «Πιο μακριά στη ζωή μου πάντα βρισκόμουν Και σας λέω πνιγόμουνα, δε χαιρετούσα». Βιογραφικό σημείωμα Stevie Smith (1902 to 1971) Stevie Smith was born in Hull in September 1902, the second daughter of Ethel and Charles Smith. She was christened Florence Margaret, but always called Peggy by the family. She acquired the name Stevie as a young woman when she was riding in the park with a friend who said that she reminded him of the jockey, Steve Donaghue. Stevie's father runs away to sea When she was three years old her father left home. His business as a shipping agent, which he inherited from his father, was failing and so was his marriage and he ran away to sea, becoming a ship's purser. Stevie saw very little of her father, he appeared seldom and sent very brief postcards, e.g. Off to Valparaiso Love Daddy'. She resented the fact that he had abandoned his family. She found him boring and always disliked him. The extended female family moves to London's suburbs Her aunt, Madge, Ethel's sister, came to live with them after Charles left. One of their widowed aunts also attached herself and pooling all their resources the three women and two little girls moved to Palmers Green, then on the edge of London. Stevie's family were regular churchgoers and Stevie enjoyed the hymns and psalms. Later her relationship with religion became ambiguous. Although agnostic and often antagonistic to Christianity she said there was always a danger that she would lapse into belief. Stevie is sent to a TB sanatorium When Stevie was five she developed tuberculous peritonitis and was sent to a sanatorium near Broadstairs, where she remained off and on for several years. She related that her preoccupation with death began when she was seven, at a time when she was very distressed at being sent away from her mother. She thought that if she kept on crying and refusing to eat she would die, and her misery would end. When she found she did not die immediately, she began to think that she need not die today, death could be put off to another day. However she always kept in her mind the thought that death could be summoned at any time if she decided that her suffering was more than she could bear. She continued to find this thought helpful when she became depressed. Death fascinated her and is the subject of many of her poems. Schooldays and the death of her mother Stevie went to a local girls school, but did not go to university, she says her teachers did not feel she was suited for university. Perhaps also she did not want to become a teacher, which was about the only career open to a female graduate at that time. Her mother died of heart disease when she was sixteen, a harrowing experience for Stevie. However her aunt Madge, a stalwart and sensible no nonsense Yorkshire woman continued to mother Stevie for the rest of her life, or at least until she became so infirm that Stevie had to look after her. Stevie called her aunt 'the lion of Hull' or 'the lion Aunt'. Aunt was not a literary person, regarding Stevie's early poems as 'unnecessary1. Stevie becomes a secretary and gets engaged Stevie wanted to be an explorer when she left school but she ended up in a secretarial college and then worked in a publishing firm, Newnes. She was the