Archive for December, 2012

Σέ μιά γυναίκα

Θυμάσαι τίς νύχτες; Γιά νά σέ κάνω νά γελάσεις περπατούσα πάνω

          στο γυαλί τής λάμπας.

“Πώς γίνεται;” ρωτούσες. Μά ήταν τόσο απλό

αφού μ’ αγαπούσες.

 

For a Woman

 

Do you remember the nights? To make you laugh I’d walk

          over the glass of the night lamp.

“How was it possible?” You asked.

 

But it was so simple:

since you loved me

 

Απλά Λόγια

Βράδυ όμοιο σχεδόν μέ τ’ άλλα: η πλήξη, λιγοστό φώς,

          οι χαμένοι δρόμοι

κι άξαφνα κάποιος πού σού λέει “είμαι φτωχός”, σάν νά

         σού δίνει μιά μεγάλη υπόσχεση.

 

 

Simple Words

The night almost same as all others: tediousness,

          the faint light, lost paths

and suddenly someone says “I’m poor”, as though giving you

          a great promise.

 

 

Ο Ηττημένος

 

     Γονάτισε κι ακούμπησε τό μέτωπό του στό πάτωμα. Ήταν

η δύσκολη ώρα. Κι όταν σηκώθηκε, το ντροπιασμένο πρόσωπό του,

πού όλοι ξέραμε, είχε μείνει εκεί, πάνω στίς σανίδες, σάν ένα

αναποδογυρισμένο άχρηστο κράνος.

     Ο ίδιος γύριζε σπίτι του τώρα δίχως πρόσωπο—σάν τό Θεό.

 

 

 

The Defeated

 

     He kneeled and laid his forehead on the floor. It was

the difficult time. When he got up, his embarrassed face,

that we all knew, had stayed there, on the planks, like

a useless upside helmet.

    The same man returned home, without face—like God.

 

 

Χοιροστάσιο

 

     Είχαν αλλάξει οι καιροί, τώρα δέ σκότωναν, σ’ έδειχναν μόνο μέ

τό δάχτυλο, κι αυτό αρκούσε. Ύστερα, κάνοντας έναν κύκλο πού

όλο στένευε, σέ πλησίαζαν σιγά σιγά, εσύ υποχωρούσες, στριμω-

χνόσουνα στόν τοίχο, ώσπου, απελπισμένος, άνοιγες μόνος σου μιά

τρύπα νά χωθείς.

    Κι όταν ο κύκλος διαλυόταν, στή θέση του στεκόταν ένας άλλος,

καθ’ όλα αξιαγάπητος κύριος.

 

 

Pigsty

 

    Things had changed, these days they don’t kill, they only

point at you with the finger, it’s enough. Then, they make

a circle that always becomes smaller, they slowly get closer,

you retreat, back against the wall, until in desperation, you,

alone, open a hole to hide into.

     When the circle is cleared, in its place stands the other,

in every respect lovable man.

 

 

Η Έκτη Ημέρα

 

     Ήταν η έκτη μέρα τής δημιουργίας, η μητέρα είχε ντυθεί στά

μαύρα, φορούσε καί τό καλό καπέλο της μέ τό βέλο, “δέν έπρεπε νά

μάς τό κάνει αυτό ο Θεός” είπε, στό βάθος χλωμοί άντρες στήναν

τή μεγάλη σκηνή τού τσίρκου,

     “γύρισε σπίτι είναι αργά”, “ποιό σπίτι», είπα κι αγκάλιασα το

φανάρι τού δρόμου,

      η μικρή ξαδέλφη όπου νά `ναι θά πέθαινε, τήν έσπρωξα πίσω απ’

τήν ντουλάπα, “σ’ αγαπάω” έλεγε, μά εγώ τήν έγδυνα κιόλας σάν

πόρνη—κι όταν τή θάψαμε, εγώ έμεινα γιά πάντα εκεί, πίσω απ’

τήν ντουλάπα, μισοφαγωμένος απ’ τά ποντίκια,

     κι ήταν η έκτη μέρα τής δημιουργίας,

     οι τροχαλίες γλύριζαν καθώς ανέβαζαν τό πρώτο ρολόι στή στέ-

γη τού σταθμού,

     κάθισα στήν άκρη τού δρόμου, τόσο θλιμμένος, πού οι τυφλοίμ’

έβλεπαν.

