Annunciation / Ευαγγελισμός A Poem by Tasos Leivaditis

He was, no doubt, always a little strange — he lived

in the room next door—  but that night he came out on the

street with a lamp— ‘What  are looking for?’ I  asked

him—‘The Mother of God’ he said to me—in that

incomprehensible language of those

who give meaning to an entire era.

Translated by N.N. Trakakis

Ήταν βέβαια λίγο παράξενος, έμενε στο διπλανό δωμάτιο,
όμως εκείνη τη νύχτα βγήκε στο δρόμο κρατώντας μια λάμπα,
"τί γυρεύεις;" του λέω, "τη Θεοτόκο" μού λέει- στην
ακατάληπτη γλώσσα εκείνων που δίνουν νόημα σε μια εποχή

Γιώργος Σικελιώτης. Ο Ευαγγελισµός

Odysseas Elytis’ Nobel Lecture (Selection)

December 8, 1979

May I be permitted, I ask you, to speak in the name of luminosity and transparency. The space I have lived in and where I have been able to fulfill myself is defined by these two states. States that I have also perceived as being identified in me with the need to express myself.

It is good, it is right that a contribution be made to art, from that which is assigned to each individual by his personal experience and the virtues of his language. Even more so, since the times are dismal and we should have the widest possible view of things.

I am not speaking of the common and natural capacity of perceiving objects in all their detail, but of the power of the metaphor to only retain their essence, and to bring them to such a state of purity that their metaphysical significance appears like a revelation.

I am thinking here of the manner in which the sculptors of the Cycladic period used their material, to the point of carrying it beyond itself. I am also thinking of the Byzantine icon painters, who succeeded, only by using pure color, to suggest the "divine".

It is just such an intervention in the real, both penetrating and metamorphosing, which has always been, it seems to me, the lofty vocation of poetry. Not limiting itself to what is, but stretching itself to what can be. It is true that this step has not always been received with respect. Perhaps the collective neuroses did not permit it. Or perhaps because utilitarianism did not authorize men to keep their eyes open as much as was necessary.

Beauty, Light, it happens that people regard them as obsolete, as insignificant. And yet! The inner step required by the approach of the Angel's form is, in my opinion, infinitely more painful than the other, which gives birth to Demons of all kinds.

Certainly, there is an enigma. Certainly, there is a mystery. But the mystery is not a stage piece turning to account the play of light and shadow only to impress us.

It is what continues to be a mystery, even in bright light. It is only then that it acquires that refulgence that captivates and which we call Beauty. Beauty that is an open path - the only one perhaps - towards that unknown part of ourselves, towards that which surpasses us. There, this could be yet another definition of poetry: the art of approaching that which surpasses us.

Innumerable secret signs, with which the universe is studded and which constitute so many syllables of an unknown language, urge us to compose words, and with words, phrases whose deciphering puts us at the threshold of the deepest truth…

Copyright © The Nobel Foundation 1979

Head from the figure of a woman, Spedos type, Early Cycladic II (2700 BC–2300 BC), Keros culture.

Zissimos Lorenzatos: This is Tradition

This is Tradition.  There are dead people who direct the course of our lives, today and in the case of every young generation, and there are living people who the louder they shout, the more clear it becomes that they are dead before their time.  This is Tradition: only those live who are living, no matter though some of these have died years ago.  Again, every young generation will direct the life of that tradition; this too is traditional, and from this point of view, what we call originality does not exist, except as an immature fantasy.  Tradition alone exists fully; for tradition is life- indeed, it is the higher stage of life which makes no distinction between living and dead.  Whenever we possess true life, we possess tradition; we possess a tradition which is added to, developed, enriched.  The last become first and the first last.  Of those who constitute tradition it could be said that they all belong to the present.  Tradition is neither the past nor the future- although it is more future than past, since it lives in the eternal present; and this is tradition, a power that goes hand in hand with life.  Life and tradition are one.  In tradition, this moment is not merely this moment, but all the past present within this moment, and perhaps part of the future as well.

