Image (Copyright © 2008 Michael Lee Johnson)
Megan Burns
Jefferson Hansen
Lois Marie Harrod
Michael Lee Johnson
Christopher Barnes
Linda Graham
Laurie Cook
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Issue 27
Image (Copyright © 2008 Michael Lee Johnson)
Megan Burns
Jefferson Hansen
Lois Marie Harrod
Michael Lee Johnson
Christopher Barnes
Linda Graham
Laurie Cook
Megan Burns
from Anatomy of Depression
the world as ordered if you depend
on your mind for translation
sit down
if you recognize these thoughts as other
or if you deny easily that
which could be defined as disturbing
melancholia
a romantic indisposition
I believed I had a right to my wrong thinking on some level.
it was mine and to be defended
imagine: healthy
as a species of flower
as a turn in the weather
as a geographical pinpoint
as a location found by vertical and horizontal planes intersecting
it’s one thing to speak of what is misfiring
and another to locate
here in the deep, deep recesses of porous organ
half able to function coherently
what half is left and is this accurate
what percentage and on what days and on what dosage
Are you beginning to divide
the notion of trust?
animate object: as other that lives in me
inanimate object: as quieted by this medicine and
put to sleep, a wild animal stuffed and mounted
glassy-eyed wonder
of how it arrived
genetic
as a gift from those before me
a realm of suffering
to greater clarity
here is the diseased mind realm
am I making too much of it?
I’d hate to draw attention to it, the gaze then lends it value
but to ignore—does “not seeing” mean… what am I afraid of is that
the reader will think it is simply the vehicle for my desire, for my
identity but I am the vehicle, I’m certain, that it has gotten in
beside me
where are we going?
a small insect blows onto the open pages of Brenda’s book
lands on “Rare held over world”
from here on Folsom Street
I can see Jack Collom bringing in his dirty laundry
define the hidden: as dirty laundry
skeletons in the closet
dirty skeletons
bone left
(dirty organ)
skeletal: tactile, able to walk out on its own
laundry: tactile, able to be cleansed
this is a map of hope in revelation
mind as imaginary, as illusory, as porous
the examiner knows that when you open the skull
the brain can crumble within seconds
upon losing its container
upon touch
fragment fragile fingered mush
must be poisoned further to provide the perfect specimen
formaldehyde, spun in a web of fluid and glass
suspended and sliced to millimeter
slid onto thin sections of plastic and caught under the magnifying glass
this sheer exposition
what went wrong?
even then how to connect dead tissue to the imagination
to the cellular experience
to see how the drugs changed the identity
my place in the world
the amount of space I took up
the gap left that haunted me
where the I I was not fell behind
but followed me
I can see her out of the corner of my eye.
who said this?
Am I too gone to be
healed?
Being healed is a misnomer.
Health in that sense is not
something attainable.
Remove heal from thy language.
Insert “contained”
Insert “changed”
Insert __________
Megan Burns is the author of Memorial + Sight Lines (Lavender Ink 2008). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in poetry and has been published in Exquisite Corpse, Contance Magazine, YAWP and Callaloo. She lives in New Orleans and runs the 17 Poets! Reading Series with poet Dave Brinks.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
the world as ordered if you depend
on your mind for translation
sit down
if you recognize these thoughts as other
or if you deny easily that
which could be defined as disturbing
melancholia
a romantic indisposition
I believed I had a right to my wrong thinking on some level.
it was mine and to be defended
imagine: healthy
as a species of flower
as a turn in the weather
as a geographical pinpoint
as a location found by vertical and horizontal planes intersecting
it’s one thing to speak of what is misfiring
and another to locate
here in the deep, deep recesses of porous organ
half able to function coherently
what half is left and is this accurate
what percentage and on what days and on what dosage
Are you beginning to divide
the notion of trust?
animate object: as other that lives in me
inanimate object: as quieted by this medicine and
put to sleep, a wild animal stuffed and mounted
glassy-eyed wonder
of how it arrived
genetic
as a gift from those before me
a realm of suffering
to greater clarity
here is the diseased mind realm
am I making too much of it?
