Σάββατο, 24 Δεκεμβρίου 2016

antɪdʒ(ə)n

 Chapter I:
 The woods are lovely.
Hear the buzz in my head
Sheathe my hand in the dark
The woods are lovely this season
Burn the house, burn the bed
Leave no note, leave no mark
The woods are lovely this season

On the beat of your heart
On the march of your breath
The woods are lovely this season
Tear your sorrows apart
Let them seep through the earth
The woods are lovely this season

And I promise you this
Should you're gone with no trace
The woods are lovely this season
I will empty my dreams
On the light of your face
The woods are lovely this season

See the wind start to rise
Feel the moon on you skin
The woods are lovely this season
Just a word of advice
Know before you begin
The woods are bursting with treason

But the world burns so bright
And the stars seem to turn
The woods are lovely this season
Will you not spend the night?
Who would want to return
The woods are lovely this season

When the wounds start to grow
And the bones get to show
The woods seem lovely this season
When you moan your assent
And the seraphs descent
The woods turn lovely this season

Stay forever tonight
Set the armor alight
The woods will branch through your reason
For a kingdom of earth
Knows no winter in death
And the woods are lovely this season.
-

 Chapter II:
 The girl who looked like death.

I met her at my cruelest, my most tender, as a child
in a place of which I have almost no memory, but her.
I remember her name, despite the years, I never forgot it
even though I forgot about me so very consistently since then.
She looked like death, and I knew that even then.
On the fringes of playgrounds and primate hierarchies
when children are taught how to forever be dirt and spit like their god intented
she stood alone, even more lonely than myself.
And on my word, she looked like death.
Someone in charge invited her to join "us"
but she refused, just as I had.
And while I drew my refute from unpleasantness
I think she was too far gone to join anything
even if she wanted, even if she didn't look like an absence.
Even her name sounded like death -maybe that's why I never forgot
and I was, inevitably, entranced.
I watched her be and wondered about where she lived
What her parents were like, because back then, that mattered
How she spent her time and why she looked so sick
Why she seemed to be so sad and if our sadnesses resembled each other.
And she looked like death, pale and thin and fragile
A stick figure with a bobcut night on her head
Some essential freckles and eyes big as eclipses
Eyes that could break your soul in pieces if you stared for too long.
But she never did, perhaps because she knew
What happened to people who caught a glimpse of that black glimmer
What happened to lonely children who aged twice as fast
Maybe she knew, that's why she always seemed to be afraid
Invested in gestures instead of a voice
And in her paleness and darkness and silence
That girl looked like death.
I never really spoke with her
And it will humble me forever, to wonder
If she ever saw me, if she ever noticed
My gaze locked so deep in her abyss
My wandering eyes searching for her
Her instead of beauty
And my lonesome daydreams, spiraling around her
Her instead of laughter.
And I observed her retreat from our little world
And so much wished I could go to her
And make my little hands so big that I could cup her in
And tell her that I understood
Tell her that she could look me in the eyes
Me instead of the ground, my eyes instead of nothingness
And make her smile, just for a second
And make her be a lanky girl instead of death
Make her believe hands can be everything
When the path is paved in darkness.

But I never did.
I never told her that I liked her name
I never told her that her eyes made me cry
Still make me cry
I never told her that some kids never get to be children
And that it was alright, because I could be there
If only for a day, if only for a moment
For just a single smile
And that to look like death can be so beautiful
When living feels cheap.
She never knew my name, or that I was there
Willing to be consumed
She never knew who I was or who I could be
And so, she never could have told me
So that I'd know myself.

I try so hard not to wonder if she still exists
If her name is spoken by the lips of the living
I try so hard not to imagine her alive and well
Assimilated by the passing days, a loving husband
A house, a family, a flock of ordinary friends
I try so hard not to think about her eyes now
And how they may look normal, happy, shallow
I try not to think of her stick legs sunk in a beach
her freckles spreading beneath the sun's embrace
as her children run around her;
I met her at my cruelest, after all.