 

 

The Sixth Day

 

     It was the sixth day of creation; mother was dressed in black,

she wore her good hat with the veil, “God shouldn’t had done this

to us” she said, at the far end pale workers put together the big

stage of the circus,

    “come back home, it’s late”, “which home?” I asked and hugged

the lamp-post of the street,

     my young cousin was almost dead, I pushed her behind the closet,

“I love you” she’d say, but I had already undressed her—like a whore—

when we buried her, I stayed there forever, behind the closet, half

eaten by the mice

     and it was the sixth day of creation,

     pulleys grunted as they lifted up the roof of the station

the first clock,

     I sat by the side of the street, so sorry, that even the blind

could see me.

 

 

 

Giorgos Seferis’ Speech

at the Nobel Banquet at the City Hall in Stockholm, December 10, 1963 (Translation)

 

“I feel at this moment that I am a living contradiction. The Swedish Academy has decided that my efforts in a language famous through the centuries but not widespread in its present form are worthy of this high distinction. It is paying homage to my language – and in return I express my gratitude in a foreign language. I hope you will accept the excuses I am making to myself.

I belong to a small country. A rocky promontory in the Mediterranean, it has nothing to distinguish it but the efforts of its people, the sea, and the light of the sun. It is a small country, but its tradition is immense and has been handed down through the centuries without interruption. The Greek language has never ceased to be spoken. It has undergone the changes that all living things experience, but there has never been a gap. This tradition is characterized by love of the human; justice is its norm. In the tightly organized classical tragedies the man who exceeds his measure is punished by the Erinyes. And this norm of justice holds even in the realm of nature.

«Helios will not overstep his measure»; says Heraclitus, «otherwise the Erinyes, the ministers of Justice, will find him out». A modern scientist might profit by pondering this aphorism of the Ionian philosopher. I am moved by the realization that the sense of justice penetrated the Greek mind to such an extent that it became a law of the physical world. One of my masters exclaimed at the beginning of the last century, «We are lost because we have been unjust» He was an unlettered man, who did not learn to write until the age of thirty-five. But in the Greece of our day the oral tradition goes back as far as the written tradition, and so does poetry. I find it significant that Sweden wishes to honour not only this poetry, but poetry in general, even when it originates in a small people. For I think that poetry is necessary to this modern world in which we are afflicted by fear and disquiet. Poetry has its roots in human breath – and what would we be if our breath were diminished? Poetry is an act of confidence – and who knows whether our unease is not due to a lack of confidence?

Last year, around this table, it was said that there is an enormous difference between the discoveries of modern science and those of literature, but little difference between modern and Greek dramas. Indeed, the behaviour of human beings does not seem to have changed. And I should add that today we need to listen to that human voice which we call poetry, that voice which is constantly in danger of being extinguished through lack of love, but is always reborn. Threatened, it has always found a refuge; denied, it has always instinctively taken root again in unexpected places. It recognizes no small nor large parts of the world; its place is in the hearts of men the world over. It has the charm of escaping from the vicious circle of custom. I owe gratitude to the Swedish Academy for being aware of these facts; for being aware that languages which are said to have restricted circulation should not become barriers which might stifle the beating of the human heart; and for being a true Areopagus, able «to judge with solemn truth life’s ill-appointed lot», to quote Shelley, who, it is said, inspired Alfred Nobel, whose grandeur of heart redeems inevitable violence.

In our gradually shrinking world, everyone is in need of all the others. We must look for man wherever we can find him. When on his way to Thebes Oedipus encountered the Sphinx, his answer to its riddle was: «Man». That simple word destroyed the monster. We have many monsters to destroy. Let us think of the answer of Oedipus.”

 

~From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967, Editor Horst Frenz,

ElsevierPublishingCompany, Amsterdam, 1969

 

 

Ομιλία Γεωργίου Σεφέρη στη Σουηδική Ακαδημία κατά την απονομή του Βραβείου Νόμπελ, 10-12-1963

“Τούτη την ώρα αισθάνομαι πως είμαι ο ίδιος μια αντίφαση. Αλήθεια, η Σουηδική Ακαδημία έκρινε πως η προσπάθειά μου σε μια γλώσσα περιλάλητη επί αιώνες, αλλά στην παρούσα μορφή της περιορισμένη, άξιζε αυτή την υψηλή διάκριση. Θέλησε να τιμήσει τη γλώσσα μου, και να – εκφράζω τώρα τις ευχαριστίες μου σε ξένη γλώσσα. Σας παρακαλώ να μου δώσετε τη συγγνώμη που ζητώ πρώτα-πρώτα από τον εαυτό μου.

