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ARISTÉA PAPALEXÁNDROU

SONGBIRDS

Translated by Yannis Goumas

If anyone in the audience wishes to stay

with the birds and have a good time

from now on, let him approach.

-- Aristophanes, "Birds".

COMING OF AGE

First the muse

Then I too began

to write

Word after word

for a poem to be

Poem after poem

for me to fade into them

as a muse

But when I write

without recalling

that I too was a muse

I am really crushed

and I recall

the reason for writing

that I no longer exist

as a muse

I think

MIST

October mist

boding winter

Gifts given me

melt the ice

There’s sorrow in my heart

older than my heart

older than the ages

Tell me why it should now sink away

I’ve loved you these many years

without ever seeing you

October mist

you screen the age

FROM KARNEÁDOU STREET

I want to say something

To say something again

Write another sketchy poem

Because, how shall I put it,

I no longer know why I suffer

I no longer have anything to forget

A glorious Monday evening

When does the moon wax?

I too received an invitation

I may come

or I may not

Whichever way

I love you

I’ll observe all goings-on

As tonight speaking

from Karneádou Street

where news from Hades

jarred my soul

My feeling tells me

it’ll be a lovely evening

Your other side beckoned me

from beyond

Soirée packed with angels and demons

I see the connoisseurs’

vacant look

OLDEN

The image of my early years

had the greyness of rain

Toys I never played with:

trash of the ages

And earlier still and farther away:

the monotony of city planners

My snow-white chapel

you couldn’t erase ugliness

It had the greyness of rain

though the sun shone often

and lit the scenery

where lay dead

the friend

IN PRAISE OF MUTENESS

Effective method

Both old and wise

Everywhere and always mum’s the word

An all-time classic recipe

And be you sweet-voiced as they say

and men fall for you because of your voice

again opt for silence

Else read to them ordinary things

phone bills, electricity bills

package tours

handouts

and all sorts of throwaways

distributed in Attica

But should you need to talk

about matters of real importance

save your souled words

for people worthy of being chosen

Of the chosen, choicest

is your brief life

THE FRAGILE LADIES-IN-WAITING

Since early morning the trumpets blared forth

It is finished

The king was forced to abdicate and another will come

to take his place from the western royal officia

It is the dawn of the West

So declare famous and/or faceless

philosophers

of a tiny nation lacking memory

And there is such a hush, I dread

the moment the ex-king arrives at the palace

Of the ladies-in-waiting, I can see half of them fainting

and those plucky deathly-pale ones

hastening to sort out the ex-king's belongings

The give-and-take ceremony will take place in one hour

In about fifteen minutes the new ladies-in-waiting will arrive

all ready for a good beginning that is half the battle

that is, getting rid of the ex-king's courtiers

Silence reigns supreme

The ex-king's statement is heard

He is reading a short address by his predecessor

which in his fluster he forgot

to discard

In the absence of efficient peers

it was the ex-king's sleuthhounds that found it

The ladies-in-waiting had changed the names, the dates

and added a few lines

for their benefit:

"Being so very fragile

my dear ladies

I shall pack you prematurely

among the fragile

furnishings of my palace."

NOT EVEN DEATH

Shakespeare

Left right

At a slow

sad pace

Friends send you to sleep

my love

I too kiss you sleeping

The course of the sorrowful leaves you

pale in the earth’s depths

Left right

Don’t be afraid of the crowd

Left right

I’m also in the crowd

I ask

who drives the oblivion of your loss

I ask

and forget what they say

Left right

I break away from the crowd

Left right

I cast my present into the future

I approach two stone lips

longing for a luscious kiss

THE ICE AGE

And on reaching danger

I was in less danger

Our past days’

