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  • Print Editions

Poems by Haris Vlavianos

​ΑΠΛΑ ΜΑΘΗΜΑΤΙΚΑ
 
 
Πέρυσι γιορτάσαμε μαζί τα γενέθλιά μας.
Η τούρτα ήταν στολισμένη με εκατό κεριά.
Αυτό δεν θα συμβεί ξανά.
Το άθροισμα των ηλικιών μας
θα αυξάνεται κάθε χρόνο κατά δύο αριθμούς.
Σε δώδεκα μήνες θα γίνουμε εκατόν δύο,
στους επόμενους δώδεκα, εκατόν τέσσερα, κ.ο.κ.
 
Αν πεθάνω στην ηλικία που πέθανε ο πατέρας μου,
έχω μπροστά μου ακόμη είκοσι χρόνια ζωής.
Αν πεθάνω στην ηλικία που πέθανε η μητέρα μου,
μόλις δεκαέξι.
Η μητέρα μου πέθανε 2 Οκτωβρίου,
τη μέρα που η αδελφή μου έκλεινε τα σαράντα ένα.
Ο παππούς μου 18 Ιουνίου,
τη μέρα που έκλεινα τα δεκαεννιά.
Η αδελφή μου, όταν έμαθε το νέο,
βρισκόταν σε κοινότητα αποτοξίνωσης 95 χιλ. ΒΔ της Ρώμης.
Εγώ, πετούσα στα 30.000 πόδια πάνω από τον Ατλαντικό
και αναρωτιόμουν τι θα συμβεί αν το αεροπλάνο
καρφωθεί ξαφνικά στα μαύρα του νερά.
 
Ο φίλος μου ο Τζώνη πέθανε πριν τρία χρόνια.
Αν ζούσε δεν θα ήμουν εγώ αυτός που είδε εχθές
το sequel της Μαδαγασκάρης αγκαλιά με την κόρη του.
Ο Βίκη έφυγε μέσα σε επτά μήνες
από έναν επιθετικό καρκίνο στον εγκέφαλο.
Ήταν μόλις πενήντα ενός και ο γιός της δεκαπέντε.
Την τελευταία φορά που την είδα στο «Υγεία»
με κοίταξε με το έντρομο εκείνο βλέμμα
που έλεγε: «θα πεθάνω γαμώτο, μη μου λέτε ψέματα».
 
Το 1989 άρχισα να διδάσκω στο Κολέγιο.
Του χρόνου θα έχω διανύσει
τα τέσσερα πέμπτα της διαδρομής –
σε δεκαέξι εξάμηνα θ’ αναγκαστώ ν’ αποχαιρετίσω
για πάντα φοιτητές και συναδέλφους.
Δεν θα ξαναμπώ ποτέ σε αμφιθέατρο,
ούτε θα χρειαστεί να αναλύω επί ώρες
την τριχοτόμηση της ψυχής
ή τις κατηγορικές προσταγές του Καντ.
 
Ο γιος μου γεννήθηκε όταν ήμουν τριάντα ενός,
σε μαιευτήριο της Οξφόρδης,
12 μίλια έξω από την πόλη,
δύο μήνες προτού υποστηρίξω το διδακτορικό μου.
Η κόρη μου έξι χρόνια αργότερα, στην Αθήνα,
14 χιλιόμετρα μακριά από το σπίτι μας.
Ο γιος μου χρειάστηκε δεκαπέντε ώρες
για να βγει απ’ την κοιλιά της μάνας του.
Η κόρη μου δέκα λεπτά.
Στη γέννηση του γιου μου
βρισκόμουν στο χειρουργείο επί τέσσερις ώρες
και κρατούσα το χέρι της γυναίκας μου.
Στη γέννηση της κόρης μου,
κοιτούσα το ρολόι στον προθάλαμο
και περίμενα με αγωνία
ν’ ακούσω το όνομά μου στο μεγάφωνο.
 
