`
`
ENTRY
When and how did
all these mountains
and lakes manage
to become our words
and dreams
at the time of deprivation
and need?
The fire will not be extinguished
the world will not be saved
it remains in desire.
`
*
MORNING ON PARNON
Itʼs always the first bird
lonesome
usually on the middle branches
impatient
to tell all
it canʼt even wait for the peep of day
I too learned to say it
or – der
beau – ty
or – der
beau – ty.
`
*
THE PISTON
again
pierces you when you least expect it
for that matter is it not the norm
to penetrate you without conveyance
or the tricks of pen-pushers?
We remember those days
those of hours of glowing iron
a firebrand in the eyes,
burning solely for us
itʼs the moments, the slots
of fermentation
the entire set of foiled loves
–and itʼs not delusion—
it passes and spits at us
and returns.
`
*
STRUGGLE FOR A LIVING
Since he has fun
in these verses
and enjoys having a rest in the afternoon
the day before he sent them on his mobile phone
it was raining hard and he was chilled to the bone
now he reads them again and again
au fond they are sore
but they warm him
he hears Sappho clearly and maybe Irinna
as the screen shines in this depressing
January darkness
and he takes time on him
that he feels light as a feather and fools himself
in glory.
`
*
PARCHMENTSʼ RESTORATION
I turn a page, but itʼs you Iʼm looking at
you never hide, they call you a sacrificer
you come looking for me in a hapless hermitage
you donʼt tremble, you donʼt talk, you know the loose
body inside out, my bowels
I give way, I follow you like a dog
I no longer define even my breath
I reach as far as Alaska, awkward wish
like a raccoon, they go around asking
but turn in time, stealing doom
should I bend down on the soil of Cameroon
masks everywhere, forests of steam
I canʼt keep up with you, Iʼm fagged out, gasping
Sirius is holding me along with Orion
so as to stop falling, Iʼm sprinkling mourning
I stay up all night, the beast is drinking a flame
I eat, forget, bite a rotten apple
Iʼm not going to spend another wild night out
you read me, yes, with insidious zeal
you cut the days with a murderous knife
Iʼll shortly be one with you
a virtuous but sterile luck, the broken pen
rained bitter black ink
a stuttering child that was spanked was running
I turn on the other side, turn a page
Iʼll be swimming in the black water
I havenʼt regretted anything that Iʼve seen
as it still shines in my mind: Blooming.
`
*
IN THE LAND OF THE ETHIOPIANS
Standing up, dressed in the white of faith
kinswomen of deserts and plagues
faces only just visible
and they not entire
they pray next to each other
slim, dowries of the air,
in church gardens
for a moment they lean
and forget themselves against the walls of vigils
to bear doctrines and fasting
affection with the Copts now
with Cepheus, Cassiopeia
whispering Andromeda
wanting to buy water
salt and corn.
`
*
CLEAR SKY
The day has almost been saved in the word
but it again asked me for all
apt members rich waves blonde hair
every second is worthwhile, hymenʼs pleasure
deep in spring a bird is learning
light, the glory of waters, the clean agate
crazy with colours the mind leans, can you see? It gapes
to bear the pain of changes, as March
so wants, as a bear wakes up at a warm hour
to taste the entire world to taste honey with milk and not
poisons in the air, the curse, the arrows
dry luck, it doesnʼt know where to hide, tough bitterness
it runs to save itself, only marshes around –
will it dream again of the remote cave?
`
*
KHARTOUM
The sand rises again,
the way the hand rises to hide the face,
slowly at first
–the shatter hesitates—
then with force and haste
to become panicʼs dense sheet
impervious to the vanquished look.
A sign of weather change or the Nileʼs nemesis?
Yes, on its way the cough will choke anything it finds.
Regime dust.
Excitement usually follows
our survival in the momentum of a nature
superior to death.
We see the world again.
Anniversary of scenes that endured.
A glass of clean water
the renewal of our expectations
for a greater and easier
profit.
`
*
DAILY PROGRAMME
I hear: Panormitis … of gold and ivory … Komotini …
I remember them
just as I had spelled them for the first time
but I wanted them exclusively mine in the near future
the Primary School treasure
where every new word
mainly by the Teacher
or the chap I shared desk with
who never lifted his head from his books
every new country on the wrinkled map
next to the blackboard
surprise of existence.
`
*
THE ILLUSION OF MUSIC
Outside it looks like a purlieu, inside it hides chaos
a vast destructive mainland of vanities
the black hole of the eyes
do you remember where I lived?
I am back after years and itʼs cold
sirens not of panic but of vengeance now
I hadnʼt anticipated civil war
before long empty squares
will put us away as ghosts.
`
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`
Το 2002 στο δίσκο του Θανάση Νικόπουλου, “Τραγούδια του Έρωτα και της θάλασσας- Μουσική Ανάγνωση σε Έλληνες και Γάλλους ποιητές» εμπεριέχεται το ποίημα του Γιώργου Βέη, ΠΛΑΝΗ ΔΙΠΛΗ ΤΩΝ ΕΡΩΤΩΝ, σε ερμηνεία του Νίκου Ανδρουλάκη