C.P. Cavafey's Priest at the Serapeion

Sketch of Palazzo Colonna (1534-1536) by Marten van Heemskerck showing the remains of the ancient Temple of Serapis.

Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

my kind old father

whose love for me has always stayed the same-

I mourn my kind old father

who died two days ago, just before dawn

Christ Jesus, I try each day

in my every thought, word, and deed

to keep the commandments

of your most holy Church; and I abhor

all who deny you.  But now I mourn:

I grieve, O Christ, for my father

even though he was- terrible to say it-

priest at that cursed Serapeion.

A Sentimental Topography

[From Dimitris Pikionis, Architect 1887-1968 'A Sentimental Topography', Architectural Association, London.]

Here are stone formations shaped by divine forces - rocks, broken boulders, the dust born of the fruitful soil, its particles as uncountable as the stars.

I stoop and pick up a stone. I caress it with my eyes, with my fingers. It is a piece of grey limestone. Fire molded its divine shape; water sculpted it and endowed it with this fine covering of clay that has alternating patches of white and rust, with a yellow tinge. I turn it around in my hands. I study the harmony of its contours. I delight in the way hollows and protrusions, light and shadows; balance each other on its surface. I rejoice in the way the universal laws are embodied and fulfilled in this stone - the laws, which, according to Goethe, would have remained unknown to us, had not an innate sense of beauty revealed them to the poet and the artist.

In truth, it occurs to me, O stone, that as the incandescent mass of this planet was torn away from the sun and set spinning around like a ring of fire, eventually condensing into our earth, you came to occupy a place within its vast expanse that was in no way accidental. The harmony of the whole, which determined the inclination of our planet's axis, also assigned this particular place to you as your home, as the generator of your supremely spiritual form, within an atmosphere and light that are spiritually attuned to you.

The dance of your atoms, governed by number, shapes your constituent parts according to the law of your singularity. You thus enact this twofold law of universal and individual harmony.

I feel you growing, expanding in my imagination.

Your lateral surfaces turn into slopes, ridges, and noble precipices. Your hollows become caverns, where water silently trickles from the cracks in the rose-colored rock.

Stone, you compose the lineaments of this landscape. You are the landscape. You are the Temple that is to crown the precipitous rocks of your own Acropolis. For what else does the Temple do but enact the same twofold law, which you serve?

General Makriyannis- Memoirs Prologue

Translated by Rick Μ. Newton: The Charioteer 28/1986


PROLOGUE

Brother Readers !

Since Ι have succumbed to this longing to burden you with my ignorance (if what Ι am writing here sees the light: let me explain that it was in Argos οn February 26, 1829 that this idea occurred to me of following the struggles and other events of οur country), Ι tell you that if you do not read it all, not one οf you readers has the right to form an opinion either for or against. For Ι am illiterate and cannot keep the right order in my writings. And […]* then too the reader is enlightened. Ιn setting out οn this task of recording the misfortunes brought οn our country and faith by our folly and selfishness -by our clergymen, our politicians, and us in the military- and in being greatly vexed myself by it all, since we did great harm to our country, and so many innocent people have died and are still dying, Ι am noting the mistakes made by everyone, and up to this day we have yet to make a sacrifice of virtue and patriotism, which is why we are in this wretched plight facing destruction. Ιn writing down these causes and circumstances whereby we have all brought our country to ruin, Ι, who have a share in this country and society, write with extreme indignation against those responsible. It's not that Ι bear them any personal grudge, but my zeal for my country begets this indignation, and Ι was unable to write more sweetly. Ι have kept this manuscript hidden away, ever since Ι have suffered many persecutions. Νοw that I have brought it out, Ι have read it all, having written up to the month of April 1850; and in reading it Ι saw that I give a sweet account of no individual. That's the first thing I noticed, then. Secondly, in many spots Ι repeat the same things (for Ι am illiterate and have a poor memory and cannot keep things in order). And thirdly, Ι noticed the things Ι recorded about the ministry of Colettis, who committed so many grave errors against his country and faith and comrades, all the honest people, and who caused so much blood of his οwn countrymen to be unjustly shed, and who brought sufferings upon his unfortunate country; and even today, after his death, these sufferings continue at the hands of his οwn disciples and companions who govern us; and his worthless Parliaments and other men of that sort who didn't leave a cent in the treasury and brought the whole state to great misfortune and confusion. And a large fleet of dogs has blockaded us for over ttιree months and taken all our ships and destroyed all our commerce and trampled our flag, and the people οn the islands are dying of starvation, and those who once had ships of theit οwn now roam the streets shedding black tears. Αll these horrors and a host of others are the work of Colettis and his company, who decreed that we should be governed under this system and by such as were companions of his. It's from this we are suffering, and God only knows what sufferings yet await us. And all this was due to his ulterior motives and self-interests which aimed to overthrow the Constitution of the Third of September -which takes measures for our faith and other matters related to our country's salvation- and we have it οn paper and, instead of benefitting us, it continues to destroy us. Αll the others about whom Ι write from the beginning are saints compared to this man and his present company, although it was those initial mistakes that gave birth to these later troubles.

