As history teaches us, the contrast between life and art has made it easy to think of Cavafy in the abstract, as an artist whose work exists free from tradition and attachment to a specific moment in time. This trend has been prompted by the two elements of his poetry for which he is most famous: his surprisingly contemporary theme (one of his themes, at least), and his attractive and direct style.

Certainly there have always been many readers who appreciate the so-called historical poems, situated in magical places of the Mediterranean during times that have been long dead and acrimonious with sociable irony and a certain tired stoicism. (“Ithaca gave you the beautiful journey, / without her you would not have put in the passage. / But now she has nothing to give you,” he writes in what may be the most famous evocation of ancient Greek culture: the journey is always more important than the fatefully disappointing destination.) This can be seen in the poem:


Honor to all of those who in their lives

have settled on, and guard, a Thermopylae.

Never stirring from their obligations;

just and equitable in all of their affairs,

but full of pity, nonetheless, and of compassion;

generous whenever they’re rich, and again

when they’re poor, generous in small things,

and helping out, again, as much as they are able;

always speaking nothing but the truth,

yet without any hatred for those who lie.

And more honor still is due to them

when they foresee (and many do foresee)

that Ephialtes will make his appearance in the end,

and that the Medes will eventually break through


But it is probably fair to say that the popular reputation of Cavafy rests almost entirely on the remarkably preexisting way in which his other “sensual” poems, often not considered as this poet’s gift, deal with the ever-fascinating and pertinent themes of erotic desire, realization and loss.

The way, too, when memory preserves what desire so often cannot sustain. That desire and longing only makes it appear more contemporary, closer to our own times. Perhaps this is the case with Manolis’ poem:



After leaving our marks

on the sole lamppost

we parted

she to the west

I to the east

with a promise

to meet again

by this lamppost

and trace our marks

though we never thought of the Sirens

the Cyclops and the angry Poseidon

though we never thought of the pricey



No one but Cavafy, who studied history not only eagerly but with a studious respect and meticulous attention to detail, would have recognized the dangers of abstracting people from their historical contexts; and nowhere is this abstraction more dangerous than in the case of Cavafy himself.




You said: “I’ll go to another land, to another sea;
I’ll find another city better than this one.
Every effort I make is ill-fated, doomed;
and my heart —like a dead thing—lies buried.
How long will my mind continue to wither like this?
Everywhere I turn my eyes, wherever they happen to fall
I see the black ruins of my life, here
where I’ve squandered, wasted and ruined so many years.”
New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas.
The city will follow you. You will return to the same streets.
You will age in the same neighborhoods; and in these
same houses you will turn gray. You will always
arrive in the same city. Don’t even hope to escape it,
there is no ship for you, no road out of town.
As you have wasted your life here, in this small corner
you’ve wasted it in the whole world.


Surely his work is as good as great poetry can be and at the same time timeless in the way we like to think that great literature can be alchemizing details of the poet’s life, times and obsessions into something relevant to a large audience over the years and even centuries.

But the tendency to see Cavafy as one of us, as one in our own time, speaking to us with a voice that is transparent and admittedly ours about things whose meaning is self-evident, threatens to take away a specific detail one that, if we give it back to him, makes him look larger than life and more a poet of the future, as it was once described, rather than the time he lived in. This detail also pertains to the biography of Manolis who refers to mythical passages of his home-country and unfolds scenes of sensuality, abandonment and loss.

Cavafy’s style, to begin with, is far less prosaic, much richer although not musical, and rooted deeply in the nineteenth century in which he lived for more than half of its life. Some readers will be surprised to learn that many of Cavafy’s poems, even when he was almost forty, were cast as sonnets or other prepared forms of verse.

Manolis was born in Kolibari a small village west of Chania on the Greek island of Crete in 1947. At an early age his family took him first to Thessaloniki and then to Athens where he was educated, earning a Bachelor of Science in Political Science from the Panteion University of Athens.

The subject in some of Cavafy which tend to be overlooked by readers as difficult are the poems deliberately placed in the dark, geographical and temporal margins of the Greek past: poems which seem not to have much to do with today’s concerns and are often passed in favor of works with more contemporary appeal.

Perhaps this is the case with Manolis who draws from the same Greek sources as Cavafy does making historical references to Greece, the cradle where his soul was born, when he creates the Greek myths interacted in his contemporary poetry. Even far from his motherland Greece where he resides now he still retains in his poetic memory, images and themes he channels through verve in this book and others.


