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Description With her blurred eyes she nears that sculptured hand the hand that held the rudder the hand that held the pen the hand that spread open in the wind her silence threatened by everything. From the pine trees a movement starts toward the sea it plays with the humble breath of breeze and two black Symblegades intercept it. I opened my heart and breathed. The golden fleece shivered in the pelagos. The skin the color and the shudder were hers, hers the mountain peaks on the horizon, on my palm. I opened my heart filled by images already vanished, the sperm of Proteus. Here I gazed at the moon colored by the blood of a young she-wolf.
but of white, sanded wood, the fingers long, thin, hard and knotted, like the bleached bits of sticks that lay along the shore. Life had left them long before. Nights in dark barns full of hay were best. Or warm byres next to where the cows were stalled. He remembered waking up one morning on a bed of straw in a byre and listening to the pained lowing of cows and the swishing of milk into a pail. And the farmer found him and gave him the warm milk to drink and asked him to stay. And the policemen came and asked him questions. A dead body in a nearby barn. Padraig had blanked everything from his mind. All but a shadow gliding in out of the night, and himself fleeing in fear before he was seen, crouching in a dark corner behind a cart, trembling with fright. Then the rustle of dried straw, and his mother moaning loudly and sobbing. And he ran away. Ran to the barn where he heard the cows, knowing that cows were warm and safe and would protect him. But he could not escape the Devil. Satan had marked him for his own, and wherever Padraig went Satan found him and convulsed his body with the evil of Hell. The people were always afraid. Once in a village they came close to burning him. The occasion was All Hallow’s Eve, the night when spirits and witches and devils roved abroad. A large fire burned in the village square, and children in grotesque masks danced around it. Padraig tried to join in, moving towards the ring of dancers with his arms outstretched. “It’s Satan’s child bringing the Devil here,” someone cried. “Burn him and the Devil too,” cried another. “Burn him, burn him, burn him,” the dancing children chanted. Padraig turned to run, but the crowd closed in. Rough hands grabbed him. He screamed and kicked as they bore him to the fire. They held his feet and arms and swung him like a sack of flour. “One, two, three, go.” But they failed to let go simultaneously. Padraig’s body turned and twisted in the air and dropped a few feet short of the fire. His head cracked against the cobbles. A week later he saw the dark red track that his blood had left as it trickled between the stones and almost made it to the gutter. “We weren’t really going to burn him,” one boy told the doctor. “We wouldn’t do such a thing. Honestly.” Padraig gazed at the crucifix he held in his hands. “Almighty Jesus, which of us has suffered more from man’s inhuman ways? Can my suffering bring salvation to my fellow men as Yours has done? Must some men always suffer so that others may go free? What would You have me endure, Lord, to bring Finn MacLir to the fold of Your blessed saints?
Sin Brazen thief that leads my mind to an erotic voyage and your nipple ready to jump over your bra and standing with no skirt before the mirror you accentuate your eyes upright virgin thought my paradisiacal inferno that I long to sing with such fervour
What Time is It? Two eucalyptus trees in the sky. The edge of a roof, red tiles a wooden staircase and the cloths on the cloths line. The sky painted light-blue and the old silence with its sack, thousands of cigarette butts in my memory, bitter taste. You have no appetite, you wait for the moon to rise, slowly, silently like the cat’s walk on the ledge of the afternoon. The curtain, smoked from the tiredness of the day, is pulled aside upon the horizon, not too far from the inn with the four horses — the dusk fades on their backs, not far from the last shack in the distance of the autumn suburb. The voices of children fade away behind the fence walls and the cane of time, tick-tack is heard down there by the seashore. A stopped truck turned on its lights, then the window then another one. The angels look at the evening with both hands under their chins. Ah, how far away we empty our tired hoping glances those oil paintings onto the evening clouds with the slanting lights almost no shape, only a puffy down that falls off the dream; a table with two wine glasses at the seashore tavern, a lone chair with its lonely shadow, your shadow with nothing else in the damp seashore and the dog of the ship among the stars. Simply, deep in your heart, you don’t remember the soft steps in the street, the open window — Then, isn’t he gone? He isn’t gone. Serene rhythm, heartbeat of a bird — go to sleep, the breath of a sea soul, go to sleep; quietly, quietly this rhythm pulls your heart like the rocking of the moored boat that is pushed softly by the two fingers of the moon, the watery moon. Good night. When the shadows of the clouds will pass over the city with big strides, when the great message of the winds will return, when the trees will chase their shadow in the sky sharing with the clouds the rags of a wild tempest, when the dresses of women get glued on their legs and the wind with the ripped landscape will carry on behind them the cyclamens will poke up through schisms of the rocks and the mouth of the night will be muffled by the water of forgetfulness and the patched autumn overcoat will show its square patches on the elbows and the lapels — ah, at that time, many carts will roll down the damp road, loaded with baskets and hay, straight from the villages of spring, straight from the carefree of the plains and the oil lamps will light all their memories over the open books, over the crossed arms. You’ll have your voice hidden in your pockets like crumbs of our old bread the ants hide in their earthly homes you’ll still have something to feed the mouth of the damp evening star. You, my friend, you come back when the countryside is deserted every time the vacationers with their suitcases wait at the quay and the evenings are sitting all alone in the square of the island a long line of empty chairs turned upside on the round tables where loneliness dines raising its veil a little, and the garden benches left in the rain, my good friend my beloved friend your silent unshaven face your faithful arm behind your strong shoulders the roar of the gale — what a warmth your hand has. You’re here near me. Good evening. The lonely moon — look — like a silver plate, like a plate full of leftovers at the small restaurant of sorrow when the travellers are gone and you hear the far away whistle of the ship under the night rooms. The gale behind your back; we can wait. We know. We’re ready. This evening ties us together with its silence. We’ll talk tomorrow. These ropes that tied big ships, our necks and our years, make a good scaffold. The sky has known of us before we knew each other, before we separated, before the handkerchief was waved from the deck. Did you see? The weather has cleared up. A ripped cloud gets angry at the moon. The hotel manager undresses behind the window. What time is it? And on top of the platform of the old summer with the exiled flags you, my good friend, you light the cigarettes of the stars, you tie our handkerchiefs –flags on the wet wire, these handkerchiefs that we used to wipe our foreheads and our eyes. You’ll never leave. You’ll never leave us. Your hand, your faithful hand which raises the shadows above our eyes so we’ll see the dawn again between two burnt out candles. Good morning. The children are coming. The sun pushes doors with its shoulders. The doors open. Sky. Eyes meet eyes. The world is enlarged. The white ship. Soon it’ll be sunny; daisies and whitewashed dreams and a flag on the highest mast of high noon will flutter in the sea breeze. Good morning. Good morning.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 