Kornaros's Classic Poem in Longhand by (an 12-year old resident of Crete) Manolis Emmanuel Aligizakis
Greek Canadian Literature Libros Libertad Manolis Aligizakis
THE DAYS had become longer when the ones who know how
to wait arrived
like virginity, women stirred and suddenly stooped,
like patience in the infinity of time, and we bowed over
the anvils and
we gazed at the deserted city, and yes, the horrible images coming
from ancient events
and when at sundown those people left, and the barking
of dogs
slowly made the distance longer, only the lone star was left
and the odour of hay emitted from our childhood years.
The Tobacco Shop Window
He stood among a lot of others,
by the well-lit window of the tobacco shop.
Their glances met by chance,
and the devious desire of their flesh
they expressed timidly, cautiously.
Then, a few uneasy steps on the sidewalk
until they smiled and slightly nodded.
And then the closed car…
The sensual closing of their bodies,
the joined hands, the joined lips.
And what do they want? What do they want from me?
Revenge, revenge they yell. Let them take their own
revenge, on their own, since their revenge keeps
them alive.
I don’t want to listen to her anymore. I can’t put up
with it. No one has the right to control my eyes, mouth,
hands, these legs that step on the ground. Give me
your hand. Let us go.
Long, absolute, summer nights that belong to us; nights
mixed with stars, sweaty armpits, broken glasses — an
insect buzzes softly in the ear of quietness; warmed up
lizards in front of the legs of youngish statues, slugs
on garden benches or inside the closed ironworks shop
sauntering on the huge anvil, leaving on the metal
white lines made of saliva and sperm.
Let us leave the land of Mycenae; this soil smells
of copper rust and black blood. Attica is lighter; isn’t?
At this time I feel, this exact hour, is the hour
of my final resignation. I don’t want to be their subject
of discussion, their clerk, their instrument, nor their
leader.
Sound of Words
My words are made of wood; I paint them black and
carefully hang them from the ceiling. The daily wind
comes in through the window and stirs them clumsily.
Night reigns in and out of the room I only hear their lazy
rustle as they stir. Sometimes they bump into each other
creating strange sounds: a bell in a town on fire,
the death rattle of the sick man whose larynx is eaten
by time, the talons of a bird playing a violin, explosion
in a factory where four dead men and sixty injured,
pistol that begs, laughter that cries.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 