Can Manolis channel the beauty as easily as he describes in his verse? “An ancient time leader / as an anointed and pious / a musical instrument of candor flowing free / ready to speak with words that relieve pain and free the soul?” Yes its main tool is its firsthand experience of the power of Eros. His psychological makeup attracts and conveys authenticity and happiness based on his worship and being adored by sensual and provocative female figures exposing him in an ecstatic transcendence through his bodies of lust and his deep love and dedicated understanding. It is obvious that he finds his purpose in falling in love passionately for his beloved.

He does not hide that before he emerged he wanted to become “a festival / movement song of a bird / a vesper / a simple sigh / that will heal the lips of his beloved.” If he feels impotent in the face of inconceivable and unlimited Destiny, he declares that a woman’s embrace beckons him and he likes to give in to his passion: “dark and vague circle / forever indeterminable / and this, the command / and this, the Obedience / This, the orgasm / and this, the Eros / and this is you.” He feels being favored by Eros he diffuses his burning passion with light that fills his erotic verses. As a gallant defender of lust and sensuality and the true emotions of love, he delivers the joy and joy to the soul.


Both idealism and pragmatism, messianism, but also the tradition in the languor of the senses, the subjects of love dedicated to ephemeral satisfaction and erotic drunkenness make up the changes of its vast poetic content. Having the maturity of an accomplished poet and the ability to create evocative images in a personal way, the poet introduces us to what constitutes the most brilliant expression of his most intimate thoughts and beliefs in front of the world of his time and age.

The way, too, where memory preserves what desire so often can’t sustain. That desire and longing were for other men only makes it appear more contemporary, closer in our own times as we see in this opening poem of Golden Kiss, which poem may seem obscene and prosaic created by a minor poet, but when creating by a poet as Manolis locks up the erotic aura of a Moravia.


like a bird stilled by camera lens

her scandalous vulva visits his mind

from days of that August

on the scorched island

in low tone siesta

in muffled moaning

lest the mirror would crack from tension



In the 1880s and 1890s, Constantine Cavafy was a young man with modest literary ambitions, writing verses and contributing articles, critiques and essays, mostly in Greek but in English (A language in which he was perfectly at home as a result of spending a few of his adolescence years in England), on a number of idiosyncratic subjects, Alexandria and Athenian newspapers. This similarity in biographies binds Cavafy with Manolis who lives in Vancouver and writes poems in Greek and English referring to both countries.


Yannis Ritsos was born in Monemvasia, Greece, on May 1, 1909, in a family of landowners. He did his early schooling and finished high school in Gythion, Monemvasia and after graduating in 1925, he moved to Athens where he began working on typing and copying legal documents. A year later, he returned to his home town where he spent his time writing and painting, another form of art that he devoted himself which along with his writing he kept for the rest of his life, perhaps the painting has given him elements of his sensual poems:



Our women are distant, their sheets smell of goodnight.

They put bread on the table as a token of themselves.

It’s then that we finally see we were at fault; we jump up saying,

‘Look, you’ve done too much, take it easy, I’ll light the lamp.

’She turns away with the striking of the match,

walking towards the kitchen, her face in shadow,

her back bent under the weight of so many dead –

those you both loved, those she loved, those

you alone loved . . . yes . . . and your death also


Listen: the bare boards creaking where she goes.

Listen: the dishes weeping in the dishrack.

Listen: the train taking soldiers to the front.



Sometimes the poems are invested with the fractured logic of the dream with images of dream events or they’re placed in a landscape of dreams that grows, as one reads more, more and more recognizable, less strange, always attractive. At the same time, their locations and quotations are redemptive of a completely recognizable Greece: the balconies, the geraniums, the statuary, women in their black attires and, in a lasting way, the sea. His touch is light, but its effect is profound. Much depends on the image that causes the narrative movement. Some poems are so small, so distilled, that the fragments of history given to us – the kids’ psychodramas – have an irresistible power. “The less I get the bigger it gets,” said Alberto Giacometti and the same powerful reticence is a feature in Ritsos’ shorter poems.


The content of Yannis Ritsos also deserves renewed attention – both the specific themes of the individual poems, which in fact keep the historical and the erotic in a single focus.

Eroticism is one of the appearances of man’s inner life. In this one deludes himself because one is seeking his fixed object of desire. But this object of desire responds to the internal desire. The choice of an object always depends on the individual’s personal tastes: even if it falls on the woman most would have selected, what comes into play is often an unspeakable aspect, not an objective characteristic of this woman unless she has touched the inner being of man she creates the force to choose her.