private secretary to Sir Neville Pearson, who was at one time married to the actress Gladys Cooper. This occupation was much beneath her talents but gave her time to write. Her first novel was called 'Novel on Yellow Paper' as it had been typed on the firm's yellow paper. During her twenties Stevie read extensively, and used the notes she made then throughout her writing career. She also attended art exhibitions regularly and in 1928 met a student from Germany, Kail Eckinger, who was also interested in art. She visited Germany in 1929 with KaTl7luid"agaiii in 1931, by which time the relationship with Karl was over, although she met him by chance on her visit. In 1932 she became involved with a young man from Palmers Green, Eric Armitage, who apparently became very upset when Stevie decided she did noTwant to many him. The poem Freddy, tells the reader how she does not "fit into his 'meelyou', and he is regarded as dull by her literary friends. Stevie never married, and said that she would not have been much good as a housewife and mother, (probably true). Certainly remaining with aunt had advantages for her as a writer, she had a room of her own and someone dependable and undemanding to look after her. Stevie's first novel and collection of poems is published Although she had been writing regularly for about ten years it was not until 1934 that Stevie submitted some of her poems to a literary agency. Apparently she was given the rather strange advice to write a novel and she did. Novel on Yellow Paper appeared in 1936. It's an unusual stream of consciousness novel closely based on Stevie's own life, and was immediately popular. She acquired a wide circle of literary friends, with whom she often stayed for weekends or longer. However she continued to live with Aunt in Palmers Green, a fact which friends found inconvenient when they were asked to drive her home after parties in London. Her first book of poems, A Good Time Was Had By All, appeared in 1937. In 1938 her second novel Over the Frontier, and her second book of poems, "Tender only to One' were published, and in 1942 more poems, 'Mother, What is Man?' During the war she did fire-watching duty in London. Stevie develops her writing and friendships In 1949, her father, who had remarried and then been widowed for the second time, died. Stevie declined to attend the funeral, she was reading a poem for the BBC that day. The same year Stevie's third and last novel, the Holiday, was published. All her novels are lightly fictionalised accounts of her own life, which got her into trouble at times as people recognised themselves. Stevie said that two of the male characters in her last book are different aspects of George Orwell, who was close to Stevie; there were even rumours that they were lovers; he was married to his first wife at the time. Stevie once said that she found it difficult to get the 'a deux 'fix and her relationship to her aunt was possibly the strongest affection of her life. Frances Spalding in her Critical Autobiography writes that one of Stevie's lesbian friends told her that Stevie had a short lived affair with her not long after the war. Stevie has been claimed by lesbians as one of them but it's impossible to know whether this lesbian