I’d hate to draw attention to it, the gaze then lends it value
but to ignore—does “not seeing” mean… what am I afraid of is that
the reader will think it is simply the vehicle for my desire, for my
identity but I am the vehicle, I’m certain, that it has gotten in
beside me
where are we going?
a small insect blows onto the open pages of Brenda’s book
lands on “Rare held over world”
from here on Folsom Street
I can see Jack Collom bringing in his dirty laundry
define the hidden: as dirty laundry
skeletons in the closet
dirty skeletons
bone left
(dirty organ)
skeletal: tactile, able to walk out on its own
laundry: tactile, able to be cleansed
this is a map of hope in revelation
mind as imaginary, as illusory, as porous
the examiner knows that when you open the skull
the brain can crumble within seconds
upon losing its container
upon touch
fragment fragile fingered mush
must be poisoned further to provide the perfect specimen
formaldehyde, spun in a web of fluid and glass
suspended and sliced to millimeter
slid onto thin sections of plastic and caught under the magnifying glass
this sheer exposition
what went wrong?
even then how to connect dead tissue to the imagination
to the cellular experience
to see how the drugs changed the identity
my place in the world
the amount of space I took up
the gap left that haunted me
where the I I was not fell behind
but followed me
I can see her out of the corner of my eye.
who said this?
Am I too gone to be
healed?
Being healed is a misnomer.
Health in that sense is not
something attainable.
Remove heal from thy language.
Insert “contained”
Insert “changed”
Insert __________
Megan Burns is the author of Memorial + Sight Lines (Lavender Ink 2008). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in poetry and has been published in Exquisite Corpse, Contance Magazine, YAWP and Callaloo. She lives in New Orleans and runs the 17 Poets! Reading Series with poet Dave Brinks.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Jefferson Hansen
words
where we depend but don't know
a shiver comes
at the intensity of
burst glass
a trickster's
attempt at lost heavens
short and shorter
stout like brick
and thick like
wall gone paranoid
rolling dark clouds
stretch and leap
nerve to wind
gust
and the historical autopsy
revealed
'hidden geography of body'
what liver
in coil of what kidney
what place the aorta
of the nerve
in the pinkie
the past returning in furls
of flesh where is the edge
of seeing the beginning
of
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
where we depend but don't know
a shiver comes
at the intensity of
burst glass
a trickster's
attempt at lost heavens
short and shorter
stout like brick
and thick like
wall gone paranoid
rolling dark clouds
stretch and leap
nerve to wind
gust
and the historical autopsy
revealed
'hidden geography of body'
what liver
in coil of what kidney
what place the aorta
of the nerve
in the pinkie
the past returning in furls
of flesh where is the edge
of seeing the beginning
of
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Lois Marie Harrod
At the County Fair Lugubrious
The peaches stood
in dark rows like mourners
at a funeral, the zinnias
bowed their heads
as if they knew they had worn
the wrong riot of color.
Some said it was not the rain,
some said it had rained
nine days, enough to carry
the chest of doves
from Mississippi to Spain.
We curled in our coffin
like those lovers
in Plato’s cave, the ones
he forgot to mention,
this time sure that when
he opened the lid
there would be more
light than shadow.
But no, more rain,
and everyone looking
down on us like saints
with gray umbrellas,
even the rabbits
in their rows of wire cages.
Too much sanctity
for so little salt, I said,
thinking of an old theologian
who seemed to be missing
in the damp crowd. I was thirsty
but no one gave me drink.
There’ll be a heaven to pay.
Of course, I knew
I was sick again, weeping
as if the sky were falling,
which it was, in big, fat drops.
Lois Marie Harrod’s ninth book Furniture has just been published by Grayson Press where it was awarded the Grayson Poetry Prize. She is a 3-time recipient of poetry fellowships from the NJ Council on the Arts.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
The peaches stood
in dark rows like mourners
at a funeral, the zinnias
bowed their heads
as if they knew they had worn
the wrong riot of color.
Some said it was not the rain,
some said it had rained
nine days, enough to carry
the chest of doves
from Mississippi to Spain.
We curled in our coffin
like those lovers
in Plato’s cave, the ones
he forgot to mention,
this time sure that when
he opened the lid
there would be more
light than shadow.
But no, more rain,
and everyone looking
down on us like saints
with gray umbrellas,
even the rabbits
in their rows of wire cages.
Too much sanctity
for so little salt, I said,
thinking of an old theologian
who seemed to be missing
in the damp crowd. I was thirsty
but no one gave me drink.
There’ll be a heaven to pay.
Of course, I knew
I was sick again, weeping
as if the sky were falling,
which it was, in big, fat drops.