The notion of disorientation (similar, perhaps, to the effect of a mild virus), when heightened emotion puts us at odds with the world, when the aromas become sour, when a view of the garden becomes desolate, when household objects shed their purpose, is perfectly evoked in these ten lines. There is an immediate recognition of a precarious ontological state tied to a story until, a moment later, we realize that we can see that street, see that window, see through that door:





It was just luck: I open the door, the two women

side by side on the sofa


in his black handkerchief,

mother and daughter, perhaps,


staying immobile, unpronounceable, a mouthful of bread

on the table, a cat sleeping on the couch.


Looking away and the sun at the top of the waves, cicadas

the swallows attractions in blue. They look back.


I almost had it, I almost had it in one of them.

Then Mother got up and closed the door.


This poem by Yannis Ritsos refers us to another poem by Manolis but more sensual and right:


Nothing to hold onto

but ourselves in lust

and the cenotaph with

names engraved in marble

yet in this near futile void

a sudden speck of light

gleams on Suzanne’s breast

as a lightning flash like

when her eyes demanded

a deeper meaning to this: are we

to search for it during this dark night

with our two bodies as the only absolution?


The sensuality of the Mediterranean world may be in the Greek soul of the poets to a greater or lesser degree, as we have seen over the years and centuries, referring to the idea that the Greek gods though dead are alive in the souls of the Greeks: Eros and Dionysus are alive from the bygone days of yesteryears to today and even more so in the case of Manolis who lives in Vancouver but has not forgotten his Cretan roots, and he writes in both Greek and English and shows with his simple poem Golden Kiss the sensual and erotic connection between his poetry and that of Cavafy and Yannis Ritsos.


~Eric Ponty, poet, translator, Sao Paolo, Brazil, 2016

Karyotakis – Polydouri/the Tragic Love Story




Ο ήλιος ψηλότερα θ’ ανέβει
σήμερα πού `ναι Κυριακή.
Φυσάει το αγέρι και σαλεύει
μια θημωνιὰ στο λόφο εκεῖ.

Τα γιορτινὰ θα βάλουν, κι όλοι
θα ῾χουν ανάλαφρη καρδιά:
κοίτα στο δρόμο τα παιδιά,
κοίταξε τ᾿ άνθη στο περβόλι.

Τώρα καμπάνες που χτυπάνε
είναι ο θεὸς αληθινός.
Πέρα τα σύννεφα σκορπάνε
και μεγαλώνει ο ουρανός.

Άσε τον κόσμο στη χαρά του
κι έλα, ψυχή μου, να σου πω,
σαν τραγουδάκι χαρωπό,
ένα τραγούδι του θανάτου





The sun will climb higher

today, since it’s Sunday.

The breeze flows and the stack

of the shrub stirs over that hill.


They’ll all dress festive cloths

and shall keep a light heart

look at the children in the street

look at the flowers in the orchard.


Now that the bells are chiming

god must be true

the clouds are blown far away

the sky becomes immense.


Oh leave the world in its joy

and come close to me, my soul,

a joyous song I shall sing

for you: the song of death.




KARYOTAKIS-POLYDOURI//THE TRAGIC LOVE STORY, translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad, 2016


Cloe and Alexandra, translated by Manolis Aligizakis

 Cloe and Alexandra_cover_aug265

Cloe Koutsoubelis’


«Κι αν τώρα πέθαινα», είπε αυτός

δεν θάνιωθα ποτέ πιο ζωντανός».

Τα πόδια τους βαθιά στο Λιβυκό

αρχές χειμώνα καλοκαίρι

ήλιος με ξανθές βεντάλιες βλεφαρίδες

τους δρόσιζε στον ουρανό,

μια γριούλα τους φίλεψε ρακή,

η δική της είχε μέσα ροδόνερο και μέλι

«για να γλυκαθείς» της είπε

και γέλασε ένα γέλιο χωρίς δόντια.


Γιατί το τέλος

είναι πάντοτε κρυμμένο

στην ίδια του την τελειότητα.




He said, ‘if I die right now

I would have never felt more alive’

Their feet deep in the Lybian Sea

beginning winter-summer

sun with blond fans of eyelids

freshened them up in the sky,

an old woman offered them raki

hers had some honey and rosewater

‘to sweeten you up’ he said

and laughed a toothless laugh.


Because the end

is always hidden

in its own perfection.