affair, if true, was an experiment or an intrinsic expression of her personality. The fifties are difficult for Stevie In 1950 another book of Poems, Harold's Leap was published, but Stevie found it difficult to find magazines that wanted her poetry and her secretarial job at the publishing house became less congenial. In 1953 she had some sort of crisis at work. What happened is not known exactly butjhecuther wrists. This does not seem to have been a serious attempt at suicide, she was taken to hospital and then to a friends house and was reported to be angry rather than depressed, and later very remorseful because she had upset her aunt. She recovered after a holiday in Pembrokeshire but was retired from the publishing firm on health grounds and given a small pension of £5.10 shillings a week. She supplemented her income with book reviews on a variety of subjects including theology. These books often sparked off poems. In 1957 the collection, Not Waving But Drowning came out. In 1958 a collection of her sketches, Some Are More Human Than Others. In 1959 she wrote the text for the Batsford Book of Cats in Colour, ( she probably needed the money) and edited the Batsford book of Children's Verse. Fame again and the death of aunt in the sixties In the 1960's she became popular again, appearing frequently at poetry readings with younger poets, among them Michael Horovitz. She read her poems for the BBC and made a long playing record. She was pleased to be popular with young audiences and took a great deal of care with the performance of her poems, often half singing them. In 1962 the first edition of her Selected Poems appeared. In 1966 The Collection 'The Frog Prince' was published. Her elderly aunt became increasingly disabled, and for the first time in her life Stevie learnt to peel vegetables and run the house. She cared for her aunt as she had been cared for until the old lady had a stroke and died in 1968 at the age of ninety six. Stevie's death from a brain tumour In 1969 another collection of poems, the Best Beast, was published. Her sister, who had been a teacher and was also unmarried, had a heart attack in 1963, and although they were not very compatible Stevie spent quite a lot of time with her following Aunt's death. In 1970 Stevie became ill, noticing that she was often unable to find words, a terrible thing to happen to a poet, and was found to be suffering from a brain tumour. Stevie died in Devon, where her sister lived, in March 197land was cremated in Torquay crematorium. Her last collection, Scorpion and other Poems was published posthumously in 1972 and the Collected Poems in 1975. This is unfortunately out of print at present in the UK although it is still available in the USA where is is published by New Directions and can be bought from www.amazon.com. Visit http://www.steviesmith.org/ to sign a petition to promote the republication of Stevie's Collected Poems in the UK. Sources To write this short biography I read Stevie Smith, a Critical Biography, by Frances Spalding, published by Faber in 1988 and republished in 2002, Stevie, a Biography of Stevie Smith by Jack Barbera and William McBrien, published by William Heinmann Ltd in 1985 and now out of print, Me Again, Uncollected Writings