Πέμπτη, 29 Οκτωβρίου 2009

Δύο αγγλόφωνα ποιήματα




Thursday

The funereal procession
of cars in the rain.
Ash-eyed Thursday.

O, wipe your shields, wipe your shields
you desolate arks!
You tongue-tied, carbon breathing suicides!

No one gets away, I know.
The bottom fell out from the world.
We shan’t make it home by four

and we shall just as certainly be incinerated
some billions of years hence. But
for now it will not do to honk horns,

it will not bid the seraphim come,
it will not cue the orchestra to adagio
as the hole in the sky lets the lead drop on lead.




The Keys

They are lying there waiting
like rows of hungry teeth,
the keys.

But not really, no.

For on another plane of description
there are strings attached to each,
so they are in fact so many
tuxedoed penguins in a ballroom.

Still, that’s mixing metaphors
and smacks of the anthropomorphic.

So let me try again:
they are twenty-six telegraphic apparatuses
each conveying news of a shipwreck.

Which ship?

One which, not having heeded the beacon
now rests at the bottom of the dark, raging sea.

But no, the sea is not quite dark.
It is foaming in the mouth like a rabid dog
and its scattered rocks gleam like so many canines,
which, in a way,
brings things back to the beginning.

Except, of course, for the beacon.
The pulse on the screen screams
danger! danger!

to no avail, because I can only hear the piano
and the frolic of dancers underneath chandeliers
and the clickity-click-click of the keys.



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