Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

Expiation
… with this she struck Ares’ neck who felt his knees melted
and as he fell he covered seven acres with dust on his hair
while his armoury crashed around…
Iliad
The Hellenes didn’t love wild Ares much. There were only a few
temples and statues of him. Athena always beat him when
they fought. His hair full of dirt when he fell and covered
an area of seven plethra. The specialists accepted him naked;
they took off his helmet, his spear, left aside, was placed
diagonally on top of a chair, not a symbol anymore, but only
a decoration.
One full moon we saw him in this position,
beautiful, gentle, at the façade of Parthenon; we admired him
we even recalled sweet memories of our return from Troy,
valuable experiences and the joy that we survived so many
dangers (we, of course who survived. For the others, who
knows?)
Later again we depicted him alive, a dreamy ephebe,
who gazed at the distance and love played between his
muscly legs.
Wish that this time we’ll manage to survive like that time.
But, now, after we finish, we won’t care about Ares anymore,
whether dressed or naked — although we started evaluating
our new experiences among the gunshots and the smoke
incising in the marble old, familiar allegories —
(now the spear isn’t diagonally, better horizontally, and there
on top of it, a perched bird or chewing gum or that familiar
dove).

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Orange

First Outing
You know he’s gone
you’re left behind like a shipwreck
silent sobs float in the air
and console you.
Yes, nobody understood
the desperation in your heart
all night long, sleepless,
you promised not to cry
to go visit your girlfriend
to share a cup of coffee
like the good old days
she told you that with her husband
they planted a new tree in the yard
and you have none of this
but the dark thoughts
that visit you every night.
Where’s the light you hope
to follow for the rest of your way?

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In the Quiet After Slaughter

excerpt

drumming on wood, metal, plastic. House lights begin to flare up
and down the street.
At the top of the stairwell my father shoulders the door; it doesn’t
budge. My mother learned the value of a solid defence the night
brother Burt was on acid and believed he was being eaten alive by
scorpions. I remember wishing he had been.
– This is my house! my father declares. Given the territory each
controls, others might disagree.
– I’m calling the cops! my mother snarls.
– Whatcha gonna charge me with, huh? Breaking curfew?
My father staggers to the back of the basement; I can hear him
rooting around in the toolbox. He reappears at my bedroom door.
– This otta do the job, eh? He holds up a hatchet.
My father returns to the top of the stairs and begins hacking.
Wood chips ricochet off the walls. With each swing of the blade,
splinters of light from the kitchen spill into the dark stairwell. But
every time my father tries squeezing through the opening, my
mother wallops him with a broom.
A few more chops, the breach widens. He resumes the advance.
She falls back, pelting him with dishes. Plates and coffee mugs
explode. Dad retreats.
– You still got that football helmet? he asks me.
He is emboldened by its fibreglass shell, the webbed faceguard.
On his next foray my father pokes his fortified skull through the hole
in the door, but he comes under heavy fire once more. This time he’s
pinned down by a fusillade of footwear.
Eventually my mother exhausts her ammo. A hush falls over the
battlefield. The lights in the homes of our somnolent neighbours are
extinguished. Sleep at last.
Blood dripping from the ceiling. Brain matter splattered across the
walls. That’s what I expect to find upon waking that Mother’s Day,
the sun peeking above the asphalt rooftops, our house silent.
Vapours hover over the sodden lawn in a primordial smoulder.
In the living room I discover my mother on the sofa; she’s curled
up in a sleeping bag. Dad has taken the bedroom; I can smell him. It
would probably take a stick of dynamite to pry loose the helmet. I
knew someone keen to light the fuse.

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Savages and Beasts

excerpt

kids died of malnutrition, especially about ten years or so ago
when a virus spread among the kids, it was at the same time when
the Federal Government sliced the funding of the Schools to
half and they were left with half the moneys they needed to feed
these kids properly.”
“The unmarked gravesites in the cemetery are where these
kids were buried?”
“Yes, they buried them in mass graves.”
“What are Tyson’s responsibilities?”
“He’s primarily busy with the food of the personnel. There
is different food schedule for the priests and nuns, different for
the other personnel and of course different for the kids.”
“I see…what do you do?”
“I’m responsible for the food of the children; I’ve devised a
weekly plan which I remember I learned back in the old country,
when I was in the army.”
“You served in the Greek army?” Anton’s voice sounded
his surprise.
“Yes, before I emigrated to Canada; in fact I got my release
spring of 1957 and emigrated here autumn of the same year; come
to the food schedule again, I cook a lot of legumes, which are
cheap and very nutritious, I manage to feed these kids chicken
once every second Sunday and sometimes I have plenty of fruit
for them, the seasonal fruit I mean, from local producers.”
Anton smiled at the cook who felt proud of how he tried
to help the Indian children; Anton felt he could had done the
same should had he been in George’s place. He got up, his coffee
was finished, he had to go and carry on with the day’s affairs; he
walked back to his laundry. He went to Dylan’s room, his room
now, and took all the beddings out; he put them in one washing
machine to clean. He moved a few items around…

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