Διαβάζω ένα βιβλίο
που είναι κατά πενήντα επτά χρόνια μεγαλύτερό μου,
και αφορά έναν ποιητή που πέθανε
εκατό δύο χρόνια πριν γεννηθώ.
Ο υπολογιστής στον οποίο γράφω
είναι εννιά χρονών,
το κινητό μου δύο,
το τετράδιο που κρατάω σημειώσεις
τριών εβδομάδων.
 
Την πρώτη φορά που ήπια Campari ήμουν δεκατριών.
Την πρώτη φορά (και τελευταία) που κάπνισα δεκατεσσάρων.
Την πρώτη φορά που έκανα έρωτα δεκαπέντε.
Την έλεγαν Στέλλα και δούλευε σπίτι μας.
Ήταν δύο χρόνια μεγαλύτερή μου και πολύ «περπατημένη».
 
Κάθε μέρα σκέφτομαι τον θάνατο.
Δεν τον σκεφτόμουν παλαιότερα.
Τον σκέφτομαι από τότε που πέθαναν οι γονείς μου.
Τον σκέφτομαι από τότε που φοράω κουστούμι
για να πηγαίνω συνήθως σε κηδείες, όχι σε γάμους.
 
Κάνω διαρκώς προσθαφαιρέσεις.
Αν πεθάνει κάποιος κοιτάζω αμέσως
να δω πότε γεννήθηκε,
να διαπιστώσω αν πρόλαβε να χαρεί
το λίγο που του δόθηκε.
Σκέφτομαι ότι αν είμαι τυχερός
(θέμα τύχης δεν είναι όλα;)
μπορεί να φτάσω στην ηλικία εκείνη
που ίσως να έχω βαρεθεί πλέον τη ζωή.
Ίσως, γιατί την ώρα εκείνη ποιος ξέρει
αν θα χαμογελάω με ικανοποίηση,
ή θα τρέμω από φόβο.
 
Αν πεθάνω αύριο όμως,
μεθαύριο,
την επόμενη εβδομάδα,
τον άλλο μήνα,
δεν θα προλάβω
να της δώσω τα φιλιά που της χρωστάω,
να του πω πόσο πολύ τον αγάπησα,
να της πω πόσο πολύ με πλήγωσε,
δεν θα προλάβω
να τους ζητήσω συγγνώμη,
να εξηγήσω τους λόγους,
να σφίξω το πρόσωπό τους πάνω στο στήθος μου,
δεν θα προλάβω
να επαληθεύσω τους αριθμούς,
τις πράξεις,
το αποτέλεσμα.

 
SIMPLE MATHS
 
Yesterday we celebrated our birthdays together.
The cake was decorated with a hundred candles.
This will never happen again.
The sum of our ages will increase by two every year.
In twelve months we’ll be a hundred and two,
in the next twelve a hundred and four, and so on.
 
If I die at the age my father died,
I still have twenty years of life ahead of me.
If I die at the age my mother died,
barely sixteen.
My mother died on 2 October,
the day my sister reached forty-one.
My grandfather died on 18 June,
the day I reached nineteen.
When she heard the news, my sister
was in a detox centre
ninety-five kilometres north-west of Rome.
I was flying at 30,000 feet above the Atlantic
and wondering what would happen if the plane
suddenly plunged into the dark water.
 
My friend Johnny died three years ago.
If he’d lived, I wouldn’t be the one who just saw
Madagascar 2 with his daughter in my arms.
Vicky followed seven months later
from an aggressive cancer of the brain.
She was only fifty-one and her son seventeen.
The last time I saw her in Ygeia hospital
she stared at me with that terrified look
that said “I’m going to fucking die, don’t lie to me!”
 
In 1989 I began teaching at the College.
Next year I’ll have covered
four fifths of the distance –
in sixteen semesters I’ll have to say goodbye
forever to students and colleagues.
I won’t enter a lecture room again,
nor will I need to spend hours analysing
the tripartite division of the soul
or Kant’s categorical imperative.
 
My son was born when I was twenty-one
in an Oxford maternity clinic
twelve miles outside the city,
two months before the oral for my doctorate.
My daughter six years later in Athens,
fourteen kilometres from our house.
My son took fifteen hours
to emerge from his mother’s womb.
My daughter ten minutes.
At my son’s birth
I stayed in the operating theatre for four hours
holding my wife’s hand.
At my daughter’s birth
I stared at the clock in the waiting room
impatient to hear
my name over the loudspeaker.
 
