The title of my collection, which preoccupies me so much (1997)
When you retype / edit my texts, please start each line with
A capital letter, even if your capital letters do not match my
Capital letters, even without paying attention to the latter.
This way, each text will expect to be retyped a certain
Number of times, which it holds within itself, in its essence.
It will always be another (something else). Each text is a
Little monster. The number of ways it can be written
Probably stands for the age it will die at.
Perhaps there was a primary fund of events – the given
Ones – and we, from an excess of zeal, added some others.
Of course, they can not be compared with the given ones
But – what an irony! – we don’t even know how to
distinguish between them anymore. The first, and actually
The only valid events, are clear as daylight.
We are amazed: no, events cannot be but individual, no
Matter how invented, how perfected they are.
Events can turn their back on you, can mind their own
Business, even if you invent them, they hold their own.
I have sweet water fingers. I poured home-made syrup over
Them. The fingers are shared among the flowers, each of
Them has a yellow flower. There are many yellow flowers.
Some of them taller, some shorter. The short ones look for
Something in the grass. In fact, they are also tall, but they
Bent to one side or the other, they sank a little in the ground.
When they don’t want to grow – when they are looking for
Something – so that nothing is lost, their roots grow, in the
Opposite side. And they are also yellow and beautiful, as if
They’ve just sprung now for the first time.
My fingers are shared among the flowers. Now, with these
Sweet fingers, I think I’ll cause a great joy to the yellow
Flowers. I’ll strive to delight all of them at once, both the tall
Ones, and the short ones, Although these latter ones are a
Little more difficult to please. Their joy will please me just
Last summer is a house painted in yellow and red and other
Similar colours. The people inside the house are silent.
They just smile, like in a photograph. Their words have
Long ago grown silent, since I don’t live there anymore. I
Don’t know when exactly this happened. I assume it was
Like this: while I was still living inside the house, just as
Soon a word happened to be born, it was immediately
Turned into a flower, grass, sun, so that the summer grew.
That is, the walls of the house grew, and by growing, they
Got further and further from me, I who was there, between
The four of them. I didn’t realize what was happening and I
Talked a lot and very beautifully. Still talking
Words-flowers, the walls kept getting further in the fourDirections until I ended up outside. Outside was Summer.
Opening a window, a butterfly can come in the room. But an
Open window is no longer a window. It can be a door, for
Instance. When it enters the room, the butterfly actually
Remains outside, and only its flight enters, and it is the
Flight that we see. The butterfly remains near the window
Hovering in place, until its real flight returns to it and they
Leave together. That’s why they say: “the butterfly takes its
Flight” – and leaves, we could add. But this happens only
By opening a window, which then does foolish things, in the
Sense that it believes itself to be either an open door, or an
Open eye, or even a butterfly – who’s to tell? – a butterfly,
Which remains outside and only its flight enters the room
And it is the flight that we see, and then it returns to its
Butterfly and they leave together while somebody quickly
Closes the window, lest other butterflies entered the room.
We stand face to face. I begin by breathing clean air in my
Chest, imagining that I fixed one of its ends inside, then I let
It out. You receive the air I breathed out, like a kiss,
Breathing it in, and you tie its other end in the depth of your
Lungs, like planting it. You respond to me, letting back out
The air you’ve received, as if the root in the lungs flowered.
And I gather the air between us, I hide it quickly at my back,
And I ask of you to guess in which hand I caught It. You
Make desperate signs that you have no air to breathe, I
Insist that you guess. You haven’t guessed, instead you
Greedily breathe in the air I let go of my hand. You breathe
In, you breathe out, all by yourself. You forgot about me.
You seem happy, free, but I say you breathe in vain.
Eventually, you look down – I was at your feet. I was not
Breathing for a long time.
Translated by Adrian Urmanov
- ABRAMOWITZ, HAROLD
- ADELL JOAN-ELIES
- ANGELAKIS, ANDREAS
- ANGELOU MAYA
- ANGHELAKI-ROOKE, KATERINA
- ANTIOHOU, GIANNIS
- APPS, STAN
- ARKADI, STELLA
- ARSENIOU, ELISAVET
- ASHBERY, JOHN
- BAEV, ANTON
- BLAINE, JULIEN
- BOUHLAL, SIHAM
- CELAL, METİN
- CHOULIARAS, YIORGOS
- DALAKOURA, VERONIKI
- DEL REY, LANA
- DICKISON, STEVE
- DIMOS, HELEN
- DJORDJEVIC, GORAN
- DOOLITTLE, HILDA "H.D."
- DOUCEY, BRUNO
- ECONOMOU, GEORGE
- EMINESCU, MIHAI
- GARCIA, ANGELA INES
- GERTRUDE STEIN
- GEVIRTZ, SUSAN
- GONZÁLEZ SPAIN, PILAR
- GOVRIN MICHAL
- GRECEANU, ADELA
- GRIMA, ADRIAN
- HADJIDAKI, NATASHA
- HALL, GORDON
- HIGGINS, KEVIN
- HRISTOV, IVAN
- img src=anthologio.gif border=0>LODEVE
- INGUANEZ, SIMONE
- ISTVAN, LASZLO
- KARRA, AMARYLLIS ELENI
- KATTAN, ROLANDO
- KOSMOPOULOS, DIMITRIS
- KOTOULA, DIMITRA
- KOUMOUTSI, PERSA
- KRAGUJEVIC, TANJA
- LABOVIC, LJUBETA
- LASSAQUE, AURELIA
- LIVADAS, YANNIS
- LYACOS, DIMITRIS
- MARCHAND-KISS, CHRISTOPHE
- ...Δείτε περισσότερα