`
Nocturnal
Nonetheless Iʼll tell you
about those humid times,
about the rain that came with thunder,
about those lone deaths.
An autumn remorse
dripped a wakeful silence
from the night roof.
Many hours, many years ―
polar ages ―
a persistent guilty sound;
like a prison that refutes you.
One time, in a night clearing,
he saw the route of secret steps ―
it was those steps
that come
from the deepest dark.
Steps of black light
in the wastes of the world.
`
*
Fated
You return like a shadow;
you define me;
you narrow my light.
A naked truth, vacant
in the chilly depth,
you drive me to despair.
There,
pillaged the dreams
that I helped to escape and forgot all about them;
the shiver where I took a rest
that it shouldnʼt keep me awake.
There,
fossilized the versions
that were never counted.
Light is sharp
on the retrograde shadows.
The unjustified years are taking vengeance.
With reconcilementʼs wanting share
this biography is not yours.
Who are you?
`
*
Sanctum
A poem has
an invisible mask,
the line of its lips
enigmatic,
eyes chaotic,
taking pains to contain
more sky.
Behind the words
is the frightened look
at spectacles so performed,
the consecrated bread
officiating in secret
in the sanctum of the soul.
A poem has
a sharp mask
of crystallized memories
that furrow
its innermost hideouts.
`
*
My Brotherʼs Catapult
It shocked us to see it
lying flat on the ground.
Some vague qualms of conscience,
two sticks of wood for a cross
on its tiny grave
and that was that ―
our innocent game with death.
That evening, motherʼs words
resounded with echoes:
“What did that Godʼs creature do to you?
What did that poor little bird do to you?”
I gathered all peopleʼs catapults,
put them in a sack,
and fell asleep.
In time the catapults turned spooky;
they became mortars and machine guns
roaring on the hill of Saint Elias.
It was during the German occupation.
Young people, lying
like lifeless sparrows in a ditch.
Death now stared us in the face.
Mothers grew old abruptly,
and we
grew up forcibly.
`
*
Kerkoporta
to Yannis Goumas
Deep inside me
I look for myself.
I find you
and become you;
I dwell in your silence.
I search for You –
Darkness and Light.
Here is my place;
my nest…
In my truth and lie
I entrench myself
and open the door.
Oh, come in!
There are no resistances.
In yes and no
I spent myself.
The incessant limits
“nail marks”.
Here is my place –
time expended …
Come right in
unarmed
and with no melee words.
I am looking for an innocent place,
where everyone
quietly bleeds.
`
*
The rope walker
Hovering again
in the rocky crevices
of verse.
To listen from the depths
of the minimum and the maximum
the conceivable and the inconceivable
of the world.
You will meet with yourself
with your own vanity.
And alone you will bleed.
Here in this city of steel –
exiled in time –
cowardly and indifferent for a handshake,
for the sensual beauty
of an approach.
And you, wanting poem,
tonight you are moving crabwise.
In the despotism of ineffable speech
you are stubbornly fighting back.
And the earthʼs exile
the skyʼs displeasure
and death by my side.
`
*
The honesty of words
The words allusively
hovered in disorder.
They came to a deadlock,
like snowflakes on the windowpane
chilling inner space.
Recognizable entanglements.
Sometimes silence
is more honest than speech;
more than the ostensible portrayals;
the demolitions.
Thus lost are the aesthetics,
the integrity of dreams.
Outside the weather was clear skies
without sun leaving shadows.
It clearly delimited contours,
just as the clarity of words
holds good for things.
The words
precise, sincere,
balance and harmonize
deviations.
`
*
The paperweight
Impassively
I looked at the paperweight
on my papers,
a large brass key.
On its top
an idle inscription
justified its existence:
“I lost my door.”
With time
it appropriated the space.
It presses my notes;
it points out to the outstanding issues.
It silently upbraids me like a conspirator.
A key
means a home –
somewhere to cry all alone;
somewhere sacred to be loved.
A key
is a way –
meeting or parting…
Remember that key
years ago?
It broke one night in the front-door keyhole.
We came by the side-entrance,
the wrong way…
Ever since
we see life
through that
damaged keyhole.
*
Youth
that has yet to experience time
and doesnʼt revere it.
Old age
poverty of seconds.
