VASSILIS AMANATIDIS

THEY ARE BUILDING NEW HONEYCOMBS

One cannot help noticing
that when bees burn
they become soft like red velvet
brittle as the naked pupils of blue eyes
and then die

Before comes the fire
that melts the honeycombs
and the ascension of the beehive’s
last dreams.
In fact, for a moment, there is
a slight commotion in the air
then they vaporize.
And since bees’ dreams
smell of flowers,
for a long time after
will the next beehive
search in vain on high
for a garden.

From: Ipnotirio. Ennia nyhtikes paravoles [Dormitory. Nine nocturnal parables]
Ekdoseis Entefktiriou, Thessaloniki 1999
Translation: Yannis Goumas

THE PARABLE OF THE BOWLEGGED FAMILY

The bowlegged family goes out in the cold afternoon. The bowlegged father leads the way. The mother is at heel, much of a muchness. The young boy comes behind, something of a surprise, long hair, down on his face, and likewise bowlegged (bowlegs are a hereditary disease, the legs like an embrace, one here, the other far apart, you cannot fit into an ambulance and your grave is wider at the base).
The bowlegged family goes out in the cold – afternoon – to the hairdresser. First the father has a haircut, then the mother has a hairdo, and lastly the boy has his locks nipped off. Afterwards, looking nicer, they treat themselves to a pastry and – because it is so nice – go window-shopping. The cyclothymic boy will snivel but a little, and they will return to their wooden igloo – in the evening – watch tv and go to bed.
Around midnight bubbles float all over the house:
1. The father nods off, dreaming of tufts in a line – a lifetime’s haircuts.
2. The mother is asleep, dreaming of a row of landscapes.
3. The boy, who in any case suffers from insomnia, sees a woman-long train with a velvety sound, without arithmetic and eights, no twists and turns – dead straight

outside the house, in the guise of an ordinary commercial traveller, he awaits the dawn in order to ring at the door, body-stretching Procrustes.

From: Ipnotirio. Ennia nyhtikes paravoles [Dormitory. Nine nocturnal parables]
Ekdoseis Entefktiriou, Thessaloniki 1999
Translation: Yannis Goumas

THE IMPONDERABLE POEM

there is a bird that
at night will not alight
on a tree to sleep
wings folded, motionless
it sleeps in the midst of air

No one holds it from on high

in the daytime flying tires it out
it flutters its wings for lack
of legs being unhatched
how is it to know that others touch ground;
thus it flutters its wings

but at night, embalmed,
it sleeps vertically
a tiny upright coffin
without touching ground, you could even say
it lies down

In the daytime it flies again

From: Ipnotirio. Ennia nyhtikes paravoles [Dormitory. Nine nocturnal parables]
Ekdoseis Entefktiriou, Thessaloniki 1999
Translation: Yannis Goumas

THE PARABLE OF OMISSION

He bought a stone in a box. On it was inscribed: Stone That Changes Colour When You Look At It. He rushed home for a better look. On arrival, he looked at the stone fervidly. For hours. It wouldn’t change.
He thought I must be blind. Never have I seen what I’ve seen. The proof is this stone that changes colour when you look at it. Mortified, he placed the stone back in its box and shrunk into sleep.
(Shrunk, because there’s no point in staying up when you can’t attract something. Not even a simple stone that changes colour when you look at it.)
The stone in its box all night.
But.
While he was sleeping, something oozed at every pore. Dark green foam, a myriad sequels of all colours. Thus stealthily, colonies sprung and spread on his skin, until a chromatic epilepsy overcame him. But, come morn, all was instantly wiped clean.
(You see, they had failed to print the word your on the box. It concerned a Stone That Changes Your Colour When You Look At It.)

He woke up again in his own colour. He held the stone and looked at it fervidly. For hours.
It wouldn’t change.

From: Ipnotirio. Ennia nyhtikes paravoles [Dormitory. Nine nocturnal parables]
Ekdoseis Entefktiriou, Thessaloniki 1999
Translation: Yannis Goumas

THE HARE AND THE COUNTRYSIDE

A grey hare standing erect,
motionless,
his hind legs fixed in a patch of
earth,
his front ones hanging down heavily
his two ears
stretching upward like elastic.

“I’m not fond of the country,”
thinks the hare.
At night he doesn’t move.
And the air is blue.
“Ah, I’m no longer fond of the country.”
In daytime he doesn’t move.
The air is white.

