Kiki Dimoula Poems

Of course I am
against disturbing the moon.
For many reasons.
Not only is it an unseemly exaggeration
—personally I've long avoided exaggerating
because of exhaustion—
but it is also improper.
So far, the moon's relations with the earth
have been
highly formal.
Discreet from its enchanting distance,
it offered perfect solutions
to mankind's musing.
And, above all,
every so often,
it silver-plates
this worn-out earth for free.
...

Lie down. On something hard.
At first your leisure vertebrae may hurt
but gradually, painlessly, immobility
straightens its back till it stands there like a cypress.

Now compress your bad habits
into one rigid line.
Rest your hands on your chest
like the makeshift wings of a provisional angel.
Do not shift position.
The supine rows best.

Don't be afraid. Fear makes you fat,
it contains hunger.
Don't chew on sensations. Too many calories.
They cause the fat of deprivations.

Close your eyes, please
no dubious chinks
no lollipops of light.
They emit ultraviolet nostalgia.

Fully exhale, hold still
don't breathe, don't breathe
lest only half the ferryman
appear on the X-ray.

Let yourself slide down sleep.
You just relax, I'll play
your mother's lullaby on tape
hush little baby hush
like it or not I say.

Weigh yourself. Please hold still:
nested inside your body a scale awaits.
...

It rains with absolute candor.
So the sky is not a rumor
it does exist
and therefore earth is not
the sole solution
as each lazy dead person pretends.
...

The house a tiny neighbour to the sky.
Nearness' tendency built so high
on a peak's open wings like
a lectern that splendour might read the dawning
the meridian the setting gospel of the day.

I go out into the yard. Waiting for me sparkling
with reins saddle harness is the horizon's wild freedom
that I might mount and galloping tame its verification.
Ah, only gaze and vision managed to ride
this immaterial untamed conquest.
The heavens' overweening views tumble are dashed
for the unhindered is of the briefest duration.

See how it catches on a stretch of barbed wire
round the property. Low, tame and yet
if you look carefully consider it carefully it divides
my good-morning from the neighbour's
all day long fanaticising borders quietly arming
the weeds against their brothers.

At night alone the unifying fragrance of night flowers
cuts through it in places and passes
in the demented glow of the fireflies
- glowbums we called them when alive.

Oh, inglorious heroics by volunteer dreams. What's the point
in encroaching on two inches more of moondust
inheritance left by the summer to its passing.

Let them observe a minute's licence
those few illiterate widow extensions
that the law doesn't cover

though no one knows
what hope still holds in store for them.

Summer, Platanos-Aigialeia
...

I have to remember that packet of Camel
The camel that tonight is a guarantee
Of my attested insecurity

Maria Kyrtzaki, The Woman with the Flock


Are you still smoking those? Try Camel.

Not that I'm advertising some new tar
that removes death's difficult stains
nor that I still believe in the different
taste of the untried, in its new strength.
Every kiss exchanged between the old sensual
habit and each new gigolo smoke
is quick-burning.
A slower blend of love has not been found.

Camel because
however well you've managed till now
alone on foot to advance the wilderness
following of all its myriad paths
the difficult one that brings you to the exclusion
of all travel companions

now as you see the climate has rebelled
the sand rose up became a storm
the cargo of time you bear became harsher
lead drenched as it was by the rain of fast numbers.

You wish the ozone were to blame, that the soul's
black hole had grown overly big
you wish your sterilising of dreams had failed
so they wouldn't bear any others
now you're wrestling, groaning, shrieking
just as a dream shrieks that despite the sterilisation
bears for you the dream of a companion.

Accept then humiliation's admonitions
and climb on the camel's hump opportunity
offered you by that passing nicotine fellah.

Climb up, admit it
partner fears have entered your self-sufficiency
(just the other day you were seen with company
in sunstroke's mirror).

Let's not fool ourselves my likeness.
Only the futile is self-sufficient.
...

The goat kept on bleating hoarsely.
I angrily opened the oven what's all the noise I asked
the guests can hear you.
Your oven's not hot, it bleated
do something otherwise your cruelty
will go hungry and at festive time too.

