All the years the people were gone, I cursed art.
"Lyric I" was searching for everyone else
though, all forgiven when the roses
keep you so busy, turning locks on burning air!
What mountains, what deserts, who cares?
"I wrung my heart" like a sheet on the line
but it still got covered in blood;
sick of depth, the reader surfaces
and sings "I want to be where the people
are" while the lyric buzzes "people
are". A historicizing arrow, "the wounded fall,
as ever, in the direction of their wound."
On 10-May-06, at 12:27 AM, Alison Croggon wrote:
>All the years you were gone, I cursed your name.
>While I endured the mockery of fools
>you sought in whorish cities an easier love
>to lock me in your jealous purity.
>There were no mountains for me, no deserts,
>only a blackening kitchen, the path to church,
>the gossip of old women. Where could I
>find any comfort in this village of thorns?
>I dressed in black like a widow and made my house
>with hard and bitter labour. I was the one
>of whom they whispered, the one whose lover left her.
>And now you say that I should wear this rose!
>
>
>On 10/5/06 1:52 PM, "Jon Corelis" <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
>>All the years I was gone
>>
>>by Nikephoros Vrettakos
>>
>>
>>All the years I was gone, I travelled for you.
>>I was searching to find the rose that no one else
>>would ever be able to give you. Over what mountains,
>>what deserts and what seas I passed, what rains
>>furrowed my brow, what oceans made me their toy,
>>no one will ever know. I wrung my heart
>>into a holy chalice, and from it there bloomed
>>that beautiful rose, the one that is as pure
>>as an Easter dawn. Wear it in your belt,
>>on your breast or in your hair. It will suit you well,
>>like the sun of every morning suits the world.
>>
>>
>> -- translated from the Greek by Jon Corelis
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