CLOE and ALEXANDRA, poetry translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad, 2013

Karyotakis-Polydouri translated by Manolis Aligizakis





Είμαστε κάτι ξεχαρβαλωμένες
κιθάρες. Ο άνεμος όταν περνάει,
στίχους, ήχους παράξενους ξυπνάει
στις χορδὲς που κρέμονται σαν καδένες.

Είμαστε κάτι απίστευτες αντένες.
Υψώνονται σαν δάχτυλα στα χάη,
στην κορυφή τους τ᾿ άπειρο αντηχάει,
μα γρήγορα θα πέσουνε σπασμένες.

Είμαστε κάτι διάχυτες αισθήσεις,
χωρὶς ελπίδα να συγκεντρωθούμε.
Στα νεύρα μας μπερδεύεται ήλη η φύσις.

Στο σώμα, στην ενθύμηση πονούμε.
Μας διώχνουνε τα πράγματα, κι η ποίησις
είναι το καταφύγιο που φθονούμε.






We’re a bunch of rickety guitars

when the wind passes through us

it awakens verses, strange sounds

on the chords that hang like anchors


bunch of unbelievable antennae

we rise into the chaos like fingers

the eternity echoes on our top

and fast they tumble broken


alike flowing emotions

with no hope of getting together

nature entangled with our nerves


our bodies and memory hurt

everything pushes us away

and poetry the refuge we despise



Karyotakis-Polydouri, translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad, 2016



Karyotakis-Polydouri/The Tragic Love Story





Δεκάξι χρονών εγέλασαν,
πέρα, στ᾿ ανοιξιάτικο δείλι.
Έπειτα εσώπησαν τα χείλη,
και στην καρδιά τους εγέρασαν.

Εκίνησαν τότε σα φίλοι,
σα δυο ξερὰ φύλλα στο χώμα.
Έπειτα εχώρισαν ακόμα,
κάποιο φθινοπωρινὸ δείλι.

Τώρα καθένας, με ωχρὸ στόμα,
σκύβοντας, φιλεί τα δεσμά του.
Έπειτα θα γύρουνε ως κάτου
και θα περάσουνε στο χώμα.







The lips smiled in the spring dusk

when sixteen years old

since then they’ve turned silent

grown old in their hearts


back then they started as friends

two dry leaves on the soil

then they separated

during a sundown in autumn


now each with a pale mouth

bow and kiss their shackles

before they lean deep down

and pass into the earth.



KARYOTAKIS–POLYDOURI//THE TRAGIC LOVE STORY, Translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad, 2016






Επειδή όλοι θά `θελαν να `ξεραν πού ανήκαν, οι Μοίρες

είχαν το ρόλο τους κι όχι μονάχα που καθόριζαν του καθενός

την ιστορία αλλά και που βοηθούσαν την εξωτερίκευση

του αληθινού εαυτού που θα στέκονταν ενάντια

στην Άβυσσο. Κι ήταν τότε που πήραμε τα όπλα

να πολεμήσουμε κατά της ίδιας μας της αρετής

να εξαλείψουμε όλα τα ολόχρυσα χαρίσματά μας

για να σταθούμε ολόγυμνοι μπροστά στο δίδαγμα του

που από μέσα μας ξεπήδαγε κι από τα χείλη

του σοφού μας μύστη.


Κι αφού όλοι οι δυστυχισμένοι φοβότανε ανύπαρκτα

φαντάσματα, κατάρες κεντητές κι ετικέτες βρώμικες,

ζωγραφίσαμε εικόνες Κόλασης κι αστραφτερό

το Καθαρτήριο παρουσιάσαμε σ’ άσπρες σελίδες

για να κρατούν δεσμώτες τους αστούς μπροστά

στο εκτελεστικό απόσπασμα και με τα μάτια καλυμένα.


Κι αυτό, είπε, ήταν σωστό και δίκαιο.



~ Μου αρέσουν όποιοι μοιάζουν με βαριές σταγόνες

που αργοπέφτουν από τα κατάμαυρα σύννεφα

που σκεπάζουν τους ανθρώπους.







Since everyone always liked to know

where they belonged, the Fates played their role:

they not only outlined everyone’s history

but they also helped externalize one’s true self

that stood opposite the Abyss and we took

up arms to fight against our virtues, to obliterate

all our golden grace that we would stand naked

before the teaching which sprang from deep

within us and from the lips of our initiate.


And since the desperate were afraid of

inexistent ghosts, new curses and dirty etiquettes,

on snow white pages we drew images of the Inferno

and gleaming we presented the Purgatory to keep

them captive and blindfolded before the execution



And this, He said, was good and just.


