All That Glitter Is Not Gold (The Great Pretender)

Poet who fancies 

He has the Midas touch, 

Easy on that gilded dressing— 

You want your head stuffed 

And spinning, grinning on 

A silver platter? 

Beyond the Wildest Stretch of the Imagination

Imagine—once and for all— 

Standing at the sea’s edge, thinking 

Of the poet who said there will always be more to it 

Under the surface once you reach it, 

Will you be able to leave it at that? 

In Lieu of "Three Red Pigeons"

XXIV 

Here end the works of the sea, the works of love. 

Those who will some day live here where we end— 

should the blood happen to blacken in their memory and overflow— 

let them not forget us, the weak souls among the asphodels, 

let them turn towards Erebus the heads of the victims: 

We who had nothing will teach them peace. 

—George Seferis, from Mythistorema (My translation) 

(Music by Ilias Andriopoulos, sung by the late, great Nikos Xylouris)

Mythistorema

Though no past shall ever be 

Perfect, we thought we knew 

Enough about it to keep us hopeful, 

Unraveling its myriad rules, ever mindful 

Of how we were told not 

To look upon ourselves 

As exceptions, lest the sovereign sun melt 

Our golden rule. 

That’s a Tough One: The Muse Strikes Again

Where do poems come from? 

I’m not sure, 

But now that I think of it, 

Your question reminds me 

Of the time when I first asked 

Mom where babies come from 

And she said they just popped out 

Of women’s kneecaps.