Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

ORESTES

Perhaps for this reason my sister never forgave her —
for her eternal beauty — this old woman-little girl, wise
in her antithesis, given in her denial of beauty and joy —
ascetic, repulsive in her wisdom, alone, unrelated,
even her cloths are spitefully old, flowing over her,
out of fashion and her belt is but a loose string, worn out,
like a vein without blood around her waist (which she
constantly tightens) like the string of a fallen curtain
that doesn’t open or close anymore, slanting and
showing an image of an eternal acrid austerity with
sharp rocks and huge trees, leafless, branching over
some stereotypical, pompous clouds; and there
at the far end, the presence of a lost sheep, a white,
lively stigma, a grain of tenderness — invisible —
and my own sister a vertical rock enclosed in its
toughness — unbearable. Listen to her, almost
fastidious; she gets excited as she observes mother
placing a flower on her hair or her breasts, when
she crosses the hallway with those musical steps,
when she leans her head a bit with certain
sorrowful leisure, echoing a significant sound
from her long earrings to her shoulder, which only
she hears — her sweet privilege. And my sister
gets angry.

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Antony Fostieris – Selected Poems

Version of Doomsday
The eye which got tired looking at
the perennially same dream
the eye that connived colorful imitations,
what an eyesore on morals. Which cry
enriching the movement inside the image
with joyous sounds until it convinced us
that souls wear animal skin to be recognized
and to appease inexistence with their body.
No one knows accurately what may transpire
since the photographer might accidentally
raise the level of milk for a few seconds,
and choke the world noiselessly, like
a puppy,
into the absolute darkness of white.

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Still Waters

excerpt

… head and rested her chin in her hand. A twenty-two-year-old virgin.
Was that so bad? Moe spoke as if it was a disgrace, like being out of
step with the times, or being a prude. Tyne shook her head slowly
from side to side, got to her feet and carried her mug to the sink. I
love you, Moe, but I don’t agree with you. Sex outside of marriage is
wrong … and dangerous. I hope you take care of yourself, pal.
As she got into bed she thought again of Cam and his declaration
of love. What were his views on intimacy before marriage? Although
he had kissed her, he had never pressed her to go further. Would that
change if she agreed to marry him?
As drowsiness overcame her, Cam’s face lingered in her memory,
and she drifted off to sleep with a smile on her face. But it was Morley
she dreamed of.
At first she thought it was her alarm clock. Groggily, Tyne reached
one arm out of bed to pound it into submission. But the ringing kept
on, persistent, maddening. It couldn’t be morning yet, surely. When
she heard Moe’s door open, she snapped on her bedside lamp and
looked at the clock. The hands clearly pointed to a quarter past five.
Her alarm would not go off for another hour.
Moe was padding across the creaky hall floor into the living room,
muttering to herself. Tyne heard her pick up the telephone receiver
and speak into it. She threw her legs out of bed.
Am I on OR call? Did I forget?
She was reaching for her dressing gown when Moe appeared in the
doorway. She looked worried.
“It’s for you, Tyne.”
“The hospital?”
Moe hesitated for a moment. “No, it’s your Aunt Millie.”
Her housecoat flying open, Tyne raced to the telephone. “Aunt
Millie? What’s wrong?”
“Tyne, dear, I’m sorry to disturb you.” Millie’s voice was calm. “But
I had to reach you before you leave for work.”
“What … what is it?” Tyne gripped the receiver with her left hand,
and steadied herself by holding onto the back of the sofa with her right.
“It’s your father, Tyne. I’m afraid he’s had a stroke.”
“Oh no, no.” She was dimly aware that Moe had come up beside…

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Swamped

excerpt

… likely, he’ll be on the buying side. We can’t know when he’ll go to the
other side, but it is what it is.”
“Of course,” Mario replied. “The market is for everybody after
all, for flippers, for serious investors, and for us. I shouldn’t complain
really. Well done Eteo, honestly, well done.”
With that, he got up, shook Eteo’s hand, and headed for the elevator
without another word, leaving Eteo absorbed in thoughts of
what his boss would do with the position he was buying.

