Haiku Two to Fourteen

Into the lake spill

a single drop of wine

and there fades the sun

In the meadows

not one four-leaf clover;

among the three of us, who is to blame?

In the museum garden

Chairs deserted.

The statues have gone back

to that other museum.

Could that be the voice?

of our dead friends?

or could that be the phonograph?

She rests her fingers

on the sea-blue scarf

Look, there: corals!

Contemplating

Heavy are her breasts

through the looking glass

Again I put on

the tree leaves

and you, you bleat.

Darkness. The wind.

Divorce spreads

and moves in waves.

Naked woman

the pomegranate she threw

was full of stars.

 

I am raising now

a dead butterfly

with no make-up

How can you gather

the thousand little pieces

of each person?

What's wrong with the rudder?

The boat goes in circles

And not a single gull in sight

Sick Fury

She has no eyes left,

the snakes she was grasping

swallow her hands.

There is a hole in this column.

Can you see

Persephone? 

George Seferis

My old friend

 

“My old friend, what are you looking for?
After years abroad you’ve come back
with images you’ve nourished
under foreign skies
far from you own country.’

‘I’m looking for my old garden;
the trees come to my waist
and the hills resemble terraces
yet as a child
I used to play on the grass
under great shadows
and I would run for hours
breathless over the slopes.’

 

‘My old friend, rest,
you’ll get used to it little by little;
together we will climb
the paths you once knew,
we will sit together
under the plane trees’ dome.
They’ll come back to you little by little,
your garden and your slopes.’

 

‘I’m looking for my old house,
the tall windows
darkened by ivy;
I’m looking for the ancient column
known to sailors.
How can I get into this coop?
The roof comes to my shoulders
and however far I look
I see men on their knees
as though saying their prayers.’

 

 

‘My old friend, don’t you hear me?
You’ll get used to it little by little.
Your house is the one you see
and soon friends and relatives
will come knocking at the door
to welcome you back tenderly.’

 

‘Why is your voice so distant?
Raise your head a little
so that I understand you.
As you speak you grow
gradually smaller
as though you’re sinking into the ground.’

 

 

‘My old friend, stop a moment and think:
you’ll get used to it little by little.
Your nostalgia has created
a non-existent country, with laws
alien to earth and man.’

 

‘Now I can’t hear a sound.
My last friend has sunk.
Strange how from time to time
they level everything down.
Here a thousand scythe-bearing chariots go past
and mow everything down” 

Giorgos Seferis