I’m reading a book
fifty-seven years older than me,
about a poet who died
a hundred and two years before I was born.
The computer I’m writing on
is nine years old,
my mobile two,
and my notebook
three weeks.
 
The first time I drank Campari I was thirteen.
The first (and last) time I smoked I was fourteen.
The first time I made love fifteen.
She was called Stella and she worked in our house.
She was two years older than me and she’d been around.
 
Every day I think of death.
I used not to think about it in the old days.
I’ve been thinking about it ever since my parents died.
I’ve been thinking about it ever since I started putting on a suit
to go to funerals.
 
I’m constantly doing additions and subtractions.
If someone dies I immediately look
to see when they were born,
to find out if they’d had time to enjoy their life.
I reckon if I’m lucky
(isn’t everything a matter of chance?)
I may perhaps reach an age
when I’m fed up counting the days.
Perhaps, because when that time comes who knows
if I’ll be smiling with satisfaction
or trembling with fear.
 
If I die tomorrow though,
or the day after tomorrow,
or next week,
or next month,
I won’t have had time
to give her the kisses I owe her,
to tell him how much I’ve loved him,
to tell her how much she’s hurt me,
I won’t have had time
to say sorry to them,
to explain the reasons,
to press their faces against my chest,
I won’t have had time
to check the figures,
the maths,
the result.
 
 
Translated into English by Peter Mackridge



CAVO PARADISO
Στον γιο μου
Ήρθε η ώρα να φύγεις, ξημέρωσε πλέον,
εξάλλου η νύχτα κύλησε αδιάφορα -
τα κορίτσια μόνα τους ήρθαν
και μόνα τους επέστρεψαν στα δωμάτιά τους
κι ας ξόδεψαν τρεις ώρες στον καθρέφτη τους
για ν’ αποφασίσουν αν θα βάψουν τα νύχια τους ροζ ή πράσινα.
Καλός ο αμερικανός dj  δεν λέω
αλλά και αυτό το διαρκές remixing μετά από λίγο
ήταν κάπως προβλέψιμο και ώρες-ώρες κουραστικό.
Ο πατέρας σου θα προτιμούσε απόψε
(έχει και πανσέληνο)
 ν’ ακούει φυσικά Lou Reed και Tom Waits
αλλά εσύ σωστά θ’ αναφωνήσεις:
 «μα αυτός ανήκει σε άλλη εποχή!»
Έτσι συμβαίνει πάντοτε.
Και ο Γκίνσμπεργκ όταν επισκέφτηκε τον Πάουντ στη Βενετία
του έβαλε  ν’ ακούσει Beatles και τον ρώτησε αν του αρέσουν,
κι ο γέρο Εζ κούνησε ελαφρά το κεφάλι του,
ψιθυρίζοντας: «προτιμώ τον Βιβάλντι».
Δεν έχει σημασία όμως
αν αυτός ο συγκεκριμένος  παράδεισος αποδείχθηκε  πλαστός.
αφού αύριο θα υπάρξουν άλλοι κι άλλοι, ακόμη πιο λαμπεροί
με μεγαλύτερες πισίνες και περισσότερα ηλιοκαμένα κορμιά
να λικνίζονται φιλήδονα γύρω τους.
Αλλού βρίσκεται το νόημα των πραγμάτων:
το πρωί που ξύπνησε και σε είδε να κοιμάσαι ήρεμος στο κρεβάτι σου
ένιωσε βαθιά ανακουφισμένος και ήρθε και σε φίλησε στο μάγουλο.
Μετά έφτιαξε καφέ, άνοιξε τον υπολογιστή, μπήκε στο youtube
κι έβαλε το Is this Love.
Ναι στο youtube, και ναι, Bob Marley!
 