of Stevie Smith, published by Virago Press in 1981 and also out of print and In Search of Stevie Smith edited by Stanford Sternlicht and published in 1991 by Syracuse University Press, New York. I also read Stevie's autobiographical novels, Novel on Yellow Paper, Over the Frontier and The Holiday. If you would like to order any of these books on line click on the Amazon UK Books Home ΑΣΗΜΙΝΑ ΧΑΣΑΝΔΡΑ Η ΡΑΧΗ ΤΟΥ ΦΟΙΝΙΚΑ Η νύχτα ξυπνάει και αναρωτιέται πάντα για το κάθε Τέλος εποχής, μια και η δική σου κλωνοποίηση είναι θέμα χρόνου, διαψεύδεις και αυταπατάσαι ωστόσο —σα να μην υπάρχεις! Μεθάς και μαθαίνεις να μετράς τους φόβους σου ανάμεσα στην αλήθεια και το ψέμα, αν και το διακρίνεις πια αμυδρά —φεύγεις φευ.. - Που ήσουν αγάπη μου χτες; - Μάθαινα την πατριδογνωσία του χάρτη σου αν και χρόνια τώρα κρατάς φυλαγμένο το παλτό του Αρταξέρξη και το νυφικό της Διοτίμας — εσύ σε μιαν άλλη εποχή καθιστάς ορατό το σημαίνον και αόρατη την πραγματικότητα.. - Τι να πιστέψω; ΜΕΣΟΝΥΧΤΙΟ ΤΟΥ ΚΗΠΟΥ Και εάν κοιτούν οι στρόφιγγες το βλέμμα σου αλήθεια σαν να μην είναι Παντού κρατά η μνήμη μια συστολή μέσα και έξω από αυτό Παραπαίουν τα χέρια σε μια μικρή χειρονομία σαν να μην είναι και αυτό Στο τέλος γιατί τέλος δεν υπάρχει ξυπνάς! Μαθαίνεις να μετράς τους φόβους σου και δεν είναι τίποτε Απλά η νύκτα είναι πιο μεγάλη από πριν και δεν μοιάζει τίποτε μ' αυτό Βρέχει φωνήεντα και λογάριθμους εφηβικά ημερολόγια και μια μικρή ιστορία Σαν να μην φτάνει αυτό το Λονδίνο είναι παροντικό μέλλον Μοιάζεις να πιστεύεις τις Μούσες των παιδικών σου χρόνων και Με την ηλικία των ημερών μπλαβίζει το τοπίο Κρύβεις την ιστορία σου και καταστρέφεις τα δάκρυα Γιατί ανοίγεις ένα θηρίο να σε κατασπαράξει εντός του Τείχους του Βερολίνου Δεν είναι τίποτε, άλλη μία ιστορία του φέγγους σου μες στο ηλιακό φως Και τρως με την ίδια μανία τα δάχτυλα σου όταν γράφεις ένα ποίημα για την νύκτα σου ΤΟ ΕΤΕΡΟΘΑΛΕΣ (εκ του πλησίον) Για τον μικρό Ανδρέα Εμπειρίκο... Για να γινόμαστε ακριβείς με τα ερεθίσματα μιας πραγματικής ζωής στην σύγχρονη ελληνική ποίηση είναι και η τάση της παγκοσμιοποίησης στην έκδοση νέων ελληνικών ποιητικών συνθέσεων που θα έπρεπε να ενδιαφέρουν και τον Ιάπωνα ποιητή όπως και την αγγλοσαξωνική κουλτούρα και δη το μεταποιημένο αμερικάνικο όνειρο της Ιταλίδας συγγραφέας παιδικών παραμυθιών, άκρως ποιητικών και γνωστής πια ως Madonna–εννοώντας καταρχήν την κατανόηση της προσωπικής ταυτότητας του κάθε ποιητικού σώματος- στα νερά των βραδυφλεγών ερώτων ενίοτε και της ρίζας του DNA του καθενός. Η σημερινή κατάσταση στην Ποιητική Τέχνη είναι αρκούντως φιλόξενη στο αναγνωστικό κοινό με μόνη προϋπόθεση αναλύσεων τού μόνο γνωστικού αντικειμένου για τη λεγόμενη «γενιά του υπερκειμένου» ή αλλιώς «…γενιά τους χάους» που διάκειται από τη γένεση της φαινομενολογίας του χωρισμού και της απώλειας. Η ταυτότητα είναι προσωπική υπόθεση διαχείρισης των λέξεων, φθογγικών συνόλων, προτάσεων, συντακτικής δομής και καθόλα εναίσθησης της συγκίνησης που εμπεριέχει ο κυμάτων ρυθμός και ο κάθε στίχος, για να πάμε πάλι ξανά από την αρχή. Στην παιδική ηλικία που ορίζει ένα μεταμοντέρνο μοτίβο έναρξης γνωριμίας με τον Κόσμο και την πρώτη επαφή με αυτό που λέμε «νοούμενον» και «νοητό». Ο άνθρωπος-ποιητής που γεννιέται αδιάκοπα μέσα στις λέξεις, αναγνωρίζει ότι η ονομαζόμενη