It is about all these things that Ι am now writing. Being a mortal man, Ι may die, and either my children or someone else may copy these pages and bring them to the light, presenting in a mild manner free of abuse, the names and deeds of those against whom Ι am writing with indignation. That way; all this may benefit future generations, teaching them to make greater sacrifices of virtue for their country and faith so that they may live like human beings in this country and practice this faith. For without virtue and pain endured for country and without religious beliefs, a nation cannot exist. And they must beware of being deluded by selfishness. And if they stumble, they will head for the abyss, just as it happened to us: every day we slip closer to the abyss. Therefore, when this manuscript comes into the light, let the honest readers read it all, from beginning to end, and then each of them will have the right to render his verdict, whether for or against.

AΔEΛΦOI ANAΓNΩΣTEΣ!

Eπειδή έλαβα αυτείνη την αδυναμία να σας βαρύνω με την αμάθειά μου (αν έβγουν εις φως αυτά οπού σημειώνω εδώ και ξηγώμαι πότε με κόλλησε αυτείνη η ιδέα, –από τα 1829, Φλεβαρίου 26, εις το Άργος– και ακολουθώ αγώνες και άλλα περιστατικά της πατρίδος) σας λέγω, αν δεν τα διαβάσετε όλα, δεν έχει το δικαίωμα κανένας από τους αναγνώστες να φέρη γνώμη ούτε υπέρ, ούτε κατά. Ότι είμαι αγράμματος και δεν μπορώ να βαστήσω ταχτική σειρά ’σ τα γραφόμενα, και... τότε φωτίζεται και ο αναγνώστης.

Μπαίνοντας εις αυτό το έργον και ακολουθώντας να γράφω δυστυχήματα αναντίον της πατρίδος και θρησκείας, οπού της προξενήθηκαν από την ανοησίαν μας και ’διοτέλειά μας και από θρησκευτικούς και από πολιτικούς και από ’μάς τους στρατιωτικούς, αγαναχτώντας και εγώ απ’ ούλα αυτά, ότι ζημιώσαμε την πατρίδα μας πολύ και χάθηκαν και χάνονται τόσοι αθώοι άνθρωποι, σημειώνω τα λάθη ολωνών και φτάνω ων σήμερον, οπού δεν θυσιάζομε ποτές αρετή και πατριωτισμόν και είμαστε σε τούτην την άθλια κατάστασιν και κιντυνεύομεν να χαθούμεν.

