There is a Lambo like an extreme spirit.
If I start it, it’ll sound like a symphonic power.
The doors open with superiority
upwards and hopefully higher.
They look like a gate leading into an impasse
but, when they close, they fall like axes on the Ego.
For even here, sitting in it, charmed I’m not.
Gosh, what a drama.
It roars abnormally: O heaven, tremble!
And we, born true-blue mortals,
on our knees for the miracle.
Each difficulty is realism.
It doesn’t hide imaginary lotuses.
Realism could also be
τhe remotest cloudless day,
so laughable for dark memory,
a slavish memory, ready to praise
the least dose of joy.
And come certain cloudless days
that die out all at once,
forgetfulness seeming to be sufficient.
The rest are like philology.
But what is one to do with lotuses?
We exist. Above all we put up
not only with everything, but also nothing
which more or less falls to our share.
And on we go. But let’s not kid ourselves.
If on the way a whirling weather should occur
open to dangerous dreams
since mythical lotuses don’t come out
let us say the quick prayer
like a Lotus may the soul overtake
expectation, this obsession
to live painlessly.
“The hoi polloi are not always justified.
You want proof? Think of a Ferrari.
The fact that everybody wants to have one
means it is only for the few.”
A quick as lightning thought, the professor’s.
And yet bitingly he’ll end his speech:
“The hoi polloi, however, are always justified.”
Prey to a couple of commas
the meaning was op en to question.
Now anyone can quickly take
one road after another.
The rear lights are like boomerangs.
Designed to catch one’s breath.
Naturally, they have no other apparent significance.
No one else is in danger, only you.
Because if you happen to be at the wheel
for a start you’ll forget
that the other aspect is also lurking.
It’s enough that you let it rip
believing that everything is clear.
You see, anything different dazzles
but it doesn’t automatically lead anywhere.
There are a number of thorns on the road
for you to share a naked joy.
And you don’t have a more precise need.
This is how things are, were and will be again.
Usually sharp like the others.
Does it symbolize the unknown?
But all things are unknown.
Perhaps mystery?
Don’t say it, we hide enough of it in our minds.
Adventure then.
Nonsense, we play everything for safety.
But it can’t be, the sea must be hinting at something,
not even for a moment does it remain indifferent. You can see that.
I don’t see anything but I feel you
when thoughts sweep along the open sea.
Call them waves if you must or anything you like.
Look here, we’ve only just equated
for you waves may well be giant thoughts
whereas for me it’s a striking folding.
One more test in the world.
A mutually accepted language doesn’t mean identification.
Even if a wave remains just a wave
we can easily sink.
Thoughts travel in such troubled waters, mate!
That’s why we make a mess of things.
A talkative surface it would be without depths.
The risk diffuses sorcery.
But have no doubt
we crave for a turbulent life.
Even tied to a mast.
What can you too tell me, next life’s logotype.
How right Palamas* was.
“Breeze-moving”, you are.
Who knows what else.
Finger-like you rise to solve queries.
A positive diviner, you step blindly on tears
and point straight to the sky.
That’s good, you make absence fertile.
You are not in the least scared.
How different we are.
You living with facts alone
and we only in imagination.
————
*Kostis Palamas (1859-1943): Leading Greek poet and critic.
Philosophized tree.
Its silence promises much.
A sprinkling seems enough, it beckons aerially,
for a many-eyed calm to take root.
It knows what it needs in order to exist.
Buried in its nature
it doesn’t grow taller for someone else
it doesn’t lower with the first blow of comfort.
What has it to do with the rest of us?
In its shadow the humblest suppliant
passes for high-minded.
Inhumanly speechless, it houses a totemic quietude.
And when suddenly it waves like glory
its every nod shows aloofness.
Why is it doing this to me?
Must I live muted again, on promises?
Long ago Solomos* had said:
“Whoever has mysteries
to solve suffers from deliriums.”
It’s time for some light.
Your trunk, O tree, a totally impudent stimulus.
Leafage, roots, branches, pure deception.
Merciless tree
regardless if in the mind comes
the “queen of the forest”,
the “matron of wild beauty”,
Papadiamantis’** royal oak,
all in vain your making out to be a diamond.
And however much you inflame imagination
every moment you merely erect the impending fall.
Unnatural tree.
You neither fool me nor foster me with silence.
Because without a single word how am I to breathe.
Talk to me just for once, damn it! Why do you keep looking at me?
A man am I, I live on words.
And you, abhorrent tree,
you have me choking in oxygen.
———-
*Dionysios Solomos (1798-1857): Leading Greek poet.
**Alexandros Papadiamantis (1851-1911): Influential Greek novelist, short story writer and poet.
You take a sharp turn coming out of the National Road.
At the far end, we, the cool eucalyptus trees.
We stand guards for greatness.
If you turn down the radio
all the more you’ll have the rustling for co-driver .
What an unfavourable magic.
As long as you daren’t change life
all is a mistake, landscapes, trips, co-drivers.
No more evasions.
This is no trip. Sheer solitude.
I, the eucalyptus tree, am telling you so, you can’t get away.
If you haven’t a rooted course, driving off would be incomprehensible.
You’ll be the problem, never the solution.
You’ll look in nature like a strange feature.
And in your eyes, if you have eyes,
in solitude you’ll stay, and continue staying.
I want to believe that Philip*
spoke openly to the fir trees
in a fortified position near Larissa.
Thus he doubled the length of the sarisa**
being wise enough to feel the firs ahead.
There’s no such thing as homeless thoughts.
And all, but all of our aspirations
hanker for some naturalness.
To defeat, but how?
When a logical mind reflects nature,
then nothing seems arbitrary.
Even a spineless fir renders you innovating.
We must prevail. But why?
Just for the idea.
But it’s so natural.
And naturalness is a word without end.
A comprehensible word , nevertheless,
as long as there are Philips.
———–
*Philip II (382-336 B.C.): king of Macedonia.
**Sarisa: a lengthy ancient spear.