I'd like to think that if I ever met her
I would know
And that her black hole eyes could still destroy me.
And I would say my name, for far too long reserved
And cup my hands around her pallid face
tell her she looks like death
and that I understand
only to see that smile that never was.
-

 Chapter III:
 A hill made of corpses.
Each day I climb a hill made of corpses.
I sleep in the folds of their names
I dream in the ridges of their stories
Cover myself with the selves they have shed
Burrow like a black thought in every chrysalis
Until the morning claims my rest
And it is time to resume my dubious ascent.

Each day I climb and each night I am consumed
By the echoes of steps that precede me.
Each day I climb, counting the distance
To the top of a hill built from the saddest of wastes.

Perhaps it's fear that drives me upwards
Perhaps it's fear that weighs me down
But it's been years since a thing insurmountable
It's been years since I last welcomed
An avalanche of flesh that could have stopped me.

Each day I climb a hill made of corpses.
I give them names and they give way.
My grasp on their faces, my heels on their knees
My body pressed against their own
A momentary shelter from the absence of wind
My fingers shoved in the hilts of their smiles
Rest painlessly 'tween crenelations of teeth
Painlessly for me.

Perhaps it's fear that drives me upwards
Perhaps it's fear of the surface and depths
But I think it's been years since the ground has been broken
It's been years since the oceans seemed deep
Deep enough for the silence to fit.

Each day I climb a hill made of corpses.
The higher I get, the colder they stare
And the less they look like I remember.
Each night I curl behind their heads
Each night I hide beneath their skin
Try to caress them when they least expect it
Try to forget them when they need it the most.

Each day I climb and each night I am consumed
By the horrid belief I have been here before
Each day I climb, counting the distance
To the top of a hill that seems ever to rise.

Perhaps it's fear that drives me upwards
Perhaps it's fear that keeps me warm
And it's been moments since I last saw my face
On a thousand corpses, pale stacked layers of memory
It's been moments since I so deeply wished
The view from the top is not just a myriad of hills.

Perhaps it's fear that heaves me upwards
Or maybe the hill just grows higher
Step by fearful step.
-

 Chapter IV:
 The wrath of peaceful men.
Where others looked for happiness
I sought peace.
Where others claimed forgetfulness
I searched for calmness.
A wasteland life of terminal serenity
A counterweight to all things fleeting
An arid blueprint of completion
In grayscale watercolours.

And I tried to inflict my order
On those who faltered into my lap
I tried to spell my architecture
For those that seemed in need of shelter
Maybe for them, maybe for ever
Maybe for me, maybe for just as long
As the structures were meaningful
In their temporal fulfillment.

And I abandoned the moments
Even when I missed them the most
And I forsook the horizons
Even when I yearned for departure.
As a thing impermanent
I dubbed my dreams finite
As a wrong imperceptible
I named my rights lacking.

No more, no longer.

I will fit my demands
In the span of each heartbeat
And I won't blame the blood
Should the arteries burst.
Let it flow, if it must
Let it hurt, if it should;
Burn the world if you're freezing
Every moment, or lifetime, or night
Every time, any time.

But no longer a line will be drawn
Not on sand, not on stone.
No longer shall my will be quartered
Not for bliss, not for skin
Not for the whole wide world.
If I taste like ashes, so be it
If I herald a blaze, it will come
You can run, you can claim me
Enjoy me
You can grovel, or whimper, or stand
But no longer a thought will be given
On your order, your structure
Your calm.

I am not to be had in accordance
I am not to be with as long as
Not finite, not perpetual, not measured
Not a wrong to be mended
Nor a right to be wronged.

No more, no longer.

If you want something
Look elsewhere
In a life sworn to order and peace.
Should you want anything, it's all I can give
And should you be free
It will be nothing you can't take.
-

Δευτέρα, 9 Νοεμβρίου 2015

Βορά

Θα πουν για μενα πως δεν έκανα πολλά.
Πως δεν ξεβράστηκα στις όχθες των ονείρων
Πως ακολούθησα τον δρόμο τον πλατύ
Πως έφαγα μόνο απ'το κάρπισμα των στείρων.

