From Amorgos |
IWith their country tied to their sails and their oars hung on the wind The shipwrecked slept tamely like dead beasts on a bedding of sponges But the eyes of seaweed are turned toward the sea Hoping the South Wind will bring them backwith their lateen-sails new-painted For one lost elephant is always worth much more than the quivering breasts of a girl Only if the roofs of deserted chappels should light up with the caprice of the Evening Star Only if birds should ripple amid the masts of the lemon trees With the firm white flurry of lively footsteps Will the winds come, the bodies of swans that remained im- maculate, unmoving and tender When steamrollers rolled through shops, when hurricanes whirled through vegetation When the eyes of women became coal and the hearts of the chestnut hawkers were broken When the harvest was done and the hopes of crickets began. And indeed this is why, my brave young men, with kisses, wine, and leaves on your mouth I would like to stride naked by the rivers To sing of the Barbary Coast like the woodsman hunting the mastic shrub Like the viper slithering through gardens of barley With the proud eyes of irritation Like the lightning-bolt as it threshes youth. And do not laugh and do not weep and do not rejoice And do not squeeze your shoes in vain as though you were planting plane trees Do not become DESTINY For the king-eagle is not a closed drawer It is not the tear of the plum tree nor a smile of the water-lily Nor the undershirt of a pigeon or a Sultan's mandolin Nor a silken shawl for the head of the whale It is a saw of the sea which rips the seagulls apart It is a capenter's pillow, a beggar's watch It is a flame in the blacksmith's shop teasing the wives of the priests and lulling the lilies It is a wedding proccession of Turks, a festival of Australians It is the hideaway of Hungarian gypsies Where the hazel trees in autumn secretly congregate They watch the sensible storks painting their eggs black And then they also weep They burn their nightgowns and dress themselves in the duck's petticoat They strew stars on the earth for kings to walk upon With their silver amulets with their crowns and their purple mantles They strew rosemary in garden plots That mice may pass on their way to other cellars And to other cathedrals to eat of the Holy Altars And the owls, my lads, The owls growl And dead nuns rise up to dance With tambourines and drums and violins, with bagpipes and lutes With bannerets and censors, with wimples and magic veils With the pantaloons of bears int he frozen valley They eat the mushrooms of martens They play heads or tails with the ring of St. John and the gold florins of the Blackamoor They mock all witches They cut off the beard of a priest with the yataghan of Koloko- tronis They bathe themselves in the vapours of incense And afterwards, slowly chanting, enter the earth again and fall silent As waves fall silent, as the cuckoo bird at dawn, as the oil lamp at evening. And thus in deep jar the grape shrivels and in the belfry of a fig tree the apple turns yellow And thus flaunting a gay-coloured necktie Under a grapevine bower the summer suspires And thus naked among white cherry trees a tender love of mine lies sleeping A girl as unwithering as a branch of almond Her head resting on her elbow and her palm on her golden treasure On its dawning warmth while slowly and softly like a thief From the window of spring the Morning Star comes to awake her.
NIKOS GATSOS. Translated by Kimon Friar. |
Last Updated 20 June 1999 bbird@otenet.gr |
Maintained by Nikos Tsaousis. |