Lois Marie Harrod’s ninth book Furniture has just been published by Grayson Press where it was awarded the Grayson Poetry Prize. She is a 3-time recipient of poetry fellowships from the NJ Council on the Arts.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Michael Lee Johnson
Willow Tree Night and Snowy Visitors
Winter is tapping
on the hollow willow tree's trunk--
a four month visitor is about to move in
and unload his messy clothing
and be windy about it--
bark is grayish white as coming night with snow
fragments the seasons.
The chill of frost lies a deceitful blanket
over the courtyard greens and coats a
ghostly white mist over yellowed willow
leave's widely spaced teeth-
you can hear them clicking
like false teeth
or chattering like chipmunks
threatened in a distant burrow.
The willow tree knows the old man
approaching has showed up again,
in early November with
ice packed cheeks and brutal
puffy wind whistling with a sting.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He is the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom. He has also published two chapbooks of poetry and is presently looking for a publisher for two more. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 240 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request.
He is also publisher and editor of four poetry flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission:
http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/
http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/
http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/
http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/
Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Winter is tapping
on the hollow willow tree's trunk--
a four month visitor is about to move in
and unload his messy clothing
and be windy about it--
bark is grayish white as coming night with snow
fragments the seasons.
The chill of frost lies a deceitful blanket
over the courtyard greens and coats a
ghostly white mist over yellowed willow
leave's widely spaced teeth-
you can hear them clicking
like false teeth
or chattering like chipmunks
threatened in a distant burrow.
The willow tree knows the old man
approaching has showed up again,
in early November with
ice packed cheeks and brutal
puffy wind whistling with a sting.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. He is the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom. He has also published two chapbooks of poetry and is presently looking for a publisher for two more. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 240 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request.
He is also publisher and editor of four poetry flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission:
http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/
http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/
http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/
http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/
Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Christopher Barnes
Sterile Surfaces
Away from the lab-bench’s proving ground
The naked eye’s lame.
The moon’s heart
In an impulse swirls.
Triple-check – it’s far off,
Wide of the mark
Of swabbed feelings.
If the love-gene’s spliced
There’ll be a syringe
In the throat,
A hitch to swallow
Like fish-scaled GM apples
Or the troublesome underbreath
Of Dolly, the sheep.
Christopher Barnes: in 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection Lovebites published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
On Saturday 16th Aughst 2003 I read at theEdinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.
I also have a BBC webpage www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not work click on SECTION 28 on second site.
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children's literature building. In May I had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People's Theatre why not take a look at their website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gulbenkian/gulbenkian.htm
The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem "The Holiday I Never Had", I can be heard reading it on www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=18456
REVIEWS: I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called 'A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot' for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Away from the lab-bench’s proving ground
The naked eye’s lame.
The moon’s heart
In an impulse swirls.
Triple-check – it’s far off,
Wide of the mark
Of swabbed feelings.
If the love-gene’s spliced
There’ll be a syringe
In the throat,
A hitch to swallow
Like fish-scaled GM apples
Or the troublesome underbreath
Of Dolly, the sheep.
Christopher Barnes: in 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection Lovebites published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
On Saturday 16th Aughst 2003 I read at theEdinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.
I also have a BBC webpage www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not work click on SECTION 28 on second site.
Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children's literature building. In May I had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People's Theatre why not take a look at their website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gulbenkian/gulbenkian.htm
The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem "The Holiday I Never Had", I can be heard reading it on www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=18456
REVIEWS: I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called 'A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot' for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Linda Graham