kisses in flames

Our statues’ lips

effaced by ice

How are you to wake

a pale marble body

Gush of lava you’ll say

Play for what

and fail

CONTEMPORARIES AND OTHERS

Hasty spring’s

decisive and branded fault

A flame you were that blew out

miracle of early youth

Who reckoned I’d see the outcome

and succumb

I have another half a century

to wipe out

your writing

CURRICULUM VITAE

I feel worn out just by hearing about

diplomas, further education and linguistics

not verbally but on paper

Cambridge proficiency if you please

and Kleine and Sorbonne and Superiore

and above all doctorates

years of study in Northern metropolises

et cetera et cetera

Diplomas, certificates, decisions and guarantees

And so on and so forth

This poem is deadly dull

But there’s a tailpiece which may be of interest

I’m also aware of trips to your other Europe

for fucking and shopping in London

SONGBIRDS

Country of origin: the furthermost

Time of delivery: morning

Melodious chirping day and night

Songbirds sing sweetly even in the deepest

dark

Countless years have passed

but I still recall it

They’ll call post-modern

what we’re struggling with for sixty years

It is both modern and old

They’ll go to study it in

London and Paris

And many volumes will be written

by grown-up boys and girls

Emotional songs of every time

and place

You’ll be favoured with the criticism of repatriated

musicologists

Whether talented or not

for years I’ve been hearing your name

I know whom you know

and your dreams flicker

THE EASTER OF CERTAIN GIRLS I WAS

Lent

Fasting of meat, eggs and all fleshy

goodies

Wednesday and Friday: no olive oil

The final week, the Holy one: ditto

However, olives without oil are not excluded

Seafood is also allowed except for fish

Please beware of side effects

They drive bodies to male seduction

And bye-bye to sense and bye-bye to senselessness

Better not talk

Better alone at home

I’d even say better not breathe

That’s what you call obedience, humility, submission

And come you wanton spring

I’ll fight it out with you

I’ll cross swords with half of my acquaintances

Iron-willed, nothing will make me break my fast

I’ll stick to my guns

WEATHER BULLETINS

Weeks of drought

Wintry weather

Christmastide is over

Mardi Gras has arrived

A sun of angels

amid the sun of demons

makes us shine without it shining

in this populous city

where people come and go

where people live and suffer

praying for rain

to come down in sheets

Weeks of drought

Wintry weather

Mardi Gras is over

Spring is in the air they say

And in spring it’ll

piss down

a mixture of two types of tears

the angels’ crystalline

and the demons’ spittle

The beginning of dampness

an odd rain

on the populous city

that maintains us pallid

PAINTERLY POEM

A small world

of colours and words

Myself a dot

among the earthly experts

Wan emigrés

of mother earth

my touch’s continuance

I’ll be seeing you on Tuesday

A small world

a trivial trio

and I see no reason

for bidding you “Good-bye”

THE GIRL ON THE COVER

And he photographed the photographer

And he made a poem of the poet

In the end he presented his mistress

As an X film

My, how shameful!

WELL-INTENTIONED

It’s been ten years

since with the best intentions

I saw him being introduced

after due selection

as a promising

young poet

It’s been ten before the ten years

of the honorary introduction

that with the best intentions

I read his poems

in the Sunday press

It’s been ten plus ten years

if not more

that with the best intentions

he has become all the more known

as a promising young poet

It’s been twenty plus ten years

and the now middle-aged poet

has learned to his chagrin

the synonyms of “young”

the harrowing phrase being

“Poet of juvenilia

who aged a juvenile”

STATE PRIZES 3003

-- And for poetry?

-- What about poetry?

-- Who won it?

-- Prize-winning hatred dreams glory life

-- Did we inspire you or did you

forget us in the light?

-- My breath, look

in the depth of your memory

it faded away

Such was the cost of such harm

I write You write

Songs of sorrow

Tell me do you want

shattered unanswered words

from yesterday

-- And poetry?

-- Yes, poetry was to find

what you forgot though it hurt you

whether you like it or not

YEAR 3003

Heptapsyche’s

-- Officia in the land of snakes

Vast land

I quiver

moonward

Which poet are you honouring now?

-- Someone who died late

We had almost forgotten him

-- The lights went out tragically

Whose turn is it to grow old?