~ I like those who resemble heavy drops of rain that

slowly fall from the black clouds that cover men.


~Ubermensch, poetry by Manolis Aligizakis, Ekstasis Editions, Victoria, BC, 2013


Karyotakis-Polydouri//The Tragic Love Story






Τι νάχης γίνει ολόδροσε βαρκάρη
του παράλιου χωριού, που με είχαν φέρει
ένα πένθος βαρύ να διασκεδάσω;
Τι νάχης γίνει ωραίο παληκάρι
με τα στριφτά ξανθά σου δαχτυλίδια,
πως έχει γίνει να μη σε ξεχάσω;

Νάναι την ομορφιά σου που θυμάμαι,
το σιωπηλό σου στόμα το σφιγμένο,
παράξενη ομορφιά σ’ ένα βαρκάρη,
ή γιατί διαλεχτή σου έτυχε νάμαι,
μια θλιβερή με πένθιμο φουστάνι,
στη βάρκα σου μια αυγή που μ’ είχες πάρει;

Μέσα σε τόσα ωραία κορίτσια – θάμα
χαράς τα προσωπάκια τους – με πήρες
και μέ στη γαλανή σου τη βαρκούλα.
Ένα πρωινό περίπατο, ένα τάμα
στην πιο όμορφη είχες κάνει της παρέας
και κάλεσες και μέ τη μοναχούλα,

που έβλεπες κάθε δειλινό στο μώλο
συλλογισμένη, με απλανή τα μάτια
σ’ ένα βιβλίο με στίχους να κοιτάη.
Ήρθες πιο ωραίος κ’ είδα, καθώς μ’ όλο
τον άλλο κόσμο πήδησες στη βάρκα,
το χέρι σου ένα ρόδο να κρατάη.

Κι’ ως να μην είχε κάπου να το βάλη
το ρόδο αυτό, σε μέ την τελευταία
το πέταξεν απλά, με κάποια βιάση…
Οι κρόταφοί σου εβάφονταν αγάλι
και χάνοταν στη θάλασσα η ματιά σου…
Μα τώρα, πως δε σ’ έχω πια ξεχάσει






What has happened to you, young boatman

of the seashore village where they brought me

to participate in the saddest mourning?

What has happened to you, handsome

youth, with your curly blonde hair

how can I possibly forget you?


I remember your handsomeness

your silent mouth tightly shut

strange for a boatman to have

and why I was your chosen one

the sad girl in my sorrowful dress

who in your boat you took one morning?


Among all the beautiful girls — their

faces miracle of joy — you took me

to your light blue boat for

a morning walk, you said you wished

to take the most beautiful of the group

and yet you took me the lonely one.


You saw me by the quay every morning

deep in thought and with eyes gazing

the void and reading a poetry book.

You came most handsome and I saw

as you jumped on the boat

you held a rose in your hand


and as if you didn’t have anyone to give

this rose you simply threw it in haste

to me the last one on the line;

your temples had turned almost gray

your eyes the color of the blue sea

and now truly I can’t forget you.




KARYOTAKIS-POLYDOURI//The Tragic Love Story, Translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad, Vancouver, BC, 2016



Karyotakis/Polydouri–The Tragic Love Story



Σ’ ένα φίλο

Θαρθώ ένα βράδυ, στρέφοντας το δρόμο που με παίρνει,
θαρθώ να σ’ εύρω μοναχόν με το παλιό ονειρό σου.
Η εσπέρα τις λεπτές σκιές νωχελικά θα σέρνει,
περνώντας στο μοναχικό μπροστά παράθυρό σου.

Στη σιωπηλή σου κάμαρα θα με δεχτής και θάναι
βιβλία τριγύρω σε σιωπή βαθιά εγκαταλειμμένα.
Πλάι πλάι θα καθήσουμε. Θα πούμε για όσα πάνε,
για όσα προτού τα χάσουμε μας είναι πεθαμένα,

για την πικρία της άχαρης ζωής, για την ανία,
για το που δεν προσμένουμε τίποτε ν’ αληθέψη,
για τη φθορά, και σιγαλά στη σκοτεινή ησυχία,
θα σβήση κ’ η ομιλία μας κ’ η τελευταία μας σκέψη.

Μα η νύχτα στο παράθυρο θαρθή να σταματήση.
Μύρα κι’ ανταύγειες αστεριών κι αύρες θ’ ανακατέψη
με το μεγάλο κάλεσμα που θ’ αποπνέη η Φύση,
με την καρδιά σου που η σιωπή δε θα την προστατέψη




One night I’ll turn on the road that leads me

to your old dream, I’ll come to find you alone.