Someone’s put a spell on me, he thinks.
Such inertness!
Just standing there mute,
as though perpetually listening to the vale…
He sees no trees –
although there must me some around.
But he is no longer fond of trees.

“No, I’m not a country lover anymore – gone
are those
days,” thought
this beady-eyed
hare,
the earth beneath his feet as decoration.
(Is he stuffed?)

the earth doesn’t cover him. He’s standing on it

From: Triantatria [Thirtythree], Gavriilidis, Athens 2003. Translation: Yannis Goumas

INCIDENT WITH STRAWBERRIES THEREAFTER

“It’s cold!”,1
he said
– he died2

Shame because for a long time
I’ve been saving him
fresh strawberries…

1 It was hot actually, summertime.
2 And yet he comes, we talk again. But he’s dead, how is it possible? As if he didn’t recognise me, “I’ve always loved strawberries” he says. I say “should I bring you some?” he says “yes, thank you, kind sir”. I pretend I didn’t hear, “here you go, nice and red, do you want sugar?” I say, “should I put them in the fridge to make them crusty?’; he says: “I prefer them fresh, fresh and warm”; I say “do as you please, suit yourself”, he tries, but: “I can’t” he says, “what a shame, I can’t eat strawberries, my mouth won’t open anymore… Maybe I won’t after all, kind sir, I won’t take any, thank you”. I say “What’s with all this polite nonsense now that you’re dead? I don’t care about the strawberries. Don’t do it again, please.”

From: 4-D: Poiimata tessaron diastaseon [4-D: Four dimensional poems]
Gavriilidis, Athens 2006
Translation: Sakis Kyratzis

CHRISTMAS SONG
Or
FREE TRANSLATION IN DEPTH OF TIME

Christmas nine years old Jingle bells, jingle bells Under the christmas tree Jingle al the way I’m reading “Professor Brainstorm’s mad inventions” Oh what fun it is to ride Bugs Bunny on TV Jingle bells, jingle bells From the room next door discernible sounds of my mother (41 years old) my father (51) my brother (14) And me Oh what fun it is to ride gathering warmth In a one-horse open sleigh since outside the window the night was quiet then, and snow was always falling

even when it wasn’t1

1 TRANSLATION OF THIS FORGOTTEN LANGUAGE: Thirty four years old, Christmas, under the christmas tree, Jingle bells, jingle bells, “Mum, I’ve noticed recently that you’re out of breath when you climb the stairs…”, ”No”, she says, “I’m fine”, “Ok”, I say, “I’m not saying you’re not fine, it’s just that, well, the mother of a friend, you know, Evi, she was climbing the stairs with the shopping last year and she was out of breath, and her husband dragged her willy nilly to the doctor – just like you, she didn’t want to go at all – and he told her you have a blocked valve, Jingle bells, you should be operated in spring, but in the meantime please do not let anything worry you, it is dangerous to let things worry you, it’s a good thing you came, jingle all the way, you could have died unexpectedly, your heart could have failed you just like that. Do you understand, mum? That’s why I’m saying that maybe we should go to the doctor, just in case it’s blocked and it needs replacing, I hope I didn’t upset you”. “I’m sixty six”, she answers, “what difference does it make? Will you allow me not to accept your offer? My sweet boy, I don’t mind dying unexpected, I’m tired of always expecting; don’t you worry, that’s all I care for, but come, jingle bells, come to the window, look how lovely it is outside – with or without snow, look what a silent night, how wonderfully quiet,

how quiet is the night”

From: 4-D: Poiimata tessaron diastaseon [4-D: Four dimensional poems]
Gavriilidis, Athens 2006. Translation: Sakis Kyratzis

THE LIFE OF A FLOWER SHOT ON TAPE
Or
MULTIPLE RESURRECTION

… No. Thing.) Until:
It opens.
Slightly.
More.
Slightly more
even more, until:
Flow, er
until: It closes.
Slightly.
More.
And even more slightly mo
slightly more, until:
(No. Thing…1

1 I touch your hand, I guide it to the remote control, and together we press rewind. (On the screen: The rose: In resurrection fast backward.) We press play, fast forward. (On the screen: The rose: Lives fast and then it dies.) I won’t let go of your hand, we press immediately rewind. You say: “Will we never give up on this resurrection?” I won’t let go of your hand, we press play – fast forward – forever rewind. I say: “No, my love, never. Never on this resurrection…”

From: 4-D: Poiimata tessaron diastaseon [4-D: Four dimensional poems]
Gavriilidis, Athens 2006. Translation: Sakis Kyratzis