Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Exit Don Giovanni

Somewhere below his pride, the Don’s bad dreams
Fashioned the statue that would take him down.
Deep underground, the tears were there in streams.
The man who had the only game in town,
In Spain, in Europe, when it came to love,
Sensed that there had to be a reckoning.
The boundaries he claimed to soar above
Meant nothing to him except everything.
Why the defiant stance, if not from shame?
And why deny that truth, if not from fear?
The bodice-ripper made his famous name
By staying buttoned up. His whole career
Came back to haunt him in a stony glance.
Transfixed, he followed where the statue led.
Below, tips of hot tongues began to dance.
Further below, it was a sea of red.
There was a jetty. Next to it, a raft
Held every name on Leporello’s list,
Even from just last week. The statue laughed
And left. The women, modelled out of mist,
Were images, as they had always been
To him, but strong enough to ply the sweeps.
They would not meet his eye, having foreseen
What waited for him on the burning deeps.
A long way out, they paused, and one by one
They disappeared, each hinting with a smile,
But not to him, their work had been well done.
He was alone. To cry was not his style,
But then he reached down through the surface fire
Into the water. Almost with relief
He learned at last the flames of his desire
Had floated on the ocean of his grief.
Had he known sooner, what would that have meant?
Less to regret, and little to admit?
The raft burned: final stage of his descent.
Hell was on Earth. Now he was out of it.

- Clive James


Wednesday, November 11, 2009

ο ποιητής

Όπου κι αν βρεθείς,
Να ψάξεις πρώτα τον ποιητή.

Αυτόν πρέπει να γνωρίσεις, πριν απ΄ όλους.

Είναι το πρόσωπο - κλειδί.

Ο μάγος.
Ο τρελός
Ο κρεμασμένος.

Αυτός που εν αγνοία μας τα ξέρει όλα,
Γι αυτό και βιάζεται να πεθάνει πρώτος.

Όπου κι αν βρεθείς ψάξτον.
Δώστου να πιεί ένα ποτήρι να χαλαρώσει,
μπας και μάθεις τι σε περιμένει.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


Ακαδημίας. Κοντά στη συμβολή με την Ιπποκράτους. Όλοι έχουμε περάσει από μπροστά...

Friday, November 06, 2009

Το σχήμα της απουσίας

Ὅ,τι ἔφυγε, ριζώνει ἐδῶ, στὴν ἴδια θέση, λυπημένο, ἀμίλητο
ὅπως ἕνα μεγάλο βάζο τοῦ σπιτιοῦ, ποὺ πουλήθηκε κάποτε σὲ δύσκολες ὧρες, καὶ στὴ γωνιὰ τῆς κάμαρας, ἐκεῖ ποὺ στέκονταν τὸ βάζο, ἀπομένει τὸ κενὸ πυκνωμένο στὸ ἴδιο σχῆμα τοῦ βάζου, ἀμετάθετο, ν' ἀστράφτει διάφανο στὴν ἀντηλιά, ὅταν ἀνοίγουν πότε-πότε τὰ παράθυρα, καὶ μέσα στὸ ἴδιο βάζο, πούχει ἀλλάξει τὴν οὐσία του μὲ ἴδια κ' ἰσόποσην οὐσία ἀπ' τὸ κρύσταλλο τοῦ ἄδειου, μένει καὶ πάλι τὸ ἴδιο ἐκεῖνο κούφωμα, λίγο πιὸ ὀδυνηρὰ ἠχητικὸ μονάχα. Πίσω ἀπ' τὸ βάζο διακρίνεται τὸ χρῶμα τοῦ τοίχου πιὸ σκοτεινό, πιὸ βαθύ, πιὸ ὀνειροπόλο, σὰ νἄμεινε ἡ σκιὰ τοῦ βάζου σχεδιασμένη σὲ μία σαρκοφάγο - Καί, κάποτε, τὴ νύχτα, σὲ μίαν ὥρα σιωπηλή, ἢ καὶ τὴ μέρα, ἀνάμεσα στὶς ὁμιλίες, ἀκοῦς βαθιά σου κάποιον ἦχο ὀξύ, πικρὸ καὶ πολυκύμαντο σάμπως ἕνα ἀόρατο δάχτυλο νὰ ἔκρουσε κεῖνο τὸ ἀπόν, εὐαίσθητο, κρυστάλλινο δοχεῖο.

- Γ. Ρίτσος

Μόλις πεθάνει

Μόλις πεθάνει
Ἡ ἀγάπη
Θέλει σιωπὴ μεγάλη
Γιὰ νά ῾βρει στὴν ἄκρη τοῦ πόνου
Τὴν περίφημη λίμνη
Τὴ λήθη.

Δὲν εἴμαστε ποιητές

Δὲν εἴμαστε ποιητὲς
Σημαίνει ἐγκαταλείπουμε τὸν ἀγῶνα
Παρατᾶμε τὴ χαρὰ στοὺς ἀνίδεους
Τὶς γυναῖκες στὰ φιλιὰ τοῦ ἀνέμου
Καὶ στὴ σκόνη τοῦ καιροῦ
Σημαίνει πὼς φοβόμαστε
Καὶ ἡ ζωή μας ἔγινε ξένη
Ὁ θάνατος βραχνάς.

- Γιώργος Σαραντάρης

«Τώρα», μου λέει, «θα πάμε μακριά», «μα δε βλέπεις», του λέω, «μας ξέχασαν»,
«γι’ αυτό» μου λέει

Και πάντα, ο δολοφόνος και το θύμα, μια νύχτα άξαφνα παίρνουν τον ίδιο δρόμο γιατί σημασία έχει ποιος θα πεθάνει με λιγότερη μοναξιά. ...

κι η ειλικρίνεια αρχίζει πάντα εκεί, που τελείωσαν όλοι οι άλλοι τρόποι να σωθείς.

-Τ. Λειβαδίτης

Thursday, November 05, 2009

Au Revoir

by Maureen N. McLane

We did not go to Versailles.

The ocean did not turn over.

The moon remained unmanned

And two teams called out in turn Red Rover Red Rover.

Did Fisher-Price furnish our minds

with a transportable imaginaire?

George Bush the first said he liked pork rinds.

My name not Mary my self contrary.

Things are always terrible

for some people. The question

is the ratio of the palpable hurt

to the general session

of life in an era. Narcissism

the Hall of Mirrors multiplying

me and you and me no schism

between ourselves and our lying

ideals. This is another first-world poem

annoying in all its presumption

its feckless tourism presupposing a home

and its hubris misregarding itself as gumption.

Autobiography cannot anymore be spiritual

and the obviously sexual dimensions

of experience laid out before all

a spatchcocked chicken the cook mentioned

she’d make you for dinner

after she serviced the young monsieur

on the staircase. It’s hierarchy or chaos

mister sd the structuralist seer

a woman no friend

to women but no enemy

either. How to end

the impasse. How to be

perfectly complicit to just the degree

you deserve asked the dominatrix

by which I mean post-structuralist

for whom the question of rubber vs. latex

moves us far beyond rational choice . . .

Monday, November 02, 2009

He is watching the music with his eyes closed. Hearing the piano like a man moving through the woods thinking by feeling. The orchestra up in the trees, the heart below, step by step. The music hurrying sometimes, but always returning to quiet, like the man remembering and hoping. It is a thing in us, mostly unnoticed. There is somehow a pleasure in the loss. In the yearning. The pain going this way and that. Never again. Never bodied again. Again the never. Slowly. No undergrowth. Almost leaving. A humming beauty in the silence. The having been. Having had. And the man knowing all of him will come to the end.


My photo
i have nothing to declare, but a can of tuna