`
BIOGRAPHY
As a child hunger and fright made me ill
When the worse was over
with a bicycle wheal wheeling downhill
I proudly changed the seasons on earth
But behind the triumph
hovered the weeping of a bird
with a broken wing
Thus passed the years
watching beyond people
the oncoming waves
under the ancient cloud
with the Medesʼ fear
As an adolescent, I lived the dream
on the enigmatic stones
of a submerged nation
looking ecstatic
at the starsʼ reflection
bleeding
lambent
over the anger of inaccessible depths
Far away, the Kimintenia mountains
waited in vain
Chaos torrent
Crag
As an adult
exploring the city
I wandered through the reeds along the Eurotas River
the Delphic oracles
sacred Olympia
the Mycenaean walls and tombs
However
infernal angels
griffin angels
lepers, future self-murderers
lurked
under railway bridges
We were born
of the remains of dead celestial bodies
thatʼs why I too want to die today
on the waves
eyes turned skywards
where Greek cities
diffuse in the air
Epirote dirges
and folk songs
`
*
THE LAST RESORT
In Upper Liósia in Sepólia in Pangráti*
Greece lives and sings out of tune
In the neighbourhoods the radios sigh
up in Thrace the petrified sentries
feel cold and whistle quietly
graves are opened in the Aegean
on Crete our dreams are being shot
They wound electric wires round us
and we play with a marked pack of cards
Love me still
even as a last resort
*Athenian districts
`
*
A SONG IS FREEDOM
A song is a flame atremble
atremble but not quenched
It sits gently on the seabed
lighting the undercurrents
that gather and hang around the flame
like chrysalises around an electric light
You too are a flame
You wander freely on the seabed
and the monsters
all around
slowly suck your light
till you are quenched
Now our life counts down
I remember the good old days
whilst the glorious names of the streets
bow their heads sadly.
`
*
STARDUST
The biggest explosion
The endless tests
of Creation
up to
the companionʼs fright
when an old house collapses
of wars
love affairs
illnesses
The first suckling, the first sweet words
The heartache of betrayed loves
backbiting, the barking
of stray dogs in the ravaged parks
of dainty leaves
Sickly benches with skeletons
speechless loveless homeless
till he gets lost
turns into dust
stardust
and we its children
Till the lightʼs negation
the extreme form of inaccessibility
`
*
LET ME SING A SONG
Love
oppression
inflation
The Crisis
Great poets
Academics
Desperate people
“Ideal suicides”
Insecurities
Shock at the sight of a hole in the sock
as you are trying on your new shoes
the present
and mistakes of the past
anxieties for the oncoming future
They are afraid of the period of wrath
about to appear any time now
People hiding behind portraits
allowing them to be someone else
if need be
They are afraid
of the landlord outside their door
who demands settlement
of overdue rents
they are afraid
of the chance policeman
when their eyes meet
at night
they are afraid
of past sins
afraid
of the memory of a strange woman
at the window of the night express train
travelling in the dark
whistling in despair
to exorcise the driverʼs fear
In plastic showcases
writhe mutilated kisses
but
in the dark corner
a long sharp knife shines in a hand
The true story
is written with innocent blood
so
the mediocrity that I am let me
sing a song about
the children shot in the streets
Cars roar
on the avenues of hate
whilst our eyes sink in the night
like lorry lights
on the Athens-Corinth highway
Streets open ahead
but there are no pedestrians
to leave their footprints
Black the sky
and the night comes on early
Glum blokes gather in pubs
and drink
make friends
and dream
of girlsʼ fluffy cunts
the blue Mediterranean
but the sea overprices the sun
and so they remain put
Empty avenues but they donʼt
decide
only immigrants selling flowers
Time will come
when the hours of wrath
will arouse us from timeless sleep
Doctors give glasses to poor little children
the poplars shed off their stars
and the sparrows tell stories
in squares
A lonely town
a town without balconies
an unsmiling town
We live where the flower was ground
They return to their old home
every night
to see again the cold rooms
once hallowed
by her perfume
They sob quietly
listen to the secret voices
cracking the walls
the whispers
of amorous words
the grumbling
about him who fell into ruin abroad
him
who went twice round the world
alone
like a piece of wood from a shipwreck
Time deceived him
there is no Ithaca
Imprisoned in their bodies
they struggle to exist
running
running like shadows behind prison-breakers
whilst in their intent palms
bleeds the last cascade
They are faced with a bayonet
The true story
is written with innocent blood
so
let me sing a song
about the children shot in the streets
They look at the course of the dead
on the glass screen
of a luminous TV set
They sink
waiting for tomorrow
they mourn
they look to find
where the snow-white joy was lost
why there are so many drowned persons
in the moonʼs tears
Twelve oʼclock at night
the hour when ghosts come out
Twelve fifteen
the dead childʼs photo
a thunderbolt
and scuds of rain on the windows
twelve forty-five
the eyelids are getting heavy
a drunken wretch
freezes to death on the pavement
the artillery sets about
on a monstrous battle
a young man jumps off the bridge
into the riverʼs frozen waters
five past one
a horny farmer
is screwing a juicy village girl
in the stable
on a bale of hay
one thirty
a light breeze holds me high up
Iʼm running on a cloud in broad daylight
below people are like ants
they are going shopping
going to school
two old fogies are going to the park
analyzing the political situation
five thirty-one
a woman covers her little son
who feels cold in his dream
a man is snoring
a man is crying
an airplane is flying low
crashes
a terrible explosion
the blast
six in the morning
the true story
is written with innocent blood
so
let me sing a song
about the dawning hours of wrath
`
*
THE TIME OF DEATH
Well, now, here we are
at the end of myth
at the beginning of terror
The shop has put up
the shutters
Iʼm watching a cockroach on the floor
spreading and stirring its antennae
planning out
its next movements
it disappears through a crack
How many steps might it have taken?
I look up
an eagle is scouting a hare
hurls itself upon it
overpowers it and tears it to pieces
It knows that in due time
its upper bill will grow
curve downwards
blocking its mouth
and thus no longer able to live
itʼll await a proper death
A fly is writhing
in a tiny spiderʼs cobweb
yesterday it looked bigger to me
but then all of yesterday is bigger
and only terror will be the same
and everlasting
How did this mistake occur?
Iʼm thinking of the old dancers
the old painters
the old poets
cooped up among old furniture
they look out of the window at artless individuals
before
turning to look in the cracked mirror
fondling their wrinkles
remembering their bodies
their faces
they lie quietly on the worn couch
The sun sets
Itʼs the time of death
`
*
EXCULPATION
Every child dying of an illness or hunger
is me
Every soldier killed in battle
is me
Every woman who feels the pangs of childbirth
is me
Every person on the dole
is me
Every homeless bod enveloped in cartons
is me
Every beggar
is me
Everyone killed in a motoring accident
is me
Every desperate person
is me
Every lonely chap
is me
(So hereʼs a convenient way of being exculpated)