Γράφοντας αυτά τα αίτια και τις περίστασες, οπού φέραμεν τον όλεθρον της πατρίδας μας όλοι μας, τότε ως έχοντας και εγώ μερίδιον εις αυτείνη την πατρίδα και κοινωνία, γράφω με πολλή αγανάχτησιν αναντίον των αιτίων, όχι να ’χω καμμιά ιδιαίτερη κακία αναντίον τους, αλλά ο ζήλος πατρίδος μου δίνει αυτείνη την αγανάχτησιν και δεν μπόρεσα να γράψω γλυκώτερα. Αυτό το χειρόγραφον, από την περίστασιν οπού μου έγιναν πολλές καταδρομές, το είχα κρυμμένο. Τώρα οπού το έβγαλα, το διάβασα όλο και έγραψα ως τα 1850 Απρίλη μήνα, και διαβάζοντάς το είδα ότι δεν ξηγώμαι γλυκώτερα δια κάθε άτομον.

Πρώτο λοιπόν αυτό, και ύστερα σε πολλά μέρη ’παναλαβαίνω πίσω τα ίδια (ότι είμαι αγράμματος και δεν θυμώμαι και δεν βαστώ σειρά ταχτική) και τρίτο, εκείνα οπού σημειώνω εις την πρωτοϋπουργίαν του Κωλέτη, οπού έκαμεν τόσα μεγάλα λάθη αναντίον της πατρίδος του και της θρησκείας του και των συναγωνιστών του, όλων των τίμιων ανθρώπων και να χύση τόσα άδικα αίματα των ομογενών του και να πάθη η δυστυχισμένη του πατρίδα και να παθαίνη και τώρα εις τον πεθαμό του από τους ίδιους τους μαθητάς του και συντρόφους του, οπού μας κυβερνούν, και οι προκομμένες του οι Βουλές και άλλοι τοιούτοι, οπού δεν άφησαν λεπτό εις το ταμείο, και όλο το κράτος το ’φεραν σε μίαν μεγάλη δυστυχία και ανωμαλία, και ένας μεγάλος στόλος των σκύλων μας έχουν μπλόκον, οπού ’ναι περίτου από τρεις μήνες, και μας πήραν όλα τα καράβια και μας κατακερμάτισαν όλο το εμπόριον και τζαλαπάτησαν την σημαίαν μας και πεθαίνουν της πείνας οι ανθρώποι των νησιών και εκείνοι οπού ’χουν τα καράβια τους γκιζερούν εις τους δρόμους και κλαίνε με μαύρα δάκρυα.

Όλα αυτά τα δεινά και άλλα πλήθος είναι έργα του Κωλέτη και της συντροφιάς του, οπού άφησε εντολή να κυβερνιώμαστε με αυτό το σύστημα και με τους τοιούτους συντρόφους του. Και από αυτό παθαίνομεν και τι θα πάθωμεν ακόμα ο Θεός το γνωρίζει. Και αυτά ήταν δια τους ξένους σκοπούς του και τις ’διοτέλειές του και για να κατακερματίσουνε και την Τρίτη Σεπτεβρίου – οπού διαλαβαίνει περί θρησκείας και άλλης σωτηρίας της πατρίδος αυτό το Σύνταμα – και τόχομεν εις το χαρτί και αντίς να μας ωφελήση μας αφανίζει ολοένα. Όλοι οι άλλοι, οπού γράφω εξ αρχής, είναι άγιοι ομπρός ’σ αυτόν και την συντροφιά του τη σημερνή, μ’ όλον οπού τα λάθη τα πρώτα εγέννησαν και τούτα.

Δια όλα αυτά γράφω εδώ. Ως άνθρωπος μπορώ να πεθάνω και ή τα παιδιά μου, ή άλλος τα αντιγράψη, για να τα βγάλη εις φως, πρώτο τους ανθρώπους, οπού γράφω μ’ αγανάχτησιν αναντίον τους, να βάνη τις πράξες του κάθε ενού και τ’ όνομά του με καλόν τρόπον, όχι με βρισές, δια να χρησιμεύουν αυτά όλα εις τους μεταγενεστέρους και να μάθουν να θυσιάζουν δια την πατρίδα τους και θρησκεία τους περισσότερη αρετή, να ζήσουν ως ανθρώποι ’σ αυτήν την πατρίδα και μ’ αυτήν την θρησκείαν. Χωρίς αρετή και πόνο εις την πατρίδα και πίστη εις την θρησκεία τους έθνη δεν υπάρχουν. Και προσοχή να μην τους απατάγη η ’διοτέλεια. Και αν σκοντάψουν, τότε εις τον κρεμνόν θα πηγαίνουν, καθώς το πάθαμεν εμείς. Όλο εις τον κρεμνόν κυλάμεν κάθε ’μέρα. Όταν λοιπόν βγη αυτό το χειρόγραφον εις φως, διαβάζοντάς το όλο οι τίμιοι αναγνώστες, αρχή και τέλος, τότες έχουν το δικαίωμα να κάμη ο καθείς των την κρίση του είτε υπέρ, είτε κατά.