γνωριμία με την εσωτερική του φωνή είναι πολύ σημαντική όπως ένα παιδί απέναντί σου όπου δεν ομιλεί παρά έχει ένα τεράστιο ερωτηματικό στο βλέμμα. Αυτό είναι, ο ποιητής και το ερωτηματικό που πρέπει να έχει με την ζωή που τον περιβάλλει όντας ένα άκρως πολιτικό όν. Η γνώση της γραφής και της ανάγνωσης είναι προσωπική υπόθεση και της Τέχνης και της Επιστήμης, οσονούπω. Θα μπορούσε να σταματήσει η εξέλιξη της ποιητικής γραφής; Μετά την δεκαετία του ’90 άρχισε ουσιαστικά ο καταιγισμός ποιητικών βιβλίων από όλους τους εκδοτικούς οίκους σύγχρονων ποιητών και δη τη δεκαετία 2000-10 αρκούντως διαμορφώνεται η σύγχρονη ποίηση της Ελλάδας. Πώς αλλιώς; Μια χώρα με την ποιητική εμβρίθεια σε κάθε βλέμμα και τον τρόπο να συγκινεί με τις νέες δομές του διαδικτύου. Εύκολο να κατανοηθεί! Το λεγόμενο «υπερκείμενο» φαίνεται να δίνει και να παίρνει σε σημασιολογική ενότητα στην στίξη και στο πώς κινείται ο ανθρώπινος οργανισμός στο Σύμπαν, έτσι και οι λέξεις. Διαχέονται όπως τα αιμοσφαίρια, αυτόματα, στο κυκλοφορικό σύστημα του Ανθρώπου. [παραλλαγή] 2. Μοιάζει να ερχόμαστε ολοένα αντίθετοι με τις απώλειες μας και τα φαινόμενα μας κακοποιούν. Θέλω να πω ότι η αισθητική της ωραιότητας γίνεται σπάνιο πλάσμα που περιφέρεται επαρκώς στο Σύμπαν ενός δωματίου και μιας εν γένει ποιητικής μονάδας στη σκέψη. Ξέρω, όσα θυμάμαι να γίνονται ακριβώς φλεγόμενα ύδατα και όχι, πια. Κάπου χάνονται και τα γράμματα χειρόγραφα με μπλε βαθυκύανο μελάνη, ανάγλυφες λέξεις και δάκρυα η «ομολογία» και η μονόπετρη γραμματοσειρά –χειρόγραφη απαίτηση. Αλλά, δεν μπορεί να είναι μόνον, έτσι. Τα <πάντα ομολογούν> και τα γονίδια εξασκούν την μαγεία στην Ποιητική Τέχνη, λες και γεννήθηκε ένα μέλλον. Ας το σκεφτούμε, <φανταστούμε> λιγάκι όπως τα πάντα κυοφορούνται χρονικά με την δια ζώσης επικοινωνίας μελέτη. Ναι, ομιλούμε και φτάνει απλώς να κοιταχτούμε στον Καθρέπτη. Το «Μονόγραμμα» και η μεταλλαγή της φωνής, της ίδιας φωνής, ένρινη οσονούπω. Το θαύμα μας κυνηγάει ερήμην και στο σκοτάδι ενός θαλάμου νοσοκομείου, μ’ έναν άνδρα γυρισμένο προς το Παράθυρο και ποτέ προς την πόρτα, τα σεντόνια και το καλοκαίρι που μόλις μπαίνει Άνοιξη του ’93, ο ποιητής Οδυσσέας Ελύτης, που μόλις έχει ανέβει από την μονάδα Εντατικής θεραπείας του Ευαγγελισμού στο 1007. Είναι η Ποίηση που μας καταδιώκει ερήμην. Με το βιβλίο «Εκ του πλησίον» καταλήγω «είναι διγαμία να αγαπάς και να ονειρεύεσαι». Ακόμη, και αν το Παν είναι η πρώτη γνωριμία με την Αλήθεια και τον πατέρα Ποιητή! […] [Γράφτηκε πριν 2 χρόνια εις μνήμη του Οδυσσέα Ελύτη, και δόθηκε στην εφημερίδα ΚΑΘΗΜΕΡΙΝΗ εις άλλη μορφή.Η τελική αυτή μορφή, αφιερώνεται στον πατέρα μου...] ΜΑΡΚΟΣ ΔΡΑΓΟΥΜΗΣ 8 ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΑ 1. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΣΤΟΥΣ ΑΓΡΟΥΣ Από το τζάμι του πύργου στο λιβάδι βλέπω – όχι και πολύ καθαρά – ένα βόδι. Με το κρέας του ίσως φτιάξουν λουκάνικα ή κιμά για τους θαμώνες του γειτονικού καπηλειού. Πιο πέρα, μια χήνα τσαλαβουτάει ανέμελα στα κρύα νερά της λίμνης μας. Εδώ πλένουν τα ρούχα τους οι χωριατοπούλες με τις τριχωτές μασχάλες και κολυμπούν τα καλοκαίρια ολόγυμνες κάτω απ’ το φως του φεγγαριού και το αδιάκριτο βλέμμα του κατά τα άλλα ανεπίληπτου «στρατηγού». Λένε πως κάποτε μιας χήρας γιος – ψηλός, μελαχρινός, με μύτη πλακουτσή και φωνή αγγελική – τού αποπλάνησε τη μάνα. Και με το πες – πες, αφού τού κανόνισε την αδελφή έγινε καπνός. Έκτοτε κυκλοφορεί η φήμη ότι ο άνθρωπος αυτός ντυμένος καλόγερος αρέσκεται να τριγυρνά στα τρίστρατα πουλώντας κομποσκοίνια. 