Ανήκω σε μια χώρα μικρή. Ένα πέτρινο ακρωτήρι στη Μεσόγειο, που δεν έχει άλλο αγαθό παρά τον αγώνα του λαού του, τη θάλασσα, και το φως του ήλιου. Είναι μικρός ο τόπος μας, αλλά η παράδοσή του είναι τεράστια και το πράγμα που μας χαρακτηρίζει είναι ότι μας παραδόθηκε χωρίς διακοπή. Η ελληνική γλώσσα δεν έπαψε ποτέ της να μιλιέται. Δέχτηκε τις αλλοιώσεις που δέχεται καθετί ζωντανό, αλλά δεν παρουσιάζει κανένα χάσμα. Άλλο χαρακτηριστικό αυτής της παράδοσης είναι η αγάπη της για την ανθρωπιά· κανόνας της είναι η δικαιοσύνη. Στην αρχαία τραγωδία, την οργανωμένη με τόση ακρίβεια, ο άνθρωπος που ξεπερνά το μέτρο, πρέπει να τιμωρηθεί από τις Ερινύες. Ο ίδιος νόμος ισχύει και όταν ακόμα πρόκειται για φυσικά φαινόμενα: “Ήλιος ουχ υπερβήσεται μέτρα” λέει ο Ηράκλειτος, “ει δε μη, Ερινύες μιν Δίκης επίκουροι εξευρήσουσιν”.

Συλλογίζομαι πως δεν αποκλείεται ολωσδιόλου να ωφεληθεί ένας σύγχρονος επιστήμων, αν στοχαστεί τούτο το απόφθεγμα του Ίωνα φιλοσόφου. Όσο για μένα συγκινούμαι παρατηρώντας πως η συνείδηση της δικαιοσύνης είχε τόσο πολύ διαποτίσει την ελληνική ψυχή, ώστε να γίνει κανόνας και του φυσικού κόσμου. Και ένας από τους διδασκάλους μου (εννοεί τον Μακρυγιάννη), των αρχών του περασμένου αιώνα, γράφει: “…θα χαθούμε γιατί αδικήσαμε…” Αυτός ο άνθρωπος ήταν αγράμματος· είχε μάθει να γράφει στα τριανταπέντε χρόνια της ηλικίας του. Αλλά στην Ελλάδα των ημερών μας, η προφορική παράδοση πηγαίνει μακριά στα περασμένα όσο και η γραπτή. Το ίδιο και η ποίηση. Είναι για μένα σημαντικό το γεγονός ότι η Σουηδία θέλησε να τιμήσει και τούτη την ποίηση και όλη την ποίηση γενικά, ακόμη και όταν αναβρύζει ανάμεσα σ’ ένα λαό περιορισμένο. Γιατί πιστεύω πως τούτος ο σύγχρονος κόσμος όπου ζούμε, ο τυραννισμένος από το φόβο και την ανησυχία, τη χρειάζεται την ποίηση. Η ποίηση έχει τις ρίζες της στην ανθρώπινη ανάσα, και τι θα γινόμασταν αν η πνοή μας λιγόστευε; Είναι μια πράξη εμπιστοσύνης κι ένας Θεός το ξέρει αν τα δεινά μας δεν τα χρωστάμε στη στέρηση εμπιστοσύνης.

