kernel, reflections

though the fact that they were terrible did not mean that they were necessarily truthful

Month: January, 2013

Clementine Tree

Σήμερα στάθηκα μπρος απο μια μανταρινιά.. κ΄ήτανε μόνη κ’όμορφη μες την ασχήμια γύρω της. ‘Εμοιαζε ξένη εκεί. Τα κλαδιά της τα βαρένανε οι νεκρές βελόνες ενός πεύκου που της έκοβε τον ήλιο. ‘Εγερνε λίγο προς αυτήν, σαν να θελε να την φορτώσει με ότι πέταγε. ‘Ητανε ήρεμη η μανταρινιά, γαλήνια.. Δε θα τανε μεγάλη, ο κορμός της λεπτός, φαινομενικά αδύναμος, έμοιαζε εύθραυστη, μα είχε μια στάση που με έκανε να υποκλιθώ μπροστά της.

Λιγοστά τα φρούτα της, τα φύλλα στατικά, δε θροίζανε. Σαν άγαλμα όρθιο μπροστά μου με προκάλεσε να την κοιτάξω. Κ’είδα τα αγκάθια στον κορμό τον πληγωμένο, είδα φύλλα κίτρινα και ένα σκουριασμένο καρφί μέσα της και βελόνες παντού… οι βελόνες του πεύκου που της έκοβε τον ήλιο. Πήγα κοντά της, ήσυχα, μην την ταράξω… και τότε.. είδα πόσο σου μοιάζει.

Κ’είδα ξανά τον πεύκο, τόσο πελώριος και τρανταχτός δίπλα της, τόσο περήφανος… και τον μίσησα για την ψευτιά του. Τον μίσησα για τον αλώβητο φλοιό του, για τον ήλιο που κλέβει, την ψευτοπαλικαριά που κουβαλά, τον μίσησα για τα φουντωτά κλαδιά του, για το ανίκητο «εγω» του, για την δήθεν δύναμη του, τον μίσησα ακόμη περισσοτέρο για τον κούφιο κορμό που εξάγγελλε για χρόνια… μα πάνω απ’όλα…τον μίσησα για τις βελόνες που έριξε στην μανταρινιά.

Έστρεψα ξανά το βλέμμα μου σε σένα μανταρινιά… και σ’αγάπησα… Και σου πα «Φύγε!! Τρέχα! Φύγε μακριά! Αυτός ο κόσμος… δεν είναι για σένα… Φύγε κ’άσε τις βελόνες του στο πάτωμα..»  Σου πα, « Μπράβο! Δε λύγισες, να μη λυγίσεις ποτέ… Κ’άμα ξανάρθει ο άνεμος, μη φοβηθείς, χόρεψε! Να μη φοβάσε ποτέ.. Φύγε μανταρινιά… Ο πεύκος δεν ήτανε ποτέ για σένα. Κούφιος ο κορμός του.»  

Travelling

My body,

a vessel

carrying within it

love, lust and wisdom

feelings, images and words.

I will take it

across oceans;

share the world with it

and you.

Sleep with it at night,

wearing your breaths

as a garment weaved for my skin only.

My talisman of love,

I promise to keep it a cave for your arms

your shed for when you need one.

Hold my hand tight, hear my truth

lock your eyes in mine;

your vessel and mine, travelling

through turmoil and

calm seas,

side by side,

cannot sink.

Our experiences will float

amongst waves.

I was wrong; a storn sunk it down.

The remnants are yet to be found.

the wall and I ( draft )

I was born

and my already prescribed history

rushed to claim me;

a newborn female

of “Greek- Cypriot” descent

and of “Greek-Orthodox”  religion.

 

Imposed on me like a stamp,

 as a girl, I felt

I had to live up to it.

My schools narratives took up my education,

 textbooks provided the malice done to us from those that occupy the land

but they failed to inform me of their side of the story.

 

 

Growing up with an imaginative wall diving my city,

I grew aware of an inner wall

that built itself along my education;

I now call it ignorance.

 

As a young woman, about to grow out of my teens

I met for the first time some of the people I had wrongly considered the enemy for so long

and I felt my inner wall trembling as he said “I’m Cypriot” while we shared pasta.

They all lived in Nicosia too, though in neighborhoods I had never heard of.

I was full of silly questions, “Do you have nightclubs?” “How many airports do you have?”

Yet they eagerly provided all the answers.

We exchanged our versions of history

and we tried to rationalize the way our island’s history has been distorted.

I had to know.

A hot summer’s afternoon I crossed

walking through the deserted deadzone, no man’s land,

not knowing what to expect, unable to absorb the images before me;

a brief encounter with the city and I walked back again.

 

A couple of years later, a sweet summer’s night

we crossed and

it was just us and the city for hours;

she observing us, we, discovering what it felt we should have known.

 

“Do I look foreign to them?” I thought,

as we kept strolling around, inhaling the city ;

the tranquility, the sokaks, the architecture,

and one magic neighborhood that lured us in.

I didn’t have the courage to talk to the old couple

and at that moment I realized,

I was a tourist.

Long time before, Kyrenia’s little port was the impossible

but a random Sunday, it was me in the picture, I had jumped in the picture

the imaginative and reality became the present

and I were there where I thought I would never be; I was at the other side.

 

Here was I again, pass midnight, in an empty occupied city,

in the company of a boy I knew almost nothing about

discovering the mirror image of the city I grew up in

only, it was different.

love is,

an endless game

of hide and seek.

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