 
CAVO PARADISO
                                                                                 To my son
 
 
It’s time for you to go, it’s daylight now,
anyway the night went by indifferently –
the girls came on their own
and went back on their own to their rooms
even though they’d spent three hours in front of the mirror
trying to decide whether to paint their nails pink or green.
The American DJ was good, I don’t deny it,
but after a while that constant remixing
became rather predictable.
This your father would naturally have prefered
(there’s a full moon)
to listen to Lou Reed or Tom Waits
but you would exclaim,
“But he belongs to another century!”
That’s what always happens.
When Ginsburg visited Pound in Venice,
he put a Beatles track on and asked him if he liked it.
Old Ez shook his head slightly
and whispered, “I prefer Vivaldi.”
It doesn’t matter
whether that paradise proved to be false,
since tomorrow there will be others and others
even more radiant,
with bigger pools and more suntanned bodies
swaying voluptuously around them.
The meaning of things must be sought elsewhere:
When he woke up in the morning and saw you sleeping calmly in bed
he felt deeply relieved and came and kissed you on the cheek.
Then he made coffee, switched on his laptop, went into YouTube
and put on “Is this love”.
Yes, on YouTube, and yes, Bob Marley! 
 
 
Translated into English by Peter Mackridge



RED, JUICY LOVE
 
An apple next to a jug
is yet another nature morte
awaiting the brush of an experienced painter
to come alive on his canvas.
But an apple in the mouth of your beloved
is “an entirely different story”,
as Pater would have said.
As you watch her sharp teeth
sinking forcefully into its smooth body
and then her tongue, slowly, with a circular motion,
licking her lips
still moist from the greedy contact,
you do what the moment demands:
With a lightning movement you snatch it from her mouth
and you thrust it violently into your own
only to return it to her a few seconds later –
now reduced to half.
 
Isn’t that love?
Aren’t those its signs?
 
 
 
Translated into English by Peter Mackridge
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Haris Vlavianos was born in Rome in 1957. He studied Economics and Philosophy at the University of Bristol and Politics, History and International Relations at the University of Oxford (Trinity College). His doctoral thesis entitled, Greece 1941-1949: From Resistance to Civil War, was published by Macmillan (1992). He has published thirteen collections of poetry. His latest collection, Self-Portrait of Whiteness (2018) was awarded the National Poetry Prize, the Academy of Athens Poetry Prize, and the Reader’s Poetry Prize. He has also published numerous books of essays on poetry and writing. He has translated in book form the works of renowned poets such as: Walt Whitman, Ezra Pound, T. S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, E. E. Cummings, John Ashbery, Anne Carson Zbigniew Herbert, Fernando Pessoa, Michael Longley, William Blake. His translation of the Eliot’s The Waste Land was published to great critical acclaim in May. He is the editor of the influential literary journal “Poetics” and Poetry Editor at “Patakis Publications”. Many of his books have been translated and published in England, Germany, France, Italy, Sweden, Holland, Spain, Bulgaria, Rumania. Currently he is Professor of History and Politics at the American College of Greece. For his contribution in promoting Italian literature and culture in Greece, the President of the Italian Republic bestowed upon him in February 2005 the title of “Cavaliere”, while the Dante Society of Italy awarded him the “Dante Prize” for his publications on the Divine Comedy.