Παρατήρησαν, τον περασμένο χρόνο γύρω από τούτο το τραπέζι, την πολύ μεγάλη διαφορά ανάμεσα στις ανακαλύψεις της σύγχρονης επιστήμης και στη λογοτεχνία· παρατήρησαν πως ανάμεσα σ’ ένα αρχαίο ελληνικό δράμα και ένα σημερινό, η διαφορά είναι λίγη. Ναι, η συμπεριφορά του  ανθρώπου δε μοιάζει να έχει αλλάξει βασικά. Και πρέπει να προσθέσω πως νιώθει πάντα την ανάγκη ν’ ακούσει τούτη την ανθρώπινη φωνή που ονομάζουμε ποίηση. Αυτή τη φωνή που κινδυνεύει να σβήσει κάθε στιγμή από στέρηση αγάπης και ολοένα ξαναγεννιέται. Κυνηγημένη, ξέρει πού να βρει καταφύγιο· απαρνημένη, έχει το ένστικτο να πάει να ριζώσει στους πιο απροσδόκητους τόπους. Γι’ αυτή δεν υπάρχουν μεγάλα και μικρά μέρη του κόσμου. Το βασίλειό της είναι στις καρδιές όλων των ανθρώπων της γης. Έχει τη χάρη να αποφεύγει πάντα τη συνήθεια, αυτή τη βιομηχανία. Χρωστώ την ευγνωμοσύνη μου στη Σουηδική Ακαδημία που ένιωσε αυτά τα πράγματα· που ένιωσε πως οι γλώσσες, οι λεγόμενες περιορισμένης χρήσης, δεν πρέπει να καταντούν φράχτες όπου πνίγεται ο παλμός της ανθρώπινης καρδιάς· που έγινε ένας Άρειος Πάγος ικανός: να κρίνει με αλήθεια επίσημη την άδικη μοίρα της ζωής, για να θυμηθώ τον Σέλεϋ, τον εμπνευστή, καθώς μας λένε, του Αλφρέδου Νόμπελ, αυτού του ανθρώπου που μπόρεσε να εξαγοράσει την αναπόφευκτη βία με τη μεγαλοσύνη της καρδιάς του.
Σ’ αυτόν τον κόσμο, που ολοένα στενεύει, ο καθένας μας χρειάζεται όλους τους άλλους. Πρέπει ν’ αναζητήσουμε τον άνθρωπο, όπου κι αν βρίσκεται. Όταν, στο δρόμο της Θήβας, ο Οιδίπους συνάντησε τη Σφίγγα, κι αυτή του έθεσε το αίνιγμά της, η απόκρισή του ήταν: ο άνθρωπος. Τούτη η απλή λέξη χάλασε το τέρας. Έχουμε πολλά τέρατα να καταστρέψουμε.

Ας συλλογιστούμε την απόκριση του Οιδίποδα.”

ΠΗΓΗ: Το κείμενο στα Ελληνικά από τον Τόμο “Ένας αιώνας Νόμπελ. Οι ομιλίες των συγγραφέων που τιμήθηκαν με το Βραβείο Νόμπελ στον 20ό αιώνα”, (Επιμέλεια-Επίλογος: Θανάσης Θ. Νιάρχος), εκδ. Καστανιώτη, Αθήνα 2001

Με ιδιαίτερη χαρά σας ενημερώνω πως σε συνεργασία με τη International Art Academy διοργανώθηκε ο πρώτος διαγωνσιμός ποίησης “Μανώλης Αλυγιζάκης”. Προσκαλώ λοιπόν όλους και όλες που ασχολούνται με την ποίηση να ελέγξουν τις απαιτούμενες λεπτομέρειες και να συμμετάσχουν.

It is my pleasure to inform you that in co-operation with the International Art Academy the first poetry competition “Manolis Aligizakis” has been established. I would like to see all my friends who write poetry to read the requirements and participate.

www.artsociety.gr

www.artsociety.gr/artacademy

BIRTHDAY

Posted: December 1, 2012 by vequinox in Literature
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

 

 

        It’s early October and the weather is quite cool. Yet, there are still days when the temperature is a pleasant twenty degrees. It’s that leftover, perhaps forgotten, heat from the summer, very much appreciated by Vancouverites. The flowers in gardens and parks are still in full bloom and lawns still require the occasional watering and trim.

        Let us say that for the length of this story my name is Manolis. I am of Greek origin, and a Canadian citizen. I am one of ‘the others’, as we are sometimes called. You might ask: who are ‘the others’? I’ll try to make this long story short. Some years ago, after the 1995 referendum in the province of Quebec, a “loser” referred to us as ‘the others’. The loser was Jacques Parizeau. After losing the referendum to make Quebec an independent nation he made the historic “us and them” speech.

         Tonight, I’m invited to the house of a good friend, Michael. It’s his birthday. Really, it matters not whether it’s a birthday or a name day, or any other occasion. People get together to enjoy one another’s company. What counts is who gathers at the host’s house: friends of both genders, single or married, divorced or separated, newlyweds or old couples with faint memories of their own anniversaries. Really, it makes no difference what this group of people has in common other than to get together and have a good time. Fun is what counts, and the rest are just details, which, most of the time, we couldn’t give a shit about.

         Here I am, following a middle-age crisis and subsequent divorce, introducing a new girlfriend, a Canadian with Spanish roots by way of the Philippines, to the people who have always known me as that fellow with a Greek wife and two kids. Now, I show up with a girlfriend who is not even Greek.