Mythistorema- Part 4 (Final)

BY GEORGE SEFERIS

TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY AND PHILIP SHERRARD

            17

                                                                                                            

                                                                               Astyanax

Now that you are leaving, take the boy with you as well,

the boy who saw the light under the plane tree,

one day when trumpets resounded and weapons shone

and the sweating horses

bent to the trough to touch with wet nostrils

the green surface of the water.

The olive trees with the wrinkles of our fathers

the rocks with the wisdom of our fathers

and our brother’s blood alive on the earth

were a vital joy, a rich pattern

for the souls who knew their prayer.

Now that you are leaving, now that the day of payment

dawns, now that no one knows

whom he will kill and how he will die,

take with you the boy who saw the light

under the leaves of that plane tree

and teach him to study the trees.

             18

I regret having let a broad river slip through my fingers

without drinking a single drop.

Now I’m sinking into the stone.

A small pine tree in the red soil

is all the company I have.

Whatever I loved vanished with the houses

that were new last summer

and crumbled in the winds of autumn.

             19

Even if the wind blows it doesn’t cool us

and the shade is meagre under the cypress trees

and all around slopes ascending to the mountains;

they’re a burden for us

the friends who no longer know how to die.

             20

In my breast the wound opens again

when the stars descend and become kin to my body

when silence falls under the footsteps of men.

These stones sinking into time, how far will they drag me with them?

The sea, the sea, who will be able to drain it dry?

I see the hands beckon each drawn to the vulture and the hawk

bound as I am to the rock that suffering has made mine,

I see the trees breathing the black serenity of the dead

and then the smiles, so static, of the statues.

             21

We who set out on this pilgrimage

looked at the broken statues

became distracted and said that life is not so easily lost

that death has unexplored paths

and its own particular justice;

that while we, still upright on our feet, are dying,

affiliated in stone

united in hardness and weakness,

the ancient dead have escaped the circle and risen again

and smile in a strange silence.

             22

So very much having passed before our eyes

that even our eyes saw nothing, but beyond

and behind was memory like the white sheet one night in an enclosure

where we saw strange visions, even stranger than you,

pass by and vanish into the motionless foliage of a pepper tree;

having known this fate of ours so well

wandering among broken stones, three or six thousand years

searching in collapsed buildings that might have been our homes

trying to remember dates and heroic deeds:

will we be able?

having been bound and scattered,

having struggled, as they said, with non-existent difficulties

lost, then finding again a road full of blind regiments

sinking in marshes and in the lake of Marathon,

will we be able to die as we should?

             23

A little farther

we will see the almond trees blossoming

the marble gleaming in the sun

the sea breaking into waves

a little farther,

let us rise a little higher.

             24

Here end the works of the sea, the works of love.

Those who will some day live here where we end —

should the blood happen to darken in their memory and overflow —

let them not forget us, the weak souls among the asphodels,

let them turn the heads of the victims towards Erebus:

We who had nothing will school them in serenity.

George Seferis, "Mythistorema" from Collected Poems (George Seferis). Translated, edited, and introduced by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Copyright © 1995 by George Seferis.  

Mythistorema- Part 3

  BY GEORGE SEFERIS
TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY AND PHILIP SHERRARD

 Λουκάς Γεραλής

 8

What are they after, our souls, travelling

on the decks of decayed ships

crowded in with sallow women and crying babies

unable to forget themselves either with the flying fish

or with the stars that the masts point our at their tips;

grated by gramophone records

committed to non-existent pilgrimages unwillingly

murmuring broken thoughts from foreign languages.