I put my hand inside. It was true.
The head the legs the neck
the grass the pasture the crags
the slaughter all cold.
...

I open the photo's windows
to air it. It's been shut up for some time.
like so many summer-house pasts.

You're on the balcony. In your old favourite
position; standing; you're wearing the earthly coloured
tight-fitting costume of planes: a tiled
roof the pine's inflatable anorak,
patched in-between with sea
in places where the branches tore
playing with strong winds.
The orchards are at high tide
they're up to the telegraph poles
and lemons dangle from the wires
unripe festive bulbs.

You're lowering the sun.
You're roll up the awnings crushing
canvas flowers. Impatiently you rotate
the motion as thought shade were scarce.

So far the photo's behaving logically.
Until I appear, a paranoiac newcomer
to the image; as if by plastic removal.

Though I was beside you all along
joint-owner of tide and orchards
seated just behind you
in my very cosy pliant smile
in now seems
as if I've just been added to the photo.
With my present face, dark gaze
long its tail dragging on the balcony
as if I'd been invited by the official darkness.
Not breathing I stretch as if wanting
to get you away from the awning
so no further shade quarry
will fall on you.
You're already sunless enough.
How was the photo updated.
How did real time get into paper time.

With what familiarity did pain
speak to the inanimate's apathy.
Might the inanimate be something deeper.
Perhaps the animate's former lives
that at the first painful opportunity
suffer a relapse?
...

Whenever I come to visit you
only the time that's intervened
from one visit to the next has changed.
As for the rest, as always
from my eyes runs a river
your engraved name blurred
- godfather to the little hyphen
between the two dates
so people won't think the length
of your life died unbaptised.
Next I clean the flowers'
withered droppings adding
some red earth where black had been laid
and finally I change the glass in the oil-lamp
for another a clean one I bring.

As soon as I get home
I diligently wash the dirty one
disinfecting it with chlorine
and the caustic foam of disgust I emit
as I shake vigorously.
Always with gloves and keeping my body
well away from the tiny basin
so the dead water won't splash me.
With strong aversion's wire wool I scour
the ingrained grease on the glass' rim
and on the palate of the doused flame
while rage crushes the illicit stroll
of a snail, trespasser
in the neighbouring stillness.

I rinse it then rinse with scalding fury
a boiling effort to bring the glass to its prime
its happy normal use
for quenching thirst.
And at last it becomes crystal clear
how hypochondriacal my wish is not to die.

dearest - look at it this way:
when wasn't love afraid of death?
...

Day's dull drizzle.
Some foolish bells splash
Lazarus' sleep to bring him forth.
Well-sealed the surrounding light.

I too had a few to bring forth
but they didn't reply if they wanted.

How could they reply
with that eavesdropper you left well-sealed
the surrounding light.

Then again why ask if they want.
The miracle doesn't ask.
It grabs you by the ear and
dragging hurls you into the light.
You rejoice of course in the glare, I don't disagree
but a worm the worry eats away inside you
perhaps the miracles are mortal.

Better to leave them there then
so we don't for a second time
have to take up their empty beds.

Have you heard nothing?
And yet, all this time in here
chatting with whatever to get some air
it was you I was talking to down there.
So I didn't address you?
Of all the Lernaean names which one
should I choose to call you.
Whichever I cut when seeking you
another grows on the spot.
...

Crying she describes
how burglars wrecked the house
the wretches took her jewellery and raped
old women values.

Isn't she happy?

It's been years since any thief
set foot in my house
even for coffee.
I deliberately leave the pot unlocked.

On returning each time I pray
to find the door's canines broken

the lights shaking as if just having knocked
against a tall earthquake's head

to see the burial gifts stolen
from the mirror's mummy kingdoms

as if someone had shaved in the bathroom
and whiskers had sprouted on my beardless touch
their refutation bound hand and foot on the floor

and, coming at its leisure from the kitchen, steam
from warm footprints with lots of cinnamon on top.
...