        Most of the guests are surely thinking, “Oh God, who’s this man who dares to come here with this new woman?” We won’t mention a recent, rather insignificant health issue: nothing to worry about, just a tiny coronary blockage. Who really cares!

         As we arrive we find a household split in two. I don’t mean literally; the house sits quite comfortably on its foundations, with its two levels, two garages, and four bedrooms. Sometimes, I wonder what our parents think when they visit from the old country and see so many rooms, while back at home, the whole family of four, five, six, or more, lived in one or possibly two rooms. Here we are in Vancouver with rooms galore and plenty of other things to make our lives miserable. We, of course, always want “more.” It is our mantra, and when good old sweet Death comes to take one of us, the rest gather and sing for the departed, without any sliver of thought about all the misery that person had gone through to gather so much “stuff”.

       Anyway, we enter my friend’s place and it’s divided into two sections. On the left, in the living room, the men are standing with their drinks in hand, at arm’s length from the table loaded with appetizers displayed on decorated platters. On the right, in the dining room, under the chandelier, are the women. They’re gathered close enough to the men, checking on them from time to time, making sure their eyesight doesn’t get fixated on another woman’s figure, yet far enough away that the men cannot hear their conversations. This is a custom that comes from the old country: men are with their peers talking amongst themselves and women with the other women, talking about their men.

         The host’s wife blesses me with two kisses, one on each cheek, and I reciprocate without hesitation. After all, I carry my history, or better, my history precedes me, and all these women know it well. Perhaps some of these women wish they had their chance with me, but then again, who cares? You know, the other person, that sweet image of being with someone else’s mate, is a natural wonder and curiosity, which at most times is the reason someone cheats on his or her spouse. This fooling around doesn’t involve all those dramatics we see in films or read in books, which, most of the time, stretch the truth to the unnecessary extreme.

         Anyway, let us go back to the story. As I make myself present to the men’s section of the house, I’m greeted with the usual ‘How are you?’ ‘We haven’t seen you for a long time’. ‘How are the kids?’ ‘Are you fooling around with any woman?’ They don’t say the last line aloud, but they most assuredly think it and they are so eager to know. Some of them are even jealous, and wish they had the chance to fool around as much as they’re sure I do. Even if the opportunity presented itself, they just wouldn’t have the guts to follow their instincts. Only the daring do and only the daring know what it means to just do it! But of course, every divorce splits the assets and the friends in the same breath. Some carry on their friendships with both ex-spouses. Quite rarely do you see old friends who spend equal time with each of the divorcees; and there are those who also claim…

        ‘Why invite him to our party, to sleep with our wives?’

         Such morons don’t know I would rather put my Nicolas into a line of three donuts than sleep with their wives, but I will leave that discussion for some other time. In gatherings like this one, when old friends greet you and truly care to know how you are, they do come close to getting in touch with the godly; I mean, yes, really beyond the flesh and bones, beyond the littleness that at most times turns them into leaves at the centre of the most thunderous tempest that blows them from one end of life to the other, namely Death. There’s no escape from the final reality. However, at times such as this, these are just people like you and me, and they just want to have fun and celebrate some guy’s birthday.

         The host serves the wine. My new girlfriend sits next to me in the men’s section.

        “I’m not sitting on my own with the women…” She whispers.        

        Although this is a taboo, I advise her:

        “If this is where you want to sit, then this is where you sit.”

         The men’s predictable phrases still come and go and the warmth of the wine as well as the body heat of the people in the room, make the atmosphere warm and open. Even the conversation feels somewhat softer and fluffier as the wine is consumed.

         My girlfriend gets up to visit the powder room and Kostas finds the opportunity and the courage to lean a bit closer and ask:

        “Hey, is she hot?”

         I flash my widest smile on the poor man. Before I manage to tell him how hot my new woman is, Vangelis buts in with:

        “Don’t worry about him. He’s got it right. He can pick and choose.”

         One can see the man salivating at the idea of picking and choosing and I really feel the urge to laugh.  

         The doorbell rings to interrupt our conversation and the host goes to greet her guests. From where I sit, I see Anna. Pretty Anna, airy, and ethereal, enters the foyer with her husband close behind. Anna is always perfectly attired, always trendy and sexy. Elegant Anna walks gracefully, taking her steps through the living room, and quite easily my expert nose picks up her light lilac perfume. I fix my eyes on her, and she knows I’ve been watching her as soon as her eyes meet mine, and somewhere between her sexy walk and her faint smile I see the prettiest female of the evening.

