23. June 2011 14:42
Travelling Balcony
Mr C.P. Cavafy, returning
from a melancholy stroll
round the shops in Alexandria,
reaches the following conclusion: “Potential is my potency and my impotence”.
Then, as he gazes into the dusk,
a drop of rain makes its appearance
together with the faces of the passers-by
(pale and troubled faces
sometimes with delight
and impatience for what’s to come).
He lights another candle
and Hellenism is
a passport without language,
a tiny flying circumflex
that undulates
and continues to resist.
A little more and this melancholy evening
will pass,
the forms, the silences won’t fit properly
in the rhyme.
As soon as his gaze turns and falls upon
the Parallel Lives, The Light that Burns
and a small English dictionary
a calm thought lessens the grievance.
The grievance at the poetic establishment
and at the dream that became bankrupt in just one evening.
The Ragman
Every morning, I wake
and smell the big toe
on my left foot.
My socks are fraying,
leaving blue fluff on my skin.
I don’t know where to begin.
Every day so much rubbish piles up.
First of all, I myself
am rotting little by little
inside my very own clothes,
with the same armpits.
My nails are growing
my hair is getting longer.
I can’t reverse
this daily round
and prefer to collect
others’ waste
till the light fades
and turns to darkness.
Above the City
And if you grow cold,
I’ll warm you.
In the summers
I’ll protect you,
so you won’t run dry of dreams.
Just don’t tell me
that I’ve become a stranger
who perspires without being hot,
who smiles without believing.
Afterwards everything looks as you imagined.
I’m wearing “Athene” in my pocket
and I approach you.
I don’t care if I startled you
turning as I did without warning.
All that matters to me
Is that you’re still embroidering
the same colours always,
and when I lean against your white nightdress,
again the path seems long.
The theme of recognition
You left me with your glasses,
so many days I look
and think about
your eyes.
I wish I could caress your hair
but I can’t.
The whole house
was waiting for you.
But now that
you have come back
I cannot find any
of the marks of a recognition.
I didn’t find the garden with the apple trees,
where you picked blossoms for me
and promised me
the fruits of knowledge.
I buried your glasses
at the back of the house.
I laid the table
and waited for you.
We started chatting
where we had left off.
Nothing had changed
in your words
and your hair
only now in your eyes
there was a stranger.
A Japanese Tale
Tick-tack the tears
Noriko
careful what you say
don’t touch
without promising
kindness.
Tick-tack the tears
Noriko
salaried work is not to blame
nor Tokyo that devours you.
It’s that today you managed
not to bring him to mind.
Eight years have passed
and you still have that first gaze
indelibly in your mind.