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. 

Myrtle Vinca Minor under Cross-examination

Sure, you keep repeating 

You’re not trans-gender, 

But what’s that coy chick doing hiding 

In your shrubbery 

Feeding on your seeds? 

Surreal Sleepwalker

Out of deep sleep

And rising ever so

 

Slowly and completely

Mesmerized, I see what must be 

A green cheese moon adrift and waxing

 

The blue ocean floor at my feet.