burn my heart[1]
for george wallace
yesterday, i was reading K-PAX[2]
and i noticed Prot or should i say prot
doesn’t use capitals for names
and neither do you
your poetry and you are both lower case
and you say
that’s ok sugar
in that rich full bodied aromatic
coffee sounding new york tone
that reminds me
of tennessee williams plays
and hot nights in the deep south
(because i’m english and have no sense
for american accents)
and i read in your introduction
how you write from dreams
and i wonder how you write
so vividly from dreams and i say
you must have marvellous dreams,
more vivid than everyone else
and you reply no different
from anyone else
so i think about my dreams
but all i see when i sleep
is blood and shit and black
everything black
and every night i’m running
in worlds i recognise and don’t
in streets i recognise and don’t
with ghosts i recognise and don’t
trying to dodge the bullets they spit at me
trying to stop my knife blades slicing skin
trying to stop the devil striking me down
trying to stop my lover saying he doesn’t no he doesn’t
his spent cock in his hand and behind him she’s smiling
and every night I moan in my sleep
moan over and over in my sleep
wake me up wake me up
please someone wake me up
____________________________
[1] George Wallace, Burn My Heart in Wet Sand, (Troubadour, Leicester, 2004)
[2] Gene Brewer, K-PAX The Trilogy, (Bloomsbury, London, 2004)
Born in 1971 in the seaside town of Cleethorpes, England, Linda Graham organises arts festivals and programmes spoken word and literature events in the beautiful Lake District. Her poems have appeared in magazines and newspapers in the UK and US as well as online, and her first collection will be published by Bluechrome Press later next year.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
for george wallace
yesterday, i was reading K-PAX[2]
and i noticed Prot or should i say prot
doesn’t use capitals for names
and neither do you
your poetry and you are both lower case
and you say
that’s ok sugar
in that rich full bodied aromatic
coffee sounding new york tone
that reminds me
of tennessee williams plays
and hot nights in the deep south
(because i’m english and have no sense
for american accents)
and i read in your introduction
how you write from dreams
and i wonder how you write
so vividly from dreams and i say
you must have marvellous dreams,
more vivid than everyone else
and you reply no different
from anyone else
so i think about my dreams
but all i see when i sleep
is blood and shit and black
everything black
and every night i’m running
in worlds i recognise and don’t
in streets i recognise and don’t
with ghosts i recognise and don’t
trying to dodge the bullets they spit at me
trying to stop my knife blades slicing skin
trying to stop the devil striking me down
trying to stop my lover saying he doesn’t no he doesn’t
his spent cock in his hand and behind him she’s smiling
and every night I moan in my sleep
moan over and over in my sleep
wake me up wake me up
please someone wake me up
____________________________
[1] George Wallace, Burn My Heart in Wet Sand, (Troubadour, Leicester, 2004)
[2] Gene Brewer, K-PAX The Trilogy, (Bloomsbury, London, 2004)
Born in 1971 in the seaside town of Cleethorpes, England, Linda Graham organises arts festivals and programmes spoken word and literature events in the beautiful Lake District. Her poems have appeared in magazines and newspapers in the UK and US as well as online, and her first collection will be published by Bluechrome Press later next year.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Laurie Cook
Proud
part of me
part of you
anyone can be
will shine
will be
craaaaazy
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
part of me
part of you
anyone can be
will shine
will be
craaaaazy
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Dimitris Lyacos
Z213 Exit (extracts 11-12)
Translated from Greek by Shorsha Sullivan
11
I think of you but not as I used to. My eyes open in
sleep, a hand seizes me. And in the sweetness of
somebody’s touch. I am falling, and the same dream
again of a child’s breast that a woman holds in her
arms. Lips on it, wet, blood-soaked her lips. I start
upright. The others are sleeping. Days walking uphill,
view of an evergreen plateau, stay there. Quiet.
Except when the wounded mumble close to your ear. I
took something that made me get over my fears and then
I didn’t care about anything. I did not care about
anything. I couldn’t care about anything, a knife cut
took off my finger, and I couldn’t care about stopping
the blood. Nothing to stay for. The daybreak of a Pel
re dawn without light. And around one side and
the other monasteries empty nests and a whole crowd
there, a river between. And there were a lot. They are
singing, the bridal chambers are filled, holding
hands. Below bodies the stream hustles along, on the
bank a row of them fallen face upwards, I run around
like a madman looking for you, a woman presses her
daughter to her, poor, we haven’t eaten for days.
Gleam without hope still gleaming. In the dreams
jostling the one in my other. As then a boy on top of
his mother, help me to lift her, he was holding her
tight by her soaked rags, have you got matches strike
one, as if in her hands. Shows me black avenues and a
door at the end. My name that I saw written on it.
First time I felt this kind of pain, like a bite. I
saw, yet another soldier fallen nearby. Tears in his
eyes, called out where are you. Could not see, black
with the soil, don’t drink from this water, couldn’t
hear, the march past blanked it out. And it was the
memorial chanted for us. On our backs, above us the
poplars all round. For what was lost, country and
youth we had lost. For the horses rolling in blood.
And then their carcasses rest under the olive trees.
