Ana Zumani - Eros

I want to undertake your protection and care on a spiritual, psychological and bodily level.

To preserve it and multiply it every hour and every moment - with the strength of Eros.

I want to be for your precious machine whatever fresh air and pure nourishment is to it.

A tonic of its divine resemblances.

And if one day my magical allure is gone, I want to simply vanish from your life, with my memory full of those sacred days and nights, when you used to rhythmically grow with my every breath.

Translated by yours truly from Greek.

The image was taken from here.

 

Week 2

He is lucky. He feels it. He knows it. He is lucky because the one woman he ever wanted, the one that he desired like a gift from above, is at this very moment sitting next to him.

His left arm seems to embrace her, but no, it doesn't, not exactly. It simply touches her, lightly, like the whisper of a caress. This contact is enough to bring him peace, serenity, to make him close his eyes and imagine with a secret smile their common future.

She's maybe smiling as well right now. Maybe. There's no way to say. But one thing is certain; she enjoys being there, abandoned in his almost hug, feeling his body's warmth and gazing at the endless blue of the ocean.

From my Book of the People

 

I Love You by Myrtiotissa

I love you, I cannot

anything else say,

as deep, as simple,

as great!

Here in front of your feet

with longing I lie

the many-leafed flower

of my life.

My two hands, behold

offered to you in a knot

to sweetly lean

your head on.

And my heart yearns

and full of jealousy calls

to be for you as they are

a cushion.

Oh my hive, from him

you should drink

the pure scents

of my soul!

I love you, what else can

my precious tell you,

as deep, as simple

as great?

I translated this from Greek. One of the most popular love poems of all time.

A Eulogy for Love chapter 2

Come to me in the silence of the night;

   Come in the speaking silence of a dream;

Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright

   As sunlight on a stream;

      Come back in tears,

O memory, hope, love of finished years.

Christina Rossetti

You may never have realized how much I ached for you while your body was still here. Now, I'm left all alone with your soul and my memories flow like fresh water and vanish, and all that remains is their echo. Until when will I wait for you to come again?

The Athenian sun has started picking its head somewhat lazily above the horizon, looking a little bit pale, gifting the land with a yellow annealed hue, a bitter light. It seems to be searching for a destiny, just like I do right now, as I sit down on the ground and look at it straight in its blazing eye, surrendered in memories of a future that was never meant to be.

As I speak to you, at this very moment, soul to soul, I think that your life has brought to me the greatest joy, and your death the most exquisite sorrow. Death may have been for you the salvation that you desperately needed, but for me your going was a freedom that I've never felt the need to conquer.

You were the only goal that I really wanted to succeed in, the one and only peak that I wholeheartedly wanted to reach. I've climbed a million stairs and stretched my hand to touch the sky and it moved further away. That sky was you and now you've become one with the apeiron, the infinite in which there's no place for bodies but only for spirits. Our joys are all passing.

I have never shed a single tear for someone who died before