Μερικά -ως πολλά- ποιήματά μου

Γράφω άρα Υπάρχω - Στον Καιρό της Λήθης (32)

Κι ας ζω για πάντα στοιχειωμένος,
περιστοιχισμένος από κορμιά, νεκρά κορμιά που στροβιλίζονται,
που παραπαίουν μεθυσμένα και ζητούν μέσ' στην απόγνωση λίγη αλήθεια,
να τα λυτρώσει απ' τα ψέματα, τον βούρκο και την ζάλη.
Να μην λυπούνται πια, να μην κοιμούνται σαν νεκρά στα πεζοδρόμια.

Αλήθεια, θα 'θελα αλήθεια περισσότερη.
Να λάμψει με το φως του ήλιου και να κρύψει κάθε μια σκιά,
να την εξαφανίσει διά παντός από τον κόσμο·
μόνο φως να μείνει, καυτό, αληθινό - σαν αίμα, σαν ουίσκι και κρασί.

Μεθυσμένη η νύχτα ξανά τσαλαβουτάει στα παλιά.
Ανασύρει αναμνήσεις, άλλες τετριμμένες
κι άλλες ξεχασμένες τόσο που έχουν μείνει σαν σκιές να μας ορίζουν.
Τι να γνωρίζουν και οι έρημες οι λάμιες;
Πνιγήκανε χρόνια πολλά πριν το σκοτάδι της αυγής.

Ούτε πηγής ούτε ανάσας το αποτύπωμα μού μένει στο μυαλό.
Μονάχα δέντρα σκιερά, ποτάμια που κυλάνε,
ανάμεσα σε ψηλά φαράγγια και σκιερά δάση.
Θυμάμαι πώς η αιώρα με νανούριζε στημένη σε δυο δέντρα.
Θυμάμαι πώς η αγάπη με νανούριζε και η στοργή.
Θυμάμαι ακόμα πράγματα που θα 'θελα να είχα ξεχάσει,
μα είναι λίγα αυτά και η δύναμή τους έχει σβήσει.
Αδύναμα μού φωνάζουν και με κοροϊδεύουνε.

Κι όσο για το αύριο; Ποιος ξέρει, αλήθεια;
Αλήθεια... μόνο εκείνο θέλω να πω:
"Είθε ποτέ να μην σε πάρει από κάτω ή πέσεις σε λήθαργο βαθύ.
Η καταιγίδα θα δώσει την θέση της στο μπλε του ουρανού,
σαν τον παλιό σκοπό απ' την ψυχή σου ανασύρεις".


Τετάρτη 22 Οκτωβρίου του 2014

Blogged from my memory


Once, I remember a lady stopped me and asked for directions.
I sent her her way and she thanked me dearly,
even though it was but four words I spoke.

It's a funny thing with giving directions;
I never forget the people who helped me
or the ones who I helped myself.
There are instances where I can't recall the faces or names,
of people I've met the previous day,
and spent a whole night talking to,
but I never seem to forget the helpers
or the helpees (if this is even English).

Why this happens I don't know.
It coud be the power of gratitude and the joy of helping.
But it's still odd how I can't remember much more recent faces.

That been said, I don't believe it is information worth sharing
with anyone else than a psychiatrist.
I'm still hoping though to find a soulmate with the same defect,
so I can answer the most trivial question a man has to ask:
Do they remember me?


Δευτέρα 18 Ιουνίου του 2012

Induce me not


I fear not to be alone,
I fear not to die,
what I only fear is the truth.
Why I linger is why I write.
This very moment,
on an empty room,
on a coldish night,
by a darkened window,
widow of my own making,
passenger having no delight
nor any meaningful destination.

I fear not to be judged.
I fear no morbid morgue.
I only fear you.
And I have no means to fight you.


29 Νοεμβρίου του 2010

When the Wolves Howl - Voices Along the Coast

Some years after, I find myself heading for the old tower.
Windy the coast as it is -as it has always been-
I find myself reaching for a cover.
As I stroll along the path, laid with wooden planks,
I hear the wind whispering; gibberish, as it always does.
But wait... this time it's different. I can hear voices calling.
I can hear distinct words, if unrelated to each other.
I can hear seagulls dipping in my mind, hauling up memories and words,
reaching from the deepest inner mind, melodies resurface and drown the silent, windy coast.
Silent, for the wind today makes no sound at all.
I tighten the grip on the book I carry with me.
I try and focus on the shimmering horizon of the sea.
So calm a picture, yet so windy all around, both outside and inside.
I stray off the path and reach for the shore. I hearken.
The voices are circling and calling me by names strange;
names that I do not remember having.

No other sound. No sound except the voice. A single voice, now,
saying things I cannot understand; things that maybe I am not willing to grasp.
It says to me I am there, yet there I am, without a doubt, and the reminder bears no meaning.
Or so it would seem to me.
It whispers things I should not forget, yet things I have forgotten.
Stop thinking, the voice says. Stop making up your mind for things that now not matter.
Stay there, by the tree. Stay and sit under its fleeting, feeble shadow.
Leave this land in purest silence, leave its slumpering, pale, old morning.
Leave the sun to set in silence and to rise anew in morning drowsy.
Say goodnight to hoist and shadow, say goodbye to fleet and berry,
say your last and only sorry, to the land that once your home was,
on this dull and grayish coast, on this windy winter midday,
say your wistful wishful prayer, even though you pray not ever.

Then the voice became a million whispering winds,
blowing from the East, the West, the South and North.
Then like glass which in a million pieces shutter,
voice by voice the wind diminished and to proper silence ended.
Blowing from across the turbulent ocean, reaching from within forgotten memories,
startling grass and shuttering silence, wind anew; the small tree wobbles.
Right beside it, under its shadow; fleeting, feeble, faint and pallid,
I lay down and topple over on the grassy slope below it.
I remember, as I tipple, from the single whiskey bottle,
all the things the voices shouted, deep within the rocky silence,
on that drowsy, dreary noon.

After the bottle was over, I pushed myself up and resumed my stroll along the coast.
All in winter, all in silence, all in windy Monday brilliance,
in the land the sun shines wistful, pale and dotty, clear and wobbly
All in secret sacred scripture, listing knights and dames and royals,
all in cosy slumpering madness.


Παρασκευή 09 Αυγούστου του 2013