YANNIS VARVERIS
Selected Poems
Translated from the Greek
By Yannis Goumas
THE BEAK
I I light fires around a single match and worship it.
II When a toenail holes my sock my whole self gathers round it.
III They leaned over the vase that I might smell them
they leaned over
and fell to the floor.
IV The flame flickered and I translated it.
V Suddenly there was a powercut and mother whipped out a penknife.
VI Murder and remorse became one, and myself a bookmark in between.
VII This year they rummaged through the grave and the only thing they found was his terrible stirring glove.
VIII A kerchiefed gipsy mouthed a word and her word became my fortune; and it means fortune, foolish bird perched on the nerve wires.
IX Death is a white pony.
X On the roads, huge breasts to rear us.
XI The beggar climbed on the Acropolis and strewed Athens with coins. The streets sparkled spick-and-span, dazzling the crowds.
XII When they asked her who Da Vinci was
it was then that she smiled.
XIII Mother, watch out! Iʼm coming into the world!
XIV Their mausoleum is situated in Sophocles Street, at the moneychangers. They sleep cautiously on the small shelves.
XV And how shall I play when the horses on the chessboard come alive?
XVI Ah, August! From my clustered pores drip gross numb mice.
XVII In the country rugged rocks, at home chipped soap.
WHAT LOVE PERPETUATES
Upthrust is a lever and you cut the thread;
you calm down,
you condense resistance and power
into a solid mass.
An insatiable appetite seizes you. Teeth, eyes
reap and sow you again and again
till you hear the noise;
you go to open
as you advance you hear other noises
you open up: a pregnant woman.
you say: itʼs kicking, the mite, it augurs well.
Iʼll play midwife and seize the loot.
My opus was of the dead.
I kindled the wavering body in her womb
nurtured it with their time.
Now bring forth
a stillborn child
or a monster.
HUGE WING ACROSS THE SHEET
Huge wing across the sheet
but where shall I go
ludicrous wing
like the friendly fist of an American
film star?
Huge wing across the sheet
a canoe crazily ploughs the river
an alligator pops out of the water
then again smoothe river
then again the wing-nestled
round egg of a bird
as if never hatched
as if I never came forth
a myopic ostrich.
You said: when negroes drink
a copper hum is heard.
And every time you tasted motherʼs
savoury okras
they reminded you of my sperm.
Huge wing across the sheet
but where shall I go
with my slippers agape
and a cool piece of watermelon laughing mouthlike
hand me the ostrichʼs glasses
that I might gobble up the piece
as in childhood, when sad,
I played the mouth organ out of tune.
STRIPTEASE FOR CHILDREN
The score written by Manos Hadjidakis for Sweet Movie
Just picture somewhere at the back a ready-made sea. Weʼll need it.
And now imagine a childrenʼs train full of children. There are Thanos, Maria, Eleni and myself, lips pale and chafed from vinegar and kissing. And in the other compartments children, their bodies covered with scars, lining the corridors and hungry for more sex after a bout of wild sex. Imagine, moreover, cats leaping over flesh, cats sinking their longest nail into the wounds, but careful to avoid the white, flawless flesh wherever it spreads.
Then young Thanos starts wanking while whistling The Volga Boatman and something like chlorine is choking me. I donʼt know what prompts me to cross myself, next to me Eleni stubs out her fag on my chest and bursts into tears, looking for her mummy and her fag. In other compartments thereʼs all sorts of goings on which are kept from us.
Now imagine that
at this very moment
and just before it plunges into the sea with all aboard
the train
became a piano.
Listen…
MY HEAD
No verse belongs to me. My friends operated them all on.
My upright friends Brassens and Ferre. And the others.
And this is no head, itʼs hate.
And mumʼs plastic lilies I laid at the Polytechnic gate.*
This is no head that doesnʼt know a bow from an arrow.
Not even killing would be a pleasure
I wouldnʼt know what weapon I used.
This is no head that smokes
strips of belly dancers
flesh and bones of ideas and wiles away the time.
So I took a chisel and gave it the works
fought the good fight at last
shod in shabby sandals, no socks, and resolute curly hair.
But still my verses are unreadable;
inside and out all my poems
are zebra-striped and I the warder.
As outside so inside I found
the mote of Sartre
in their eyes
and in my eyes I found the same wolf
suckling without consuming me.
What more can a poem need
than thread through the needleʼs eye
• in fact at night my room is full of threads –
even Homer managed it, I muse;
but whereʼs the needle that will prick my languid temples?
*Alludes to the uprising of the students of the National Technical University in November 1973, which was quelled by the military junta.
HOSTIA
Thereʼs the house.
Around, mumʼs water plants
blossoms for the bosom.
In the freezer some jolly little snakes
enabling me to change tongue
each time I vanquish flesh.
WE SHOULD VISIT LIVING POETS
We should visit living poets
especially if we happen to dwell in the same town
drop in on them from time to time
because as we spend our quiet lives
certain that they too are alive – though maybe forgotten –
we hear the sad news.
Good poets pass away one day
not because they die
of heart failure or cancer
but because on their eyelids sprout
horrendous flowers.
At first they delve in medical books
then they consult the optician
ask botanists and gardeners
science gives up
offers vague cautious words
passersby and neighbours cross themselves.
Thus the poets gradually withdraw
to the seclusion of their homes
listening to old records
writing little
less and less
mediocre stuff.
Meantime in this confinement
the horrendous flowers begin to wilt
and wither
and the poets no longer go out
not even to the nearby kiosk for cigarettes.
They sit shrunken by the fireplace
seeking answers from the fire
which eventually throws out a spark
first landing on the dry petals
then on the dry stems
all over the body
and the entire house
the surroundings
brighten for a single moment
and they are burnt to ashes.
LETTER TO BEN HUR BEFORE THE RACE
“Ben Hur
now that your plebeian strength
is game to try conclusions with us
and tonight the Delta is floodlit
for you and me
there in the paddock I draw courage
from a sensually weary retinue
that showers me with wishes and perfumes
certain of victory.
Ben Hur
the veins and muscles of your horse
lashing my mind
is punishment enough.
Now that you and the laymen in the stables
comb your cool manes
how I wish I were one of your fans
and share in your triumph;
and if it came to foul play
I first I
would give heavy water to Messalaʼs horses
I would bribe the groom
and buy off the judges.
But Ben Hur
before we match up at the post
equal as far as the foolish screaming crowd is concerned
I have but little time to write
and tell you about your noble soul
and ask if you could
if not win outright
whipping your horse under the wire
if not hold back at the start
thus allowing me a false lead
at least as if by chance
knock your wheel
against mine
and so upset my chariot
hurling me to the ground.
Grant me I beseech you
such an unavoidable coincidence, such an honourable defeat
amid your already crowned glory.
Ben, have mercy on me, a patrician, as you
only you can.
I thank you
a firm believer in your victory, Messala.”
YOUR BODY AND I
We are much travelled
your body and I
we have imagined
all that a body and an I
can possibly imagine.
My body and I
have dreamt of
your body in poses
unthought of by you.
You have no place here now
what do you seek
between me
and your body?
THE SLOW REVENGE OF ELBOWS
Living
you forget about your elbows
you never bother to look at them.
Heavy beams,
you know
they hold well
like crusty bread.
But the elbows are always at it.
Bit by bit the flesh
grows flabby
the bones stand out
make a dash
pierce the flesh
scratch the skin
they dart out
howling
and you bite the dust.
Τα πρωτότυπα;