What are they after, our souls, travelling

on rotten brine-soaked timbers

from harbour to harbour?

Shifting broken stones, breathing in

the pine’s coolness with greater difficulty each day,

swimming in the waters of this sea

and of that sea,

without the sense of touch

without men

in a country that is no longer ours

nor yours.

We knew that the islands were beautiful

somewhere round about here where we grope,

slightly lower down or slightly higher up,

a tiny space.

             9

The harbour is old, I can’t wait any longer

for the friend who left the island with the pine trees

for the friend who left the island with the plane trees

for the friend who left for the open sea.

I stroke the rusted cannons, I stroke the oars

so that my body may revive and decide.

The sails give off only the smell

of salt from the other storm.

If I chose to remain alone, what I longed for

was solitude, not this kind of waiting,

my soul shattered on the horizon,

these lines, these colours, this silence.

The night’s stars take me back to Odysseus,

to his anticipation of the dead among the asphodels.

When we moored here we hoped to find among the asphodels

the gorge that knew the wounded Adonis.

             10

Our country is closed in, all mountains

that day and night have the low sky as their roof.

We have no rivers, we have no wells, we have no springs,

only a few cisterns — and these empty — that echo, and that we worship.

A stagnant hollow sound, the same as our loneliness

the same as our love, the same as our bodies.

We find it strange that once we were able to build

our houses, huts and sheep-folds.

And our marriages, the cool coronals and the fingers,

become enigmas inexplicable to our soul.

How were our children born, how did they grow strong?

Our country is closed in. The two black Symplegades

close it in. When we go down

to the harbours on Sunday to breathe freely

we see, lit in the sunset,

the broken planks from voyages that never ended,

bodies that no longer know how to love.

             11

Sometimes your blood froze like the moon

in the limitless night your blood

spread its white wings over

the black rocks, the shapes of trees and houses,

with a little light from our childhood years.

             12

                                                                         Bottle in the sea

Three rocks, a few burnt pines, a lone chapel

and farther above

the same landscape repeated starts again:

three rocks in the shape of a gateway, rusted,

a few burnt pines, black and yellow,

and a square hut buried in whitewash;

and still farther above, many times over,

the same landscape recurs level after level

to the horizon, to the twilit sky.

Here we moored the ship to splice the broken oars,

to drink water and to sleep.

The sea that embittered us is deep and unexplored

and unfolds a boundless calm.

Here among the pebbles we found a coin

and threw dice for it.

The youngest won it and disappeared.

We put to sea again with our broken oars.

             13

                                                                         Hydra

Dolphins banners and the sound of cannons.

The sea once so bitter to your soul

bore the many-coloured and glittering ships

it swayed, rolled and tossed them, all blue with white wings,

once so bitter to your soul

now full of colours in the sun.

White sails and sunlight and wet oars

struck with a rhythm of drums on stilled waves.

Your eyes, watching, would be beautiful,

your arms, reaching out, would glow,

your lips would come alive, as they used to,

at such a miracle:

that’s what you were looking for

                                           what were you looking for in front of ashes

or in the rain in the fog in the wind

even when the lights were growing dim

and the city was sinking and on the stone pavement

the Nazarene showed you his heart,

what were you looking for? why don’t you come? what were you looking for?

             14

Three red pigeons in the light

inscribing our fate in the light

with colours and gestures of people

we once loved.

             15

                                                             Quid πλατανων opacissimus

Sleep wrapped you in green leaves like a tree

you breathed like a tree in the quiet light

in the limpid spring I looked at your face:

eyelids closed, eyelashes brushing the water.

In the soft grass my fingers found your fingers

I held your pulse a moment

and felt elsewhere your heart’s pain.

Under the plane tree, near the water, among laurel

sleep moved you and scattered you

around me, near me, without my being able to touch the whole of you —

one as you were with your silence;

seeing your shadow grow and diminish,

lose itself in the other shadows, in the other

world that let you go yet held you back.

