Grassroots Movement

Though the slithering

Forked tongued snake

Neither hears nor speaks,

Aside from hissing at any

Clear and present danger,

If we keep our eyes

On the tall, swaying grass

Through which it moves

Effortlessly, it will tell us as much

About maneuvering left and right

As any cold-blooded,

Deaf-mute politician.

Three Languages, Two Triptychs, One Translator

Recently Linked: Joseph Mulligan (U.S. poet, narrator, translator and essayist) has published some English and Greek poetry of mine introduced and translated into Spanish by my good friend Mario Domínguez Parra. The original English and Greek versions are also included and can be read on Joseph’s very fine blog

The Smelting Process. Muchas gracias, ευχαριστώ, and thank you to them both.

Left and Right, Before and After, or The Americanization of Vazambam

Some of you may have noticed the old kid on the block blog header has been replaced with a new kid-–or at least a new picture of the old kid (or maybe that should be an old but newer picture of the old kid). Whatever the case may be, the difference between the two pictures is striking: Within the short—as in the length of my frame—time span of a little more than a year, yours truly was transformed from a wretched-looking, raggedy Greek village urchin into a clean-cut, wholesome-looking, small-town American first grader ready for his first-ever school picture. As evidence of having made the transition with as few scars as possible, a copy of the first-grade picture was mailed by my parents to relatives in the old country so that they too could see how quickly I had turned into a proper American.

NB: If you look carefully, you can still see the scar on my forehead left there by a stone wall that collapsed on me as I was trying to climb it before leaving for America; incidentally, that village wall disappeared many years ago but the scar it left is still visible.
 

My, Don't We Look Tasty

Imagine a crow eyeing you

Over what used to be

The green, green grass of home.

Don’t look now but

Now you know why

There’s nothing green about

This old

Old bird.

Canonical

The dove’s you

Ah you, my love

Calling in

One more

Blessed morning.

Scene before Twilight

pan across small

sea of cramped white

marble monuments

cut to wispy

old woman

bearing candle

black scarf

black sweater

black skirt

brown cane

opening rusty

wrought iron gate

Nest Building: A Poem

Upon landing, the mourning dove

Will pick up then drop

A twig several times before finding

Just the one it’s looking for,

And sometimes I suppose

It gets lucky

And comes upon the right one

On the very first try—but I’ve yet to see it.

If and when I do, you can be sure I’ll try

To write a poem about it.