         How do women know when you look at them? Sometimes I wonder, yet they do, and they always smile back. It must be the same knowing I always have when, in a gathering of women, one, a special one looks at me and salivates and who just doesn’t give a damn. This is called “experience,” I suppose, and a womanizer like Manolis has come to know. I’m sure she has heard all the history of my escapades and misadventures; after all, the whole Greek community has heard of them, why not her? As soon as Anna arrives, I notice all the hugs and kisses coming and going, each woman hugging and saying loudly, ‘Hi, how are you?’ while murmuring inside, ‘Bitch…’ a word every woman uses when a prettier one enters the room and the eyes of all males are glued onto her like limpets on a rock. Anna looks as though she enjoys every bit of it, although I catch her sneaking glances toward my new girlfriend with every possible opportunity.

         A little while later, when most guests are loosened up and relaxed to the point of drunkenness, we get up to go to the kitchen to pick up plates and select our food from the big spread on the table. Men avoid getting close to Anna because some see her as an instigator; others, because they do not feel certain of their manhood near a gorgeous woman; and still others, because they fear that their secret thoughts might be revealed, and they know these thoughts well, just as well as I know these guys and I also know all too well their secret thoughts. Trust me, I’m a man, and I have a history which precedes me every time I show up at a gathering like this one.

          However, I’m not like the other men, and I also believe deeply in my heart that when a pretty woman is not teased it constitutes an error, and when a very pretty woman, like Anna, is not teased, it turns to a curse; and I don’t like being cursed by any means.

         The little devil inside me gets me up and guides me to the kitchen where I see Anna standing alone by the fridge and slowly chewing on a piece of carrot. I take a plate and my little devil guides me next to her; she graces me with her sweetest smile: what a line of teeth! What a sexy mouth, I would love to put my little Nicolas there. Yes, I would love to put little Nicolas between these two full lips and push them open, see what kind of an ‘o’ they would design for me. Why do men always see a blowjob on the pretty lips of a woman? I’ve asked myself this so many times and the answer is always the same: what else would a man like out of those two pretty lips other than that? The nagging? Hell no!

         I look deeply into Anna’s eyes, even deeper than at other times, and I say: ‘Hi pretty one.’ I always call her ‘pretty one’ and she loves it.

        ‘Hi,’ she replies. ‘How have you been? You look … vigorous.’

         Now, why would a woman as pretty as Anna calls me vigorous? I ask you—what do you think of this? But I’m a realist, and I don’t expect you to have the guts to answer this question so I will intervene: She just heard of the bout I had lately, the health issue, the little, tiny, coronary blockage that others call a ‘heart attack’; what a dreadful term! Anyway, Anna most likely is referring to that and is wondering how I’ve managed to escape the irresistible hug of Death.

        ‘I’m okay, pretty one. Thank you for asking.’

         Then the little devil guides my lips and I throw a question her way…                

        ‘Tell me, pretty one, what does your husband feed you and you grow prettier as the days go by?’

         Trust me, this is a compliment. I detect a little flame in her eyes; my comment has done well and she smiles her sexiest.

        ‘No, he doesn’t feed me anymore. I have grown up, you know, I feed myself now.’

         Now, here is a comment that throws me off and I don’t know how to interpret it. What’s she getting at? Here, I ask you, smart people, where’s she driving this conversation? Could she have taken my words literally? I don’t believe so. She’s playing with me. I grab a stuffed vine leaf, which tastes very salty.

        ‘What if I could find the opportunity to feed you, pretty one?’

         She laughs at the suggestion and instead of a ‘no’ she says,

        ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’

        ‘I would love to.’

         The deeply sensuous smell of her lilac fragrance splashes into my nostrils like a wave frothing on the sandy seashore. A carnal desire flares up in my groin and I dare touch her little hand quite accidentally and she reciprocates by brushing hers onto mine. I give her my best smile and a wink; she winks back and heaven has just opened her brilliant gate where I know I can enter as I wish. I promise myself that I’ll call up one day. I’ll make sure I’ll open that door and I’ll enter triumphantly. I’ll enter her domain victorious. Now that truly lifts me up to the sky and once again a man who adores women is justified.

         As I leave the kitchen, she knows that I know we’ll carry on with this in a future encounter.

         It has been a very warm, pleasant gathering.

         Oh, yes it was my friend’s birthday, I think…

         Funny eh?

         Who cares…