2. Η ΕΠΙΣΤΡΟΦΗ ΤΟΥ ΑΣΩΤΟΥ Την αφορμή γι’ αυτό το ξαφνικό κυνηγητό την έδωσε ένα αυγό. Το παρολίγον θύμα όρμησε προς τον εκσφενδονιστή, που ξέφυγε μπαίνοντας φουλαριστός στο πάρκο. Το μωρό ξυπνώντας από το ποδοβολητό έμπηξε τα κλάματα. Έντρομη η μάνα το μπούκωσε με το βυζί της. Η σύλληψη έγινε κοντά στη στέρνα με τα χρυσόψαρα. Ο «στόχος» αναγνώρισε στο πρόσωπο του «φυγά» τον άσωτό του γιο. Τι απίστευτη συνάντηση! Τι δάκρυα και ρετσίνα που χύθηκαν εκείνο το βράδυ! 3. ΤΟΥ ΑΛΗ ΠΑΣΑ ΤΟ ΑΛΟΓΟ Η ίλη των αγοριών που κόλλησε στο βούρκο Ο κόκκος του σταριού που φύτρωσε στη ζαρντινιέρα Η φλόγα του πάθους που έκαιγε στα μάτια της Ο καπνός της φωτιάς που έκρυβε τον ήλιο Η πτήση των αετών στου βουνού τις ερημιές Η πομπή των αξίων που βάδιζαν ευθυτενείς Η μέθη των λαών που δεν είχε όρια Η κάμα του φονιά η αιματοβαμμένη Το πακέτο των αλιπάστων που πετάχτηκε στα σκουπίδια Η τιμή των ηττημένων, η δόξα των νικητών Το κλάμα των νηπίων στις βρεφοκοιτίδες Τα οστά των μηρών τα απογυμνωμένα Το αγκάθι του μεσημεριού που κακοφόρμισε Η στροφή του δρόμου, της νύχτας τα καμώματα Του σπανού τα γένια και του Αλή-Πασά το άλογο 4. ΚΑΤΟΛΙΣΘΗΣΗ «Σε λίγο θα είναι δικός μου» μουρμούρισε τρίβοντας τα χέρια του ο αδηφάγος γέρος καθώς πάλευα με τα νερά που κόντευαν να με σκεπάσουν. Τον πρόλαβε ο κολυμβητής. Είχε προηγηθεί η ως εκ θαύματος ματαιωθείσα πτώσις μου απ’ τον φωταγωγό. Στα βουλεβάρτα μια σφαίρα σφηνώθηκε στον τοίχο της οικοδομής δυο ίντσες απ’ τον κρόταφό μου. Η ζωή κυλούσε ευχάριστα όπως και πριν. «Σύμπτωσις θα είναι» έλεγα πλήρης αμεριμνησίας. Δεν ήταν η τελευταία. Ακολούθησαν κι άλλες με σφαίρες ή και χωρίς. Το ντεραπάρισμα στον Αχλαδόκαμπο. Τότε που το δίτροχο με ξάπλωσε στην άσφαλτο. Ατελείωτα ταξίδια στη σκοτεινή πλευρά του φεγγαριού. Κι η ώρα εκείνη η αποφράδα με το κώνειο. Τώρα στέκομαι σε μιαν απόμερη γωνιά έξω απ’ την πορεία της κατολίσθησης και περιμένω... 5. ΤΡΙΣΤΙΧΑ Κάνω ζουμ στον ουρανό Τα μάτια μου έχουν κέφια Ψάρια που βλέπω στο γιαλό Ειμ’ ένας γκαντέμης άλτης Τρίτος έρχομαι συνέχεια θύμα είμαι της Αστάρτης Βουνά μη χαμηλώνετε Οι πορδές δεν έχουν λέπια Ποιος ζει και δεν οσφραίνεται «Μη μου άπτου» θα φωνάξω Όλα της ψυχής τα ντέρτια Μεσ’ στον κάδο θα πετάξω 6. ΛΥΔΙΑ Για σένα πνοή δροσερή του αέρα Οι λύπες ανάβουν και γίνονται φως Σκιρτούνε οι φάροι, της καρδιάς οι πλεξίδες Στην άμμο φυτρώνουν αμέτρητοι κρίνοι Τ’ όνομά σου σκαλίζει στο κύμα ο αφρός Χορεύουν οι νύμφες για σε στα δασύλλια Λαλούνε οι κούκοι, ξυπνούν τη σιωπή Κι αν βαδίζω στη στέπα να βρω διεξόδους Ή αν βαριά με σκεπάζει της νύχτας το πέπλο Οι σημύδες στην όχθη που στέκω είσαι συ 7. ΑΣΧΗΜΟΣ ΚΑΙΡΟΣ Δεν θυμάμαι πως βρέθηκα κάτω απ’ το χώμα. Φορούσα μια χλαίνη χρώματος χακί, ραμμένη στην τρίχα. Με το δίκοπο μαχαίρι έκοβα φέτες-φέτες τη λάσπη. Δεν είχε προλάβει να φέξει. Κι αν έφεγγε τι θα έβλεπα; Κάποιος φώναζε, κάποιος βογκούσε. Μήπως ο Αντρέας; Αυτόν τον συνέλαβαν στο διάδρομο με τις πόρνες. Έπαιζε ζάρια με το νομικό σύμβουλο του Κράτους. Τρικ-τρακ έκαναν τα ζάρια και τον προδώσαν. Έξω η νύχτα έμοιαζε τρομακτική. Βυθιζόμουν. 