«Η μάρτυρας» από το ποίημα της Ευτυχίας Παναγιώτου Μ «Η μάρτυρας τραγουδά την αλήθεια», στο βιβλίο «Χορευτές», Κέδρος, 2014, Στίχοι-απαγγελία: Ευτυχία Παναγιώτου, Μουσική: Άλκης Μπλουκίδης, Μίξη ήχου: Nobile Sound , ΑΚΟΥΣΤΕ ΕΔΩ
cutting the hand means hospital
in my book i draw a triangle.
on the upper corner: god; on the left one: my cat;
on the right: the pencil.
it’s a magical triangle
in one of my memory’s elongations
the lines unbend and slacken and move to and fro
and god becomes a black priestess, my cat a panther,
my pencil a fountain pen.
the ravenous panther desires the priestess.
the indelible fountain pen pays him off.
thus the edges disappear
and only the female
ignorant of power
winning a battle she was unaware of.
a white troupe was my lot.
perhaps a gift of necessity,
with its rod now obliging me to
act the part of a madwoman.
i abandon myself in something that gallops i throw away my medicines i tear up my miraculous papers, you are a hideout Grotta Azzura and something like a line traces another crooked one, there’s something wrong with this shape a diabolic triangle it cannot be drawn.
Santa Cecilia in moist rhythm
she never managed to speak.
well, her mouth gagged, as it was,
there was no way she could say
“i loved him, i still love him,
if he lets me be,
i’ll love him in perpetuity.”
despair is something ludicrous.
it makes her disregard the history of the world,
so many merciless bombardments
to forget the retired officer with a split knee,
such the vertigo of inglorious infinity
to be unconcerned with the dog’s head
glowing in the stars’ wound
because there was god, she’d say.
he who dragged the horse in Spain
tramping he wants me
until it neighed “No” to his blind bull.
but i was a wounded circus pony
lord, before they put her to sleep, she had
to justify her love.
even though raw.
even though coarse
to stand proudly begging
for your heart to be returned.
a thrilling relay race
you may come now, executioner,
with your carnivorous fingers.
come and find the lunch naked
it’s a music
incomplete and lively; i’m writing
the sculptor’s story.
that it won’t congeal in time.
Mark Rothko paints a canvas in blue
i carved on a leaf “I love”
pure and simple, a lone word
“now i’ll live,” i said
the future frail, formidable
“mummy,” i stammered, “is it really you?”
passion a portrait on the pillow
with a bitch’s mouth i yelled in the empty clinic
vowels squandered, her echo irksome
i said of shadows, i said of people i’m scared.
honest, terrifying; but an acceptance
i am the creation of my father, of a doctor and a chanter.
a brave doll, bearing some virility.
the hand that wrapped her, the hand that choked her
i had something different, a plastic skin.
so the sky;
the sky is mauve and i’m studying it.
inside her cries a tiny shrouded baby
the face was this,
these the breasts and this the belly.
totem totem totemism
i paint the body in gold, i swim in its bones.
love’s colours crackle
no clown belongs here
he throws my paintings into his speckled ocean.
all of the world’s hagiographies
and all of man’s benefactions,
leaves travelling in the blue sky
and me guffawing.
i live for that day
the mental home one.
for people’s celebration,
when they’ll all stay at home, the women cutting
their hair, the men crying with bleeding noses,
the electric current will be cut off, and the water, at first there’ll be
only dust, and a stroboscope’s heart
will regulate the shades of light, in a freezing chamber
everyone will be against everyone, they’ll all be revolting against
the revolution, and they’ll be grieving truths trembling with fear,
and there’ll be an eye among their sparkling teeth
and a very sharp tongue jargonizing
de rerum natura/de natura deorum anesthetized
in some way this is how they’ll convulse, how they’ll toss and turn till
their soul comes out, and it’ll come out lady-like, and the day will be
a wonderful feast the feast‘s homeless feast whilst i,
with a piece of crystal in the new world of lenses,
i’ll enjoy independence (we are all alike equal and dead
faced with enduring bureaucracy),
me, that is, of the loony-bin, me, either way,
and without being discharged, i’ll live in the shape of birds,
i live and live again
a normal day.