When the sacrifice starts and they pour something over
us. Where are you. And they are all gone there are
only the gods that off their jackets and give us
cover. Dead holding on to images scattered until they
too fade forever away. And I see the others, do not go
near leave them get up by themselves. Like the bare
ramrod hitting you in the stomach, a saw, an empty
water-bottle. I recall. New Year’s Eve. And deep down
a knot. Sleeping beside me, who. As if to my words he
whispers an answer. Now it grows dark, I am a child, I
encounter the gypsy. Who takes by day to the roads and
sings. In distant villages, in the graveyards for
charity. They said he was dead. And during Carnival,
in the squares roaming about. Comes and asks us to
light a cigarette for him. Deep down a knot, memory,
poor girl. Working all night, ruffling through
uniforms. In the cloakroom of travelling players,
should you find something to change. Your face fading
again, to hold your head for a while, and your body is
warm and when you are bending to kiss me you hesitate
for a moment, as if you catch the sound of them
coming. Or the sound of water or wooden fingers on
drums. Beside me late flowers on your mouth and it is
your kiss. The eve of the lights do you remember? On
the day itself I dig into the stone wall and bury
there the crown of a fir tree. Scapegoat, then, then
we were together.
12
Cruel the evening again in the station the train and
another station silent and the train tail of an animal
somewhere ahead, and another station alien eyes not on
you yet you want to hide again, a long narrow passage
that flows away in the rain covers you. Sitting still
you can’t manage your thoughts cannot make you stand
up you cannot go forwards or backwards. Socks wet,
take off your shoes, not yet, you stay still, almost
as to abandon the world, the lights go by, nothing but
lights, nothing exists besides this. No thought moves
your body not even a pain. One by one all those that
fled all those you left, pieces, pieces like ice
breaking and falling in front of your feet. And it
melts before you can move. The rhythm of the metal
draws you with it a shadow out in the corridor
lighting a cigarette the same tree that had passed
before you so many times. You smoke too. You take off
shoes socks lie down. Cramp in the stomach, the usual.
You cover your feet with the pullover, fall face down.
Chilly berth that sticks on your face. You wear the
pullover, you put the Bible under the jacket for a
pillow. Her breast, her half-opened mouth. Some life.
You unbutton your trousers put your hand in. A hand
that holds you a body you stretched on top of. She is
there you almost touch her and she is gone again,
saliva, pale light and the listless pulse of the body
powerless almost. You hold your breath, her breasts
come, you press it hard, comes inside you, from inside
you squeeze as many drops as you can, from inside you.
Stay still, calm, empty, darkness hides you, then
sleep. A nudge, you slip all but fall, you put out
your hand, below the palm crumpled paper, a dog-eared
book open. Turn over the cover: The First Death. You
would smile. This too for a pillow, on top of the
Bible. When you wake again two bodies entwined, the
flesh between them in pieces, that melt, breast onto
breast, that fades one into the other, fading out when
you decide to stand up.
Dimitris Lyacos was born in Athens in 1966. His trilogy Poena Damni (Z213: Exit, Nyctivoe, The First Death) has been translated into English, Spanish, Italian and German and has been performed extensively across Europe and the USA. A sound and sculpture installation of Nyctivoe opened in London and toured Europe in 2004-2005. A contemporary dance version of the same book was showing in Greece between 2006-2007 culminating in a performance at the Athens Concert Hall (Megaro Mousikis). Lyacos' work has been the subject of lectures and research at various universities, including Amsterdam, Trieste and Oxford. The German translation of The First Death is due to appear by J.Frank Verlag in the forthcoming months. For more information on the author visit www.lyacos.net.
Shorsha Sullivan was born in Dublin in 1932. He studied Classics at Leeds and has spent most of his working life in England. He has an interest in Modern Greek theatre and poetry.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson
Translated from Greek by Shorsha Sullivan
11
I think of you but not as I used to. My eyes open in
sleep, a hand seizes me. And in the sweetness of
somebody’s touch. I am falling, and the same dream
again of a child’s breast that a woman holds in her
arms. Lips on it, wet, blood-soaked her lips. I start
upright. The others are sleeping. Days walking uphill,
view of an evergreen plateau, stay there. Quiet.
Except when the wounded mumble close to your ear. I
took something that made me get over my fears and then
I didn’t care about anything. I did not care about
anything. I couldn’t care about anything, a knife cut
took off my finger, and I couldn’t care about stopping
the blood. Nothing to stay for. The daybreak of a Pel
re dawn without light. And around one side and
the other monasteries empty nests and a whole crowd
there, a river between. And there were a lot. They are
singing, the bridal chambers are filled, holding
hands. Below bodies the stream hustles along, on the
bank a row of them fallen face upwards, I run around
like a madman looking for you, a woman presses her
daughter to her, poor, we haven’t eaten for days.