---

When Eteocles and his family move to Athens to live in the suburb
of Peristeri, each Sunday afternoon they attend the local football
team’s games against other minor league teams from the city. It is a
very different experience for the boys to watch a football game from
the sidelines and cheer for their favored team, named Spitha, meaning
“spark.” Eteocles of course idolizes Spitha’s goalkeeper.
Today it is a gloomy, cloudy day, though very warm for September,
as they stand on the sidelines and wait for the game to start.
There are plenty of fans today as well as the usual hordes of vendors
offering the sweets and cheese pies the boys crave but never have
enough money to enjoy. The sun struggles to reveal itself between
the small gaps in the clouds that race across the top of the firmament,
driven by the strong gusts of wind. Their hurry doesn’t allow them
to pause and watch the football game down where Eteocles and Nicolas
are standing.
“Do you have any money?” Nicolas asks his brother, but Eteocles
only shrugs his shoulders. Eteocles usually saves a bit of his Sunday
allowance, but today he has spent it all on candy at the local store.
Soon after the game gets going, Eteocles’ favorite goalkeeper
makes a very good save, diving to grab the ball in a penalty kick. It is
a great reaction to a shot from very close distance and makes the local
fans cheer at the top of their lungs.
At that moment, Eteocles catches sight of a vendor who is selling
his favorite treats, pastry cones with cream on the top and cakes with
a soft, sweet cream between two layers of sponge that make him …

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Neo-Hellene Poets, an Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

ASTRAPOGIANNOS
Excerpt
The horrible vision of Astrapogiannos’ corpse
stutters and shivers in the hands of Lampetis.
The eyes of the dead man roll up, roll down,
three times before they vanish into darkness
and the night takes control of his forehead.
No other mark is left behind, but on his still-warm mouth,
like a moon-ray on the marble of his grave,
a mute smile, dead, shrouded like a corpse.
The white beard of the old fighter lies on the snow.
His warrior opponent returns his sword into its sheath,
takes up his bag with his rye bread
and hoists it to one shoulder.
On the other he puts the dead man’s corpse,
then paints his fingers with the red blood frothing from the earth,
and with the corpse across his shoulder
he plunges into the ravine and in his haste he vanishes in smoke.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763513

Impulses

Lamentation
Lament for captive falcon
his strangled dream and deep buried
bulb of hyacinth whitewash
blinds you another pitch echoes
in the midst of the crowded agora
misery crushes peasants
hunger dons a
yellow garment of fear
affronting eyes of blessings
that dwell someplace in clouds
you tune your guitar to
whims of listening
myth of desertion bitten faith
duty holds you prisoner of logic

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073565

The Unquiet Land

excerpt

“I was wondering if you had agreed to marry him yet.” Nora’s face brightened again and looked excited. “You know who would be at the altar to perform the ceremony.”
“Padraig of course. I’ve thought of that.”
“Is that why you’ve waited?”
“Not exactly.”
“I think it’s wonderful that Padraig will be the priest at your wedding.” She looked at her twin sister as if for a favourable reception. Caitlin showed none. “How is he, Caitlin? I haven’t seen him yet. He called at the house yesterday, but I was in Lisnaglass.”
“He’s the same Padraig seven years older and seventy years wiser,” Caitlin replied. “He’s even thinner than he was before, if you can believe such a thing possible. And those wild eyes of his are even wilder. He’ll make a great preacher with eyes like that. He should have been a Presbyterian.”
“Caitlin! How can you say such a thing?”
“I can say many a thing, Nora, and you haven’t heard the worst.”
“You’ve lived too long with Daddy.” The words were out before Nora thought of stopping them. Caitlin looked hurt; even, for a moment, angry. “I’m sorry, Caitlin. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Caitlin agreed. “Would you have our father be like all the rest of the sheep in the village, each one bleating like all the others, each responding the same way when one starts? No thank you, Nora. Finn MacLir is a man, not a sheep.”
A mischievous gleam came into Caitlin’s eyes, sparked by a wish to get her own back on her sister. “About Michael and me,” she began, “I don’t know if I want to get married in church. Father wouldn’t be there. He wasn’t in church when you and Flynn were married. He’d never sit in a church for love nor money. I think Michael and I will simply move into the same bedroom and live openly as man and wife.”
Nora stopped. Her arm came away from Caitlin’s, but she grasped her sister’s two arms with her hands and looked pleadingly into her eyes. “Caitlin, you can’t. It’s wrong. Think of the scandal. Hasn’t our house seen enough of that kind of thing? You’ll be living in sin.”
“I don’t see it as sin,” Caitlin said with conviction. “I see it as something beautiful. I love Michael as much as you love Flynn. That’s the important thing. What difference does it make if Padraig or some other priest pronounces us man and wife from the altar of a church?”

