Yorgos Chronas [Greece]

 

Rubbish, A
 
At least I do remember how cautiously we entered the hotel and afterwards he said to me: “Take off your shirt and let’s start recording.” And as time passed and my voice refused to come out like vomit or consumptive coughing in a handkerchief, like “it is finished” or “better I had died my boy,” we continued recording over and again, until I kept nothing of the keys and cufflinks, but instead went to sleep as I was, without a shirt, next to the microphone and the empty night table, with a pork-fat candle for a cigarette on the ship and our argument over filioque.*
 
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* Filioque:“And from the Son.” The discord that caused a schism between the Eastern and the Western Church.
 
 
 
Rubbishs, B
 
I think everything was just a flash of images
because while the two of us were in the building
his head leaning back, he looked more like
the fallen god of a betrayed people than a priest
and I a sacked commercial traveller than a prodigal son
returning after a life of debauchery asking for his father’s pardon.
 
 
 
Faces on the Ceiling
 
Deep inside me you are dancing in a cabaret
changing your white skin intermittently
with gramophone records, belts and pearl buttons
Deep inside your body I am a sailor
with no more pennies but fly buttons
Our kisses then become dead marches
echoing above dark extinct cities
in front of closed cinemas, in gloomy parks
With a pair of pants worn thin in summer before
you even wore them I am always here to remind you
of those gas leaks, those silences in billiard rooms
a faded spot amid your cousin’s stalling
free on trafficked roads like a betrayed pedlar.
 
  
 
The Small Fish
 
I’ll stay right here, said the small fish
one eye fondling the vessels’ keels
                       and the other estimating depth
and distance.
I’ll open and shut my mouth like people behind the windows
                       of downtown tearooms
I won’t let out inarticulate cries
I’ll sleep evermore and drift with the tide
to an eventual awakening
Burning
In a black viscous substance pitch or oil
A provincial port
My body, blue seamen
Bronze captains
Black cooking utensils will bury
Waiters will refer to my existence
Children will play under the tables, on plywood surfaces
Ignoramuses will insert coins in jukeboxes
                  and telephone booths for hours on end
Husbands will love peace
Paying for the with salads and cheese
                  they’ll love their wives
 
The drumroll befitting my burial I shan’t hear.
 

(Translation into English by Yannis Goumas)
 
 
 
 
Author’s Bionote:
 
*Yórgos Chronás was born in Piraeus on 17^th October, 1948. Since 1973, when he made his first appearance on the literary scene, he has published 28-books (poetry, prose, theatre).  In 1979 he started working for the Greek Radio. Since 1981 he has been publishing the magazine “Odós Panós” and “Sigaretta Editions”.  To date, 800 books have been published and 189 issues of the magazine. His poems and prose work have been translated into various languages.  One hundred of his poems and lyrics have been set to music by Greek composers. From March 2009 to December 2011, he was editor of the “Eleftherotypia” newspaper art and literature supplement, published every Saturday. In 2011, he was awarded the Cavafy Prize in Cairo and Alexandria. In February, 2013, the Piraeus Municipality honoured him for his contribution to Piraeus letters.