Cumamdevenitcamil's Weblog

The Dance is a flower in the mouth of a dead pig.

Του Αιγαιου

1. Ο ερωτας. Το αρχιπελαγος Κι η πρωρα των αφρων του Κι οι γλαροι των ονειρων του Στο πιο ψηλο καταρτι του ο ναυτης ανεμιζει Ενα τραγουδι Ο ερωτας Το τραγουδι του Κι οι οριζοντες του ταξιδιου του Κι η ηχω της νοσταλγιας του Στον πιο βρεμενο βραχο της η αρραβωνιαστικια προσμενει Ενα καραβι Ο ερωτας Το καραβι του Κι η αμεριμνησια των μελτεμιων του Κι ο φλοκος της ελπιδας του Στον πιο ελαφρο κυματισμο του ενα νησι λικνιζει Τον ερχομο.

2 Παιχνιδια τα νερα Στα σκιερα περασματα Λενε με τα φιλια τους την αυγη Που αρχιζει Οριζοντας- Και τ’αγριοπεριστερα ηχο Δονουνε στη σπηλια τους Ξυπνημα γαλανο μεσ’στην πηγη Της μερας Ηλιος- Δινει ο μαϊστρος το πανι Στη θαλασσα Τα χαδια των μαλλιων Στην ξεγνοισια του ονειρου του Δροσια- Κυμα στο φως Ξαναγενναει τα ματια Οπου η Ζωη αρμενιζει προς Τ’αγναντεμα Ζωη-

3 Φλοισβος φιλι στη χαϊδεμενη του αμμο – Ερωτας Τη γαλανη του ελευθερια ο γλαρος Δινει στον οριζοντα Κυματα φευγουν ερχονται Αφρισμενη αποκριση στ’αυτια των κοχυλιων Ποιος πηρε την ολοξανθη και την ηλιοκαμενη? Ο μπατης με το διαφανο του φυσημα Γερνει πανι του ονειρου Μακρια Ερωτας την υποσχεση του μουρμουριζει – Φλοισβος.

…will be she (not it), an emotion.

“The port/ was longing”-and not for you, for me or for somebody else; it is / longing-his essential nature is longing.

Bombing Casualties: Spain  

Dolls’ faces are rosier but these were children

their eyes not glass but gleaming gristle

dark lenses in whose quicksilvery glances

the sunlight quivered. These blenched lips

were warm once and bright with blood

but blood

held in a moist bleb of flesh

not spilt and spatter’d in touseled hair.

In these shadowy tresses

red petals did not always

thus clot and blacken to a scar.

These are dead faces:

wasps’ nests are not more wanly waxen

wood embers not so grely ashen.

They are laid out in ranks

like paper lanterns that have fallen

after a night of riot

extinct in the dry morning air.

…died on 23th of April 1984, two days before my day of birth (25th of April 1984). That’s why I’m a poet, I had to replace Penrose.

This guy graduated Cambridge..and he is also a surrealist.

Sententiæ

If the father’s bankrupt, and the sons fail,
Blaming it on their own bad start,
Say the father should have gone to gaol,
Forgetting their grandfather’s part.

So with all centuries of blame
Fathers by their children cursed,
Say that all the trouble came
From Eve and Adam first.

Both wrong: are wronged. But we are wronged
the most.
Their life was deep, but only deep, immersed.
We fathom further, deep enough to boast
We know a worse beneath our father’s worst.

A Syllable and No Rhyme

Sorry again for that suspicion, I didn’t claim that you were

Yawning;

Larynx is your genital pride, my lips are some kind of code, our kiss: a

Label for love,

Another metaphor and you’ll mock me again, as last night, in the

Bed, when you said “it’s small” and I said “small world” smiling, perhaps

Losing piece by piece my intellectual lure for your

Erotical appetite, Julie.

A poem by W.S., “Of modern poetry”

The poem of the mind in the act of finding

What will suffice. It has not always had

To find:the scene was set; it repeated what

Was in the script.

Then the theatre was changed

To something else. Its past was a souvenir.

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.

It has to face the men of the time and to meet

The women of the time. It has to think about war

And it has to find what will suffice. It has

To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage,

And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and

With meditation, speak words that in the ear,

In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,

Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound

Of which, an invisible audience listens,

Not to play, but to itself, expressed

In an emotion as of two people, as of two

Emotions becoming one. The actor is

A metaphysician in the dark, twanging

An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives

Sounds passing through sudden rightnesses, wholly

Containing the mind, bellow which it cannot descend,

Beyond which it has no will to rise.

It must

Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may

Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman

Combing. The poem of the act of mind.

Savage wounds have raped me and she was

singing as usual “La Marseillese” my friends hidden in the stripped hole of an old tree

spit.

Such a boundless head floating between lamps and all the lambs floating in wool that’s my

sleep she said and excuse me she said I must do some “Arbeit” but now it’s too late and

I’m sorry that your “Angst” is covered with boring thoughts and I’m

there.

I look at you, animal, see

and so difficult for me to separate the fingers of the tree

I had a surrealistic imagination but it was interrupted by this stupid flight when

nobody should talk to me like that, I’m nobody

you know that, you know that your “tapis” is stretched and sticks are stubbed in it

and all the tails were whirling inside the structure, the manifold nostrils of the hand

when I was touching you were breathing and it is true and you have to forgive me I’m a mistake you know please give me a ”cocarda” and let me leave in a peace who doesn’t contradict the war let me be ironic for once in a liiiiiifetime I’m supervenient on your rouge lips

forgive me and pray to insects…they should know our secret, my small Confidence.