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In the Quiet After Slaughter

excerpt

Larry pestered his parents to let us go off on our own. They wanted
us to take Lenore.
The youngest Cameron was a timid 10-year-old with a mouthful of
braces. She wore glasses held together with electrician’s tape. In all the
years we’d lived on the same street, I’d never once seen Lenore smile.
– Maybe next time, Larry said. Sorry, sis.
After the three of them had left, Larry and me doffed our shirts
and sprawled on a bench facing the sea. Lifeguards were perched in
elevated lookouts, walkie-talkies crackling, binoculars trained on
the overcooked swarms frolicking at water’s edge.
A pair of giggling girls passes in a gust of perfume.
Females liked Larry; they hardly noticed me. There was always a
couple following him at school. He trained his hair with a blow
dryer like the singer Bobby Vinton. He had muscles; I, freckles.
– ’Merican poontang, Larry said. It was a new word; he liked
using it.
The pair sat at the end of our bench.
– The tall one is mine, Larry says.
– Are you from around here?
– Nope, Larry replied. Tennessee. You?
– Canada, said one.
– We never met American guys before, the friend gushed.
– It’s your lucky day, Larry winked.
– I’m Cindy, the tall one said, sliding closer. She’s Corrine.
Larry introduced himself as Tate. I, he said, was Ken.
As the girls huddled, he whispered to me: I changed my mind.
The other one’s got bigger jugs.
Larry handed out Camels and corralled us around a lighter. For
just an instant Corrine’s shoulder brushed mine. The heat off her
tanned skin surged through mylimbs like a jolt of something powerful.
Another body. A woman’s.
– Are you guys going to the fairgrounds tomorrow night? asked
Cindy. There’s going to be live bands.
– For sure, Larry said.
– Have you got wheels?
Larry indicated a Corvette across the street and dangled a set of
keys — his house keys.
– It’s got a .327, he said.

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Ken Kirkby, Warrior Painter

excerpt

The most dramatic of Ken’s painterly works, Isumataq pushes the
meaning of large to the next level. This spectacular 1824 square foot portrait
is of a majestic Inukshuk towering over Pangnirtung Fjord and is composed
of 38 vertical panels, each 4 foot by 12 foot tall. Incorporated into the
painting are images of Mount Thor (known for the greatest vertical drop
in the world) and Mount Asgard (featuring the dramatic flat-topped twin
towers). Examination of the glacier behind the Inukshuk will reveal that it
is the shape of a stylized Canadian flag. The first brushstroke was applied in
September 1986, and the last on the longest day of the year, June 21st 1991.
The actual working hours on this record-breaking project totals 6840. It is
deemed a portrait rather than a landscape because, to the Inuit, the land is a
living being.
The creation and excitement of the painting and launch of Isumataq
most certainly did its job by exposing the reality of the Arctic and the people
who inhabit it to the gaze of the Canadian people, including those in the
Federal Government. In ways almost as mystical as the northland itself, the
gigantic painting opened the ears of decision makers and Ken became an
integral (although nearly invisible) force behind the formation of Nunavut,
Canada’s third territory. It can accurately be claimed that the outcome of
one man’s youthful promise to correct a long-time wrong changed the face
of the Nation. On April 1, 1999 the map of Canada was redrawn.
History is an odd thing. It doesn’t mean much to anyone under fifty
years of age, and when the story is told of Ken’s dedication to Canada’s
north and the fact that a mere promise made such an impact on his life, he
is often faced with a pacifying smile and conciliatory comment along the
lines of, well, that’s very nice, but of course Canadians are far more aware
of what goes on now than people were half a century ago.
Perhaps that is true; certainly we are privy to instant communication,
compliments of the technological age, but that has a negative side as well.
Recipients of a continual barrage of ethnic misfortune become dulled to
it—perhaps as a necessity to save one’s sanity. We develop similar selective
deafness with respect to telephoned demands on our charitable nature, or
guilt-raising harangues. We retaliate with the hopeless statement: I’m just
one person. What possible difference can I make?
The warrior painter quietly insists that every single person can make a
significant difference if they simply hold their heads up …

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Marginal

Alliance

He always faced the sun
even when it blinded him
others took refuge under
the beach umbrellas and
he stood like a bronze Hermes
challenging the power of light
staking his claim on emptiness
as if a new world could
be created by his irises and
by the few butterflies that
dutifully attended to the wishes
of the bloomed carnations
love lost and found
miracles unfolding in broad daylight

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