The life that they gave us to live, we lived.

Pity those who wait with such patience

lost in the black laurel under the heavy plane trees

and those, alone, who speak to cisterns and wells

and drown in the voice’s circles.

Pity the companion who shared our privation and our sweat

and plunged into the sun like a crow beyond the ruins,

without hope of enjoying our reward.

Give us, outside sleep, serenity.

             16

                                                                         The name is Orestes

On the track, once more on the track, on the track,

how many times around, how many blood-stained laps, how many black

rows; the people who watch me,

who watched me when, in the chariot,

I raised my hand glorious, and they roared triumphantly.

The froth of the horses strikes me, when will the horses tire?

The axle creaks, the axle burns, when will the axle burst into flame?

When will the reins break, when will the hooves

tread flush on the ground

on the soft grass, among the poppies

where, in the spring, you picked a daisy.

They were lovely, your eyes, but you didn’t know where to look

nor did I know where to look, I, without a country,

I who go on struggling here, how many times around?

and I feel my knees give way over the axle

over the wheels, over the wild track

knees buckle easily when the gods so will it,

no one can escape, what use is strength, you can’t

escape the sea that cradled you and that you search for

at this time of trial, with the horses panting,

with the reeds that used to sing in autumn to the Lydian mode

the sea you cannot find no matter how you run

no matter how you circle past the black, bored Eumenides,   

unforgiven.

Mythistorema- Part 2

 BY GEORGE SEFERIS

TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY AND PHILIP SHERRARD

         

         5

We didn’t know them

                                                 deep down it was hope that said

we’d known them since early childhood.

We saw them perhaps twice and then they took to the ships:

cargoes of coal, cargoes of grain, and our friends

lost beyond the ocean forever.

Dawn finds us beside the tired lamp

drawing on paper, awkwardly, painfully,

ships mermaids or sea shells;

at dusk we go down to the river

because it shows us the way to the sea;

and we spend the nights in cellars that smell of tar.

Our friends have left us

                                                      perhaps we never saw them, perhaps

we met them when sleep

still brought us close to the breathing wave

perhaps we search for them because we search for the other life,

beyond the statues.

            6

                                                                           M.R.

The garden with its fountains in the rain

you will see only from behind the clouded glass

of the low window. Your room

will be lit only by the flames from the fireplace

and sometimes the distant lightning will reveal

the wrinkles on your forehead, my old Friend.

The garden with the fountains that in your hands

was a rhythm of the other life, beyond the broken

statues and the tragic columns

and a dance among the oleanders

near the new quarries —

misty glass will have cut it off from your life.

You won’t breathe; earth and the sap of the trees

will spring from your memory to strike

this window struck by rain

from the outside world.

             7

                                                             South wind

Westward the sea merges with a mountain range.

From our left the south wind blows and drives us mad,

the kind of wind that strips bones of their flesh.

Our house among pines and carobs.

Large windows. Large tables

for writing you the letters we’ve been writing

so many months now, dropping them

into the space between us in order to fill it up.

Star of dawn, when you lowered your eyes

our hours were sweeter than oil

on a wound, more joyful than cold water

to the palate, more peaceful than a swan’s wings.

You held our life in the palm of your hand.

After the bitter bread of exile,

at night if we remain in front of the white wall

your voice approaches us like the hope of fire;

and again this wind hones

a razor against our nerves.

Each of us writes you the same thing

and each falls silent in the other’s presence,

watching, each of us, the same world separately

the light and darkness on the mountain range

and you.

Who will lift this sorrow from our hearts?

Yesterday evening a heavy rain and again today

the covered sky burdens us. Our thoughts –

like the pine needles of yesterday’s downpour

bunched up and useless in front of our doorway —

would build a collapsing tower.

Among these decimated villages

on this promontory, open to the south wind

with the mountain range in front of us hiding you,

who will appraise for us the sentence to oblivion?

Who will accept our offering, at this close of autumn?