The evening will spread tediously its faint shadows

passing just outside your lone window.


You’ll receive me in your soundless room

books spread around in the arms of silence.

We’ll sit next to each other and talk of what has passed

and of what has already died before we even live it

we’ll talk of the grief of joyless life, the boredom

that we don’t expect anything to become reality

we’ll talk of withering and slowly in the quiet darkness



our talk will fade away with our last thought.

One night decay will come and stop by the window

to mix reflections of the stars with myrrh

it will mix breeze and your heart with all

that nature exhales which silence won’t protect.



KARYOTAKIS/POLYDOURI — THE TRAGIC LOVE STORY, translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad, Vancouver, BC, 2016







images of absence cover



Ο χρόνος ρίγισε

στα μάτια μου και στου Χάρου μέσα

απ’ το γυαλί που δάκρυσε



δροσιά στα φύλλα της βιγκώνιας τη δίψα

που έκρυβε καταμεσήμερου και την πνοή

της ανοιχτής πόρτας στην αγκαλιά σου


νεανική κι ελπιδοφόρα μοναχική η πλαγιά

στα δεξιά και κάτι που άσπριζε μ’ έναν

σταυρό πάνω ψηλά στον ουρανό μήπως

κι άνθρωπος να κατάφτανε κάθιδρος

ο σκλάβος


μήπως να μπήκε `κεί και γέλασε; Ήταν η απορία

του γιασεμιού που στέναξε από πόνο κι ο γκιώνης

ληθαργικός στης αγριελιάς την κορφή βόγγηξε

την άρνησή του κι εγώ βαθειά μες στο γυαλί

σε είδα δίπλα μου

σαν οπτασία.




And time shivered

in my eyes and inside Hades’ that through

the glass, unwillingly, His tears were


moist on the begonia leaves hid

the thirst of mid-day and the freshness

of the open door, like your embrace

my beloved

fresh and full promising mountain side

to the right something whitish

a cross up high to the sky

perhaps man reached sweaty and

the slave

did he perhaps enter laughing? It was

the jasmine’s wonder and sigh and

the owl in the slumber of the wild

olive tree top moaned his refusal

as I saw you deep inside the glass

next to me like

an apparition


IMAGES OF ABSENCE, Ekstasis Editions, Victoria, BC, 2015



The Second Advent of Zeus

merging dimensions cover



Κι έβαλαν σε σκοτεινό κελί τη Θέμιδα


κι εγώ αντιμετώπισα τα ξέφρενα μάτια

της συγγένειάς μου κι είχα πολλά να πω

μα σιώπησα για ένα λεπτό χρόνο να δώσω

στην αφέλειά τους που αργά κυλούσε

σαν το κελαρυστό ριακάκι, αθώο παιδιού

χαμόγελο που πάνω του στήριξα ελπίδα

πως τη δικαιοσύνη ξανά θ’ ανακάλυπτα


για να γιατρέψω μ’ ανοιξιάτικα λουλούδια

τις φλέβες τ’ ανεπίληπτου Έρωτα


έγκλειστοι κι αλλόφρονες οι φίλοι μου

κι εγώ με κουρέλια τον τόπο γύριζα

μ’ απαλή φωνή και νέα σύμβολα

με νέους εχθρούς και νέα ανέκδοτα

ν’ αλλάξω τα πιστεύω τους πεθύμησα

νέοι Ιούδες που είχαν γεννηθεί με δόντια

σουβλερά ό ένας τον άλλο να ξεσχίσουν

για τους αγέρηδες καθαρούς κληρονόμους

των διδαγμάτων μου τίποτα να μη μείνει




And they put Themis in dark dungeon


and I faced my kin’s delirious eyes

yet though I had much to say

I kept silent, momentarily, time

to give to their simplemindedness

bubbling along with the creek’s murmur

innocent smile of child upon which

I entrusted my hope to rediscover justice


with spring flowers to rejuvenate

the veins of imppecable Eros


inpriswoned were my distraught friends

dressed in rags I walked over my lands

soft-spoken and with new symbols

with new follies and  new anecdotes

I wished to revert their beliefs

new Judases born with sharpened teeth

ready to devour each other nothing to leave

for the winds rightful inheritors of my teachings


THE SECOND ADVENT OF ZEUS, Ekstasis Editions, Victoria, BC, 2016