Scorpio went across her legs.
from that day to hold her head up
the sages’ oracles proved wrong.
never did she return nor did she send a letter
to explain the point of her depth
and the night clock rooted deeply in her bosom.
scorpio, you see, is nobody’s friend
but it did give her a compass
to find my faces in the dark
it taught her guilt
reading anew and writing again
and on the window she reads his eyes
and on the tablet she inscribes my eyes
and with the hands of one of the two
he gives a bash on the wall.
a negress’ head on the wall
all this time there was
an airship here, a horror
that i had to accept how you were
he was incapable of loving
i wanted you
to love me.
she gives you a free hand
i raise my right arm and say: heil breast.
i close my eyes and say: heil aim.
with left hand on the belly i say: heil flag.
and they shoot me with no pity.
no one can find me.
they focus on what is being said around
disreputable nonexistence, wanton void, blah-blah
and post the walls with details.
but i’m alive
i dance chaos
my name is Moralina, and yet she is not me.
my heart burns its clothes in a tipping bucket,
for its fire to rescue whatever is worth
from the tear gas.
this is well-nigh how i breathe.
how can i say it plainly?
in a throng you lose
its words are bones
language glows between separate words.
a body in bits, yearning for oneness.
i look for a hand to fill my glove.
a dangerous game is the writing game
you are looking for a smile, water in ice
or a wild flower to grow on the rocks,
in a crevice.
“The Weeping Woman” (1937)
has sprouted and runs down your back.
she climbs up and now back, on the painting.
on the wall, a bloody entanglement;
a face or inevitable time
the memory of your eyes when you could cry
emotion naturally prevails in contradictions, in gaps,
in grating sounds, in geography,
in half-finished stories.
i look for a hand to fill my glove.
i could have shouted:
“a man in the sun, a man in the sun!”
we can write about the miracle
but Mr. Elephant is descending,
he tramples my house down.
“write him off,” you had ordered once, herr lover.
i could have done so
if language wasn’t space between two lines.
everything is up in the air shining.
the Jerusalem syndrome
comes a day when everything disappears.
mantilla over the eyes, wrapped in light,
and wearing a nightdress i balance acrobatically on the railing.
i’m no longer afraid of heights, not afraid of empty space,
vertigo gravitates towards the sky
and vies with the clouds.
the meteorologist falls like rain.
rain, hug ourselves, the bodies celestial
and music a rainbow, and the buttons unbuttoned
in the open sea)
it must be the water; it disturbs my sleep.
salty, very salty; blood for the sheets.
looking high and low, you won’t find him.
not here, little girl, not with him
my nerves are a sonorous dome.
shaking body, save me.
O sea, save me.
i’m swimming on the shore of our utopia.
a taut line on the map separates us.
the temple between us, between us
everything in smithereens, a western wall of tears.
never back to the flames.
should you ever wish to get to know us, remember our kippah
and if you want to learn about your illness, look, we are dressed
with mother’s wedding gown brandishing the railing, male and female
love, barking love, we only love had we spread.
i want him running pitiful in the rain
eventually it happened.
she came like sorrow’s charity
looking with relish at its work.
the handsome man,
the saddest thing in the world,
with no relatives or friends.
this endowment suffices
for him to engrave words on his hands,
and the pencil on the page
pressing, tearing up, drowning in the triangular well.
love was saved from flesh-eaten sorrow.
a triumphal sight.
now she puts the picture right, cleans the glass
and reminiscence laughs.
suffices a chat, albeit briefly,
a slight gesture,
a tribute to madness
might be enough.
anthropography of Francesca Woodman,
the American photographer who committed suicide
at the age of 22, thus putting an end to her talent
a glint under the sheets.
a hand photographs another hand that used to write.
what cannot be truly said
is pierced through the mind.
perhaps something stirring
like a crevice, like a breath
melody in a blind system.
wrists trail on hands
along with a painful
instrumental music; a hole in the stomach.
she pukes the bed, the oppressive quiet.
the nurse will tick her off again, but she rings the little bell;
she feels nostalgic for someone to come.
whatever happened was words
a projection of her mind in a flex.
she moves her broken hip joint slowly,
an identical woodpecker,
present at the function, which is a celebration,
wearing a white Victorian-style dress
(the father is dancing in front of the window.
the brother is the rhythm’s prompter.
no step is lost, the mother is singing,
a festive atmosphere).
so festive without me
what i can’t see
is called joy
(troubling steps and discordant voices
round a receiver, and tears)
one word in agony and everything darkens again.
our daughter addicted to colours
something that cannot
honestly be said
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