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      • ISSUE XX May 2014
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      • ISSUE XXI February 2015
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      • ISSUE XXIII August 2016
      • Poetry From Ireland ISSUE XXIV December 2016
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      • ISSUE XXV August 2017
      • ISSUE XXVI December 2017
    • 2018 ISSUES >
      • ISSUE XXVII July 2018
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      • ISSUE XXIX July 2019
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      • Issue XXX February 2020
      • ISSUE XXXI December 2020
    • 2021 ISSUES >
      • ISSUE XXXII August 2021
    • 2022 ISSUES >
      • ISSUE XXXIII June 2022
      • ISSUE XXXIV December 2022
  • Collaborations
    • Macedonian Collaboration
    • Collaboration with Dutch Foundation for Literature
  • Interviews
  • Prose on Poetry and Poets
    • 2010-2013 >
      • Sylvia Plath by Dr. Nidhi Mehta >
        • Chapter-1(Sylvia Plath)
        • Chapter-2(Sylvia Plath)
        • Chapter-3(Sylvia Plath)
        • Chapter-4(Sylvia Plath)
        • Chapter-5(Sylvia Plath)
        • Chapter-6(Sylvia Plath)
      • Prose Poems of Tagore by Dr. Bina Biswas >
        • Chapter-1(Rabindranath Tagore)
        • Chapter-2(Rabindranath Tagore)
        • Chapter-3(Rabindranath Tagore)
        • Chapter-4(Rabindranath Tagore)
        • Chapter-5(Rabindranath Tagore)
        • Chapter-6(Rabindranath Tagore)
        • Chapter-7(Rabindranath Tagore)
        • Chapter-8(Rabindranath Tagore)
        • Chapter-9(Rabindranath Tagore)
      • Kazi Nazrul Islam by Dr. Shamenaz Shaikh >
        • Chapter 1(Nazrul Islam)
        • Chapter 2(Nazrul Islam)
        • Chapter 3(Nazrul Islam)
      • Kabir's Poetry by Dr. Anshu Pandey >
        • Chapter 1(Kabir's Poetry)
        • Chapter 2(Kabir's Poetry)
        • Chapter 3(Kabir's Poetry)
      • My mind's not right by Dr. Vicky Gilpin >
        • Chapter- 1 Dr. Vicky Gilpin
        • Chapter-2 Dr. Vicky Gilpin
        • Chapter-3 Dr. Vicky Gilpin
        • Chapter-4 Dr. Vicky Gilpin
      • On Poetry & Poets by Abhay K.
      • Poetry of Kamla Das –A True Voice Of Bourgeoisie Women In India by Dr.Shikha Saxena
      • Identity Issues in the Poetry of Nissim Ezekiel by Dr.Arvind Nawale & Prashant Mothe*
      • Nissim Ezekiel’s Latter-Day Psalms: His Religious and Philosophical Speculations By Dr. Pallavi Srivastava
      • The Moping Owl : the Epitome of Melancholy by Zinia Mitra
      • Gary Soto’s Vision of Chicano Experiences: The Elements of San Joaquin and Human Nature by Paula Hayes
      • Sri Aurobindo: A Poet By Aju Mukhopadhyay
      • Wordsworthian Romanticism in the Poetry of Jayanta Mahapatra: Nature and the Reflective Capabilities of a Poetic Self by Paula Hayes
      • Reflective Journey of T.S. Eliot: From Philosophy to Poetry by Syed Ahmad Raza Abidi
      • North East Indian Poetry: ‘Peace’ in Violence by Ananya .S. Guha
    • 2014-2015 >
      • From The Hidden World of Poetry: Unravelling Celtic mythology in Contemporary Irish Poetry Adam Wyeth
      • Alchemy’s Drama: Conflict, Resolution and Poiesis in the Poetic Work of Art by Michelle Bitting
      • Amir Khushrau: The Musical Soul of India by Dr. Shamenaz
      • PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME: POETRY'S EROTIC ART by Elena Karina Byrne
      • Celtic and Urban Landscapes in Irish Poetry by Linda Ibbotson
      • Trickster at the African Crossroads and the Bridge to the Blues in America by Michelle Bitting
    • 2015-2016 >
      • Orogeny/Erogeny: The “nonsense” of language and the poetics of Ed Dorn T Thilleman
      • Erika Burkart: Fragments, Shards, and Visions by Marc Vincenz
      • English Women Poets and Indian politics
    • 2016-2017 >
      • Children’s Poetry in India- A Case Study of Adil Jussawalla and Ananya Guha by Shruti Sareen
      • Thirteen Thoughts on Poetry in the Digital Age by Mandy kAHN
    • 2017-2018 >
      • From Self-Portrait with Dogwood: A Route of Evanescence by Christopher Merrill
      • Impure Poetry by Tony Barnstone
      • On the Poets: Contributors in Context by Donald Gardner
      • Punching above its Weight: Dutch Poetry in English, a Selection, 2013-2017 by Jane Draycott
  • Print Editions