8. ΡΑΠΕΝΤΟΣΑ Τον απόμερο βωμό με τα σπασμένα μάρμαρα δύσκολα θα τον διακρίνεις. Κι όμως συνεχίζει τη ζωή του ήσυχα κάτω απ’ τα φυλλώματα των δέντρων. Πυκνή είναι η βλάστηση τριγύρω. Μεσ’ στους θάμνους τα τριζόνια αναπέμπουν τις ευχαριστήριες τρίλιες τους στον ουρανό. Σήμερα, Λέοντος του οσιομάρτυρος και νύμφης Ραπεντόσας, έχουν σύναξη εδώ, όπως κάθε χρόνο, οι πιστοί. Και να, καθώς προσεύχονται, που βγαίνει απ’ τη γη μια πλουμισμένη κόρη. Έχει τον ήλιο πρόσωπο και το φεγγάρι αστήθι. Στη θέα της όλα τα μελλούμενα κακά σκορπίζουν και οι ψυχές των δεομένων χαίρουν κι αγαλλιάζουν. ΝΕΚΤΑΡΙΟΣ ΧΑΣSΑΝΔΡΑΣ [1,2] ποιήματα 1. σαν πέσει και σφαλίσει η μεγάλη πόρτα του ώριου Κάστρου, του σκοτεινού, σαν έρθουν μεσάνυχτα και λάμψει τ' ολόγιομο φεγγάρι, θα 'ρθεις και συ φίλε μου, στα ονείρατά μου. Τραγούδια παλιά, για μάχες κι αγάπες θα πούμε, που 'χουν από καιρό ξεχαστεί και μόνο ο πόνος θα ξυπνάει. σεργιάνι θε να βγούμε, πάλι, στις κοιμισμένες πολιτείες λίγο κρασί και μπύρα για να πιούμε νά 'βρουμε έτσι το θλιμμένο τροβαδούρο με την άρπα, συνθέτη όμορφου στην απλότητα. να κινήσουμε, να φτάσουμε σαν αερικά, στην κορφή του παλιού βράχου, εκεί όπου άλλοτε μιλάγαμε για δίψα. από κει, θυμάσαι; το σκοτάδι της χώρας φαίνεται καλύτερα. και σαν αντηχήσει η μελωδία της θλίψης, γρήγορα θά 'ρθει κοντά μας κείνο το φως στην πρότερη καταχνιά σου. λίγο μετά, με κάμποσα ξωτικά, θα φτάσει τρέχοντας κι ο τρελλός, με τα κουδούνια και τα μεγάλα πόδια. μα η ώρα γοργά θα 'χει περάσει. όπως πάντα το τραγούδι μας δε θα προλάβει ν' αρχίσει. ο ήλιος βγαίνοντας, θα διαλύσει τα πνεύματα κι ο τρελλός θα φύγει, το φως θα πετάξει κι εγώ θα συντροφεύσω το βουβό τραγουδιστή για πίσω, για το Κάστρο το ώριο, το φωτεινό. εσύ αγαπημένε, παλιέ συνοδοιπόρε, με τον ίδιο απαράλλαχτο τρόπο σαν άλλοτε, θα στραφείς αργά για τη χώρα σου παίρνοντας φωτιά, ανεξήγητα γιατί και λιώνοντας ώσπου να χαθείς. μα ξέρω... πάλι θα βρεθούμε και θα τραγουδήσουμε μαζί,όπως κάποτε. 2. κάθε βράδυ ανέβαινε τον ίδιο δρόμο. πέρναγε το ίδιο, παλιό σπιτάκι, το φαγωμένο, το ετοιμόρροπο. κάθε βράδυ ένας γέρος, σκυφτό απομεινάρι πλάι στ' άλλα, καθόταν πέτρινα στην πόρτα, σ' ένα σκαμνί ν' ακολουθά τη σκιά του φεγγαριού πάνω στο ρυτιδωμένο, σαν το πρόσωπό του, πλακωτό. κάθε φορά τον προσπερνούσε με σφιχτό το στόμα, με την καρδιά του κρύα, σαν τ' ασήμι και τ' ατσάλι. μα απόψε δεν ανέβηκε τον ίδιο δρόμο. δεν πέρασε το ίδιο, παλιό σπιτάκι, με τον φαγωμένο, ετοιμόρροπο γέρο. κίνησε για την άκρη της Γης, έτσι είπε. κι έφυγε για να βρει την Προφητεία του. γύρισε χώρες πολλές, γνώρισε, είδε κι έμαθε. και τα χρόνια πέρασαν, σαν να 'ταν χτες. του βάρυναν τις πλάτες. κι ο ρασοφορεμένος θάνατος έφτασε, τον έσφαξε. τώρα φάντασμα πια, γύρισε πίσω. μα δεν ανεβαίνει κείνο τον παλιό δρομάκο. μήτε διακρίνει κάποιον γέροντα στο παλιό αχούρι. μόνο στοιχειώνει τα έρημα ντουβάρια, κάθεται πλάι στην πόρτα ανέκφραστος, σκυμμένος πάνω στο πλακωτό, θέλει να θυμηθεί στην πανσέληνο, τότε που πέρναγε απ' το ίδιο μέρος προσπερνώντας ένα άλλο φάντασμα. και προσπαθεί να καταλάβει την Προφητεία του: "ο χρόνος τρέχει.πότε μπρος, πότε πίσω. Εσύ θα γίνεις ένα μ' αυτόν". Αταλάντη, Γενάρης 1990 Εύρεση στο delearpoetry.gr Εγγραφή στο newsletter Subscribe Unsubscribe Κεντρική σελίδα Παλαιότερα τεύχη Εκδότρια Επικοινωνία created by touristorama.com