Kornaros's Classic Poem in Longhand by (an 12-year old resident of Crete) Manolis Emmanuel Aligizakis
Greek Canadian Literature Libros Libertad Manolis Aligizakis
Experts
Pundits left after doling out
negative expertise
asserting no prescription but
it can’t be done
pundits had their turn
and in the middle of the plaza
we stood alone
holding hands and celebrating
thoughts that nothing can go wrong
nothing is unaccomplished
when you hold onto the stars
when you float in dreams
the achroous when you color
on water when you walk
VII
Something vague gave birth to me
as they told me I was born in the sunshine.
Little in passion and in sorrow
I walk toward something light
that will be life
and I stop…
I return…death.
I count time with what I’ve lived
and what is forthcoming
that resembles
the incomparable end.
Only, look, the craft and the fisherman
can’t be separated from the blue
YET
A long time has passed. Everything we took from
our homes when we left, have withered, are holed,
ruined.
The sound of a door knocking in the fiery sunshine
the voice saying, you’re late, in the hallway
the white comb the woman used when she combed
her hair in front of the mirror,
the cigarette we shared by the window one spring evening
pulling Ursa Minor’s tail
the shadow of two hands under the lamp, between
two plates full of fruit.
What we put in our bag when we left our homes:
those white socks we wore at the shore during
the summer,
the white underwear and the athletic undershirts,
which you could say suited the body of April,
even the small scissors our young sister used to clip
her nails by the ledge
and the window reflections that shivered on her cheeks
and hands
they all unraveled, withered, dissolved
the small scissors rusted, its points dulled
it resembles a dead swallow on the stones
next to the shaver and the sea soap, we didn’t
noticed it, we clip our toenails, the callouses
resemble a rusted, useless key, broken locks.
What we brought in our bags and suitcases
they are all holed. Nothing is left.
Yet, sometimes, when evening comes and Ursa Minor
hangs its flashlight over the opening of the tent,
and digs with its nails a shallow hole in the dry soil
Peter or Vasilis or uncle Anthony
groping for a lost spoon or cup in their bag
they delay, their hands get forgetful,
the wind becomes round and motionless like
olive oil in the jar
and silence resembles a millstone when the water
flow is stopped.
Then suddenly we hear that forgotten sound
as if they cut, with those small scissors, papers
for the plate rack Christmas evening
as if that white comb combs the hair of a woman
as if raised to our tiptoes we light our cigarette
in the moonlight.
And then we know that deep in our suitcases
among the unwashed shirts and the holed socks
that embroidered small napkin remains full of
homely warmth
and the shadow of two beloved hands like two big
dry grapevine leaves.
Strange. We want to cry.
Επιγραφή της Γόρτυνας γραμμένη βουστροφηδόν σε δωρική διάλεκτο.
Της Νινέττας Κοντράρου – Ρασσιά
Οι Κρήτες μπορεί να είναι υπερήφανοι γιατί στον τόπο τους διατηρήθηκαν όλες οι μορφές ελληνικής γραφής από την 3η χιλιετία π.Χ. μέχρι τα ελληνιστικά χρόνια. Είναι η μόνη περιοχή της Ελλάδας στην οποία συμβαίνει αυτό αποδεδειγμένα και τεκμηριωμένα, σύμφωνα με τον πρώην διευθυντή του Επιγραφικού Μουσείου Χαράλαμπο Κριτζά.
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Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 