Gleam without hope still gleaming. In the dreams
jostling the one in my other. As then a boy on top of
his mother, help me to lift her, he was holding her
tight by her soaked rags, have you got matches strike
one, as if in her hands. Shows me black avenues and a
door at the end. My name that I saw written on it.
First time I felt this kind of pain, like a bite. I
saw, yet another soldier fallen nearby. Tears in his
eyes, called out where are you. Could not see, black
with the soil, don’t drink from this water, couldn’t
hear, the march past blanked it out. And it was the
memorial chanted for us. On our backs, above us the
poplars all round. For what was lost, country and
youth we had lost. For the horses rolling in blood.
And then their carcasses rest under the olive trees.
When the sacrifice starts and they pour something over
us. Where are you. And they are all gone there are
only the gods that off their jackets and give us
cover. Dead holding on to images scattered until they
too fade forever away. And I see the others, do not go
near leave them get up by themselves. Like the bare
ramrod hitting you in the stomach, a saw, an empty
water-bottle. I recall. New Year’s Eve. And deep down
a knot. Sleeping beside me, who. As if to my words he
whispers an answer. Now it grows dark, I am a child, I
encounter the gypsy. Who takes by day to the roads and
sings. In distant villages, in the graveyards for
charity. They said he was dead. And during Carnival,
in the squares roaming about. Comes and asks us to
light a cigarette for him. Deep down a knot, memory,
poor girl. Working all night, ruffling through
uniforms. In the cloakroom of travelling players,
should you find something to change. Your face fading
again, to hold your head for a while, and your body is
warm and when you are bending to kiss me you hesitate
for a moment, as if you catch the sound of them
coming. Or the sound of water or wooden fingers on
drums. Beside me late flowers on your mouth and it is
your kiss. The eve of the lights do you remember? On
the day itself I dig into the stone wall and bury
there the crown of a fir tree. Scapegoat, then, then
we were together.
12
Cruel the evening again in the station the train and
another station silent and the train tail of an animal
somewhere ahead, and another station alien eyes not on
you yet you want to hide again, a long narrow passage
that flows away in the rain covers you. Sitting still
you can’t manage your thoughts cannot make you stand
up you cannot go forwards or backwards. Socks wet,
take off your shoes, not yet, you stay still, almost
as to abandon the world, the lights go by, nothing but
lights, nothing exists besides this. No thought moves
your body not even a pain. One by one all those that
fled all those you left, pieces, pieces like ice
breaking and falling in front of your feet. And it
melts before you can move. The rhythm of the metal
draws you with it a shadow out in the corridor
lighting a cigarette the same tree that had passed
before you so many times. You smoke too. You take off
shoes socks lie down. Cramp in the stomach, the usual.
You cover your feet with the pullover, fall face down.
Chilly berth that sticks on your face. You wear the
pullover, you put the Bible under the jacket for a
pillow. Her breast, her half-opened mouth. Some life.
You unbutton your trousers put your hand in. A hand
that holds you a body you stretched on top of. She is
there you almost touch her and she is gone again,
saliva, pale light and the listless pulse of the body
powerless almost. You hold your breath, her breasts
come, you press it hard, comes inside you, from inside
you squeeze as many drops as you can, from inside you.
Stay still, calm, empty, darkness hides you, then
sleep. A nudge, you slip all but fall, you put out
your hand, below the palm crumpled paper, a dog-eared
book open. Turn over the cover: The First Death. You
would smile. This too for a pillow, on top of the
Bible. When you wake again two bodies entwined, the
flesh between them in pieces, that melt, breast onto
breast, that fades one into the other, fading out when
you decide to stand up.
Dimitris Lyacos was born in Athens in 1966. His trilogy Poena Damni (Z213: Exit, Nyctivoe, The First Death) has been translated into English, Spanish, Italian and German and has been performed extensively across Europe and the USA. A sound and sculpture installation of Nyctivoe opened in London and toured Europe in 2004-2005. A contemporary dance version of the same book was showing in Greece between 2006-2007 culminating in a performance at the Athens Concert Hall (Megaro Mousikis). Lyacos' work has been the subject of lectures and research at various universities, including Amsterdam, Trieste and Oxford. The German translation of The First Death is due to appear by J.Frank Verlag in the forthcoming months. For more information on the author visit www.lyacos.net.
Shorsha Sullivan was born in Dublin in 1932. He studied Classics at Leeds and has spent most of his working life in England. He has an interest in Modern Greek theatre and poetry.
Dimitris Lyacos Steve Dalachinsky Carrie Hunter Lauren Joslin Charles Frederickson