Θα πουν για μένα πως δεν έκλαιγα πολύ
Πως δεν χρειάστηκε ποτέ να λύσω μάγια
Πως δεν περπάτησα ποτέ μες στη βροχή
Κι απ' τα καράβια προτιμούσα τα καρνάγια.

Θα πουν πως έζησα μιαν ήσυχη ζωή
Και πως δεν ήλπιζα ποτέ ούτε ευχόμουν.
Κανείς δεν με έψαξε ποτέ μες στη γιορτή
Ήτανε σίγουροι, θα πουν, πως δε θα ερχόμουν.

Θα πουν για μένα πως δεν έζησα αρκετά
Και πως ξοδεύτηκα σε τοίχους να με χτίζω
Ποτέ δεν πήγα όσο έπρεπε μακριά
Και έτσι δεν έμαθα ποτέ πώς να γυρίζω.

Θα πουν για μένα πως δε μου άρεσε το φως
Και πως με βόλευε τα τζάμια να μαυρίζω:
"Δεν ήξερε η νύχτα ότι έχει δόντια, ο αγαθός;"
Μα στο σκοτάδι εγώ ο ίδιος με ταΐζω.

Θα πουν για μένα πως δεν ήμουν αρκετά
Πως θα μπορούσα άλλα τόσα να 'χω γίνει
Πως αν πουλούσα τις πληγές μου για χαρά
Ίσως μονάχος να μην είχα απομείνει.

Μην τους ακούς, εσύ που ζεις ακόμα ανάμεσά τους.
Ποτέ δεν έμαθα τον δρόμο τον πλατύ
Ποτέ δεν χώρεσα στα ξέπνοα πανιά τους.
Και αν δεν περπάτησα μαζί τους στη βροχή
Είναι γιατί βρωμάνε, όταν μουσκεύουν, τα όνειρά τους.

Θα πουν για μένα πως δεν ήξερα να ζω
Με γέλιο πως δεν ήξερα τις μέρες να στολίζω
Και δεν κατάλαβαν ποτέ πως κι αν πεινώ
Κάλλιο με κόκκινες μπουκιές τις νύχτες να ταΐζω.

Θα πουν για σένα πως δεν ήξερα να σ' αγαπώ
Και το σκοτάδι μου πως με όρκισε στο ψέμα.
Στη δόλια νύχτα τους, το φως φέγγει θαμπό
Κι έχουν ξεχάσει τ' άστρα που τους έκαψαν το βλέμμα.

Μην τους ακούς, εσύ που ζεις ακόμα ανάμεσά τους.
Όπου κι αν πήγα, πάντα εδώ ξαναγυρνώ
Στη γη όπου σκιάζουν, διπλωμένα, τα φτερά τους.
Κι όπου γιορτάσαν τη σπορά, ποτέ δεν μ' είδες να περνώ
Γιατί βρωμάνε, όταν ανθίζουν, τα όνειρά τους.

Μην τους ακούς, εσύ που ζεις ακόμα ανάμεσά τους.
Δεν έλειψα ποτέ, ούτε ανάσα, απ' τη γιορτή
Κι αν δεν με γνώρισαν ποτέ, ήμουν μπροστά τους.
Και τρέμω, κάποτε, μην ζήσω όπως αυτοί
Και μην πεθάνω όπως γεννιούνται τα παιδιά τους.

Κυριακή, 16 Αυγούστου 2015

I was gentle.

When their first evening came
I did not flinch
I did not run
But offered all my mornings
Extinguished my small sun
And I was gentle.

And when their first night came
I was not frightened
And did not reach for fire
But laid down all my days
Put out my own dim moon
And I was gentle.

And when true darkness fell
I was not angry
Nor did I feel the light was owed
I joined the dark with my own
Weighed with my young dead stars
And I was gentle.

And when the morning came
I was elated to be richer
An altar worthier of sunsets
But in the light they ran
And they hid and they cowered
And still, I was gentle.