-- Numerous tributes

Generations of late century decades

-- What a mad panic this is

Who is flirting me from inside his grave?

-- The lover The poet

Who else do you know

-- My dying good man

I’m making a dress for the big hour

and stand, pretty-pretty,

covering you with handfuls

of earth

FINIS

-- The other day something

sneaked into

the lechers' bedroom

crying for joy

-- It left no trace on the scene

-- Might this have happened in a dream

and all is pure

as if irrelevant?

-- You delude yourself Look at

the wretched faces

in the other spaces

The back stairs lead

to the irrationals' lust

HEART OF A MONSTER

What I’m going through

What we’re going through

Life of my dreams

Are you taking us or do we take you

White skirts of my artless

years

Along with you rusted my chastity

belt

Truthfully, there was a time

when I was no monster

but a staunch friend

Mysterious though it seems

I'm telling the truth

when I say that I didn't always drip deadly

poison

My white skirts

how black you have become

What sorrow wore you

which wears me out at night

What I’m going through

What we’re going through

Life of my dreams

You are taking us not we you

HOMEOPATHY

There was a time

in my life when I’m sorry to say

I was afraid to consider

my resistance

They’d say “What a mousy creature!”

to my lover

I said “I’ll find justice

in my psychoanalyst

What I once envied

how it scares me now!

Is it serious doctor

that I crave for you here and now?”

And as you rightly guessed

he ceased psychoanalyzing me

and made me his mistress

How shall I say it… It was for the best

There was a time

in my life when

I even feared being afraid

of my being

They’d say “What an insecure creature!

What a neurotic being!”

Till in my great panic

my extreme fear

I saw your ashes

in the mirror

What I once loved

I no longer recognize

Isn’t it serious doctor

that I hate you here and now

MALES OF THE AGE

All women are alike

Holier-than-thou on their first dates

making sure there’s no inkling

of unchastity or churlishness

And you sharing

divine moments with one

My, what passion overflowed

sating your life

But happy days

don’t last for ages

And if you think seriously about it

how long can they last

For two months you were sweet on a woman

for three you laid siege to her

and on the fourth

you have it off with her

You think passionate

love affairs recur?

One day you’ll tire of her

and maybe she of you

Not all ahs and ohs

will be sincere

That’s why don’t be surprised

if she asks you for a solitaire

trips abroad and marriage

If she wants to ramble in illuminated Athens

and not wanting, no longer desiring

to be with you

she'll feign a back pain or a headache

Such are all of them and methinks

I’ll about-face

and become an opinion maker

and gay… if I like it

FALSELY SAD

From the source of discontent total silence

No look of mine glum

No desire unfulfilled

Decades of a wonderful life

Insincerely I continued writing verses

Insincerely you read them too

I hadn’t a single pain in my soul

My only pain was

that without pain

I wrote poems of pain

GREY OF JOY

The same woman The grey woman

Of grey love afairs Of grey times

With grey dresses

and grey hats

Without the support of grey men

The same woman The other woman

snow-white of olden days

THE MONSTER’S FIANCÉE

A breath away from the monster

And no fire from his mouth

Neither a ghastly sight

Nor sound or silence

On the contrary

And when he looks you in the eyes

make sure you remain calm

He doesn’t cause fear

he doesn’t scream or rave

How shall I say it, he doesn’t hurt you

he simply sucks your toil

day and night

And it’s true what they say

that he’s a good-looking monster

A look that on seeing it you forget

the words of our National Anthem

how you are paid

your childhood prayers

who’s to go and who’s to come

who died who so hated me

Mundane essentials

via inessentials:

You instantly stretch out on the floor

to be screwed

the reason for his presence on

earth

THE SOCIETY'S SERIOUS MEMBERS

- And when a pall passes who are the most serious-looking?

- The pallbearers.

- Exactly.

- JEAN GIRAUDOUX

You can have with interest the monies

of my happiness

Like saying transformation made me

compliant

I cash, that is, people's insensitivity

And bye-bye to feelings

And long live callousness

Is this what it takes to cry and feel sorry?