I built myself into a thing unlit
No sun, no moon, no stars, no fire
All gone but scent and touch and words
And still it was too bright
And still it was too warm
Though I was gentle.

So now when the days begin to fall
I rudely shine my brightest
Unkindly burn my hottest
And make the shadows deeper for them all
I doubt they'll know this is my one way left
Of being gentle.

And should the winter bring them back
Should they retrace their course upon the snow
I really, really, gently hope
They do not face me now at all
And know to stand behind me
Where they might think me gentle, still.

Πέμπτη, 23 Ιουλίου 2015

Χίλιες καμιά νύχτες.

Υπάρχει ένας κύριος στο βαγόνι μου
Με στολή παραλλαγής και κουρασμένο βλέμμα
Είναι κρυμμένος, όπως κι εγώ, από το πρώτο φως
Βαθειά κάτω απ' τη γη, στο θολό ενδιάμεσο
Της παλιάς νύχτας και της νέας, ολόιδιας ημέρας.

Και σίγουρα θα έρθει μια στιγμή στη ζωή του
Από αυτές, της ημινηφάλιας ανασκόπησης
Όταν μεταξύ σοβαρού και αστείου
Ρωτάμε δυνατά πότε περάσαν τόσες ανατολές
Και πόσο από εμάς αδειάσαμε μέσα τους.

Και σίγουρα, σίγουρα, θα θέλει να το πει
Στον άνθρωπο που θα είναι δίπλα του τότε
"Θυμάμαι εκείνη τη μέρα, ακόμα δεν είχε ξημερώσει
Και στεκόμουν όρθιος στο βαγόνι και μετρούσα
Πόσα άλλα μέρη υπήρχαν που θα ήθελα να είμαι."

Και σίγουρα, σίγουρα, μέσα του θα ξέρει
Ότι κανείς δεν θα νοιαστεί πραγματικά.

Κανείς δεν νοιάζεται για τις ξένες ιστορίες
Για τις πρωινές στιγμές που δεν επέζησε ο ίδιος
Κι αν από ευγένεια τις ακούει, θα τις ξεχάσει
Και αν μέσω δικών του ιστοριών τις συγκρίνει
Δεν βρίσκει τίποτα κοινό, όπως με όλα τα κοινότυπα.

Πες πόσο θες οι ιστορίες σου να αλλάξουν τον κόσμο
Και πώς καμία ανάμνηση δεν ξεθωριάζει στα αλήθεια
Και πως κανένα παραμύθι δεν κάνει το επόμενο παλιό
Μα σίγουρα, σίγουρα μέσα σου θα ξέρεις
Κανείς, ποτέ, δεν νοιάζεται.

Στο μέσο προσδόκιμο της φούσκας μας
Τίποτα πέρα από την επικάλυψη δεν φέρει κύρος
Κανένα γεγονός, ποτέ, δεν θα είναι κοσμογονικό
Παρά μόνο για τους παρόντες ή/και τους μάρτυρες
Γιατί όσοι έλειπαν, δεν θα νοιαστούν.

Όπως κι αυτούς δε θα τους μνημονεύσει κανείς.

Η μεγαλύτερη χαρά σου και η βαθύτερη λύπη σου
Όλα όσα σε όρισαν και σε οδήγησαν εδώ
Αυτά που άφησες να σε γκρεμίσουν
Απλώς γιατί ήλπιζες να το αξίζουν εν τέλει
Είναι για πάντα, για όλους, ασήμαντα.

Υπάρχει ένας κύριος στο βαγόνι μου
Που θα προτιμούσα να κοιμάται
Και να μην έχει πράγματα να πει
Είναι δύσκολο να τραγουδάς ωραία
Όταν έχουν όλοι έναν στίχο να θυμηθούν.

Και σίγουρα, έχεις ήδη αναρωτηθεί
Πόσα θα 'χες προλάβει να δεις
Αν δεν είχες διαβάσει τις λέξεις μου
Και σίγουρα, σίγουρα μέσα σου θα ξέρεις
Πόσο πολύ δεν νοιάζεσαι γι' αυτές
Κι από που ήρθαν.