An unbecoming way of passing the time

Look at all those attending the function

What if you see them puffed up with conceit

They made a thousand phone calls

to bum recognition

As regards reporters, no comment

You seem a clever girl to me

I don't expect you to rant and rave

about their tasteless writings

nor about perceptive

varsity professors

If you have no talent

need you also study it?

Will inspiration come to you

on your return from London?

Be it solemnly

be it pompously

I see scant commemorations

when you'll be on high

REMAKE

Now what?

Now whom?

And if at length you happen to say “nothing”

I’ll say “what do you mean nothing?”

You think lunatics

don’t make plans?

That they don’t logically cope

with the torment

you call life?

You copy slogans

and write poems

whenever you have a thin time

Futile setbacks

old sins

The same old reason

for years and years

-- Now what?

-- From the beginning

-- Now whom?

-- The old one

-- A good life

Together again

And silence

THE TWO-TIMER’S WOE

And I decided to change life

by changing mine

Eighteen working hours per week

fifty four of sound sleep

and every other day

a two-hour libido

Since I haven’t forgot it

I’m a woman

Loving, Tuesday’s lover

Rough, Thursday’s but

an old flame

And Saturday’s bed

festive

my glad rags on the floor

And I decided to change life

Not easy

It is a tragedy

if I’m not with you

THE PLEASING-CUM-USEFUL WOMAN

My dear one

of last month

when I met you yesterday

walking with a slouch

I felt really sorry

that you looked so pale

escorting in the evening

a bow-legged bluestocking

Apparently she exerts much influence

on your artistic traits

With such she bleeds white

both you and your lovely children

And how are you to say how lovely she looks

when you haven't even touched her

It's not that you are a specialist

in plastic surgery

You made the best choice

let’s not discuss it further

As regards your paleness

we’ll start again tomorrow…

SHE WAS AN ARTIST

Here we are, this is my flat

Half a life, useless writings

My lorgnette and perfume

Newly-arrived and tired

A tried friend of yours

Memories and regrets from nought

I stood up to death; I’m no stranger

I may have shocked you with suicides

But I said I’d be back

And don’t believe what you hear

I was a ghost before; now I'm alive

If you waited for someone better

I warn you again:

I suffered hell; but I bought you

Whatever art you practise

This year you’ll perform only if I want to

You’ll be published only if I say so

QUIPS OF A FAMOUS FORTUNE TELLER

Whatever is to happen

will happen

Why are you angst-ridden, madam?

Your route will be traced

once the ships are moored

Verses of another bard

will be heard throughout the nation

Your sorrows will be forgotten

New gifts of a former love

All ends well and everyone’s well

Your heart will bear no hate

No memory a right beginning

A whole aeon in front of you

HARLEQUINS OF THE TIMES

Distant again; far, far away

something will happen in my absence

The fiasco will be forgotten

Other harlequins will arrive

A stumbling-block for the good

of the universe and me

Tomorrow I’ll embark

anew upon my libel

I gambled and I lost I’ll say

plus all the rest

A deplorable fait accompli

And there’s more to come

IN TURN

Neither do you surprise me

nor do you scare me

Before I met you I knew

What futility

My concealed wound

of our early life

Has anything changed in the story’s

cohesion?

It’s probably the turn

of absence

IS AND ISN’T

My sad poem

of yore

do describe the outcome

of a useless life

Any time now will sound

the finis

of my entire being

They’ll say Ah another death

which is and isn’t

My sad poem

never to be revised

completed

or yet written

Whose verses are they?

they’ll ask

who is and isn’t

and O my life you’ll be

lost sight of

MANY HAPPY RETURNS

Life’s dark veil is drawn

From afar I see

the non-dazzling light

Music is again playing old tunes

my heart is no longer mulish

Limpid seawater

End of celebrations

and no more fear

Flesh’s last bathe

Spring’s first rose

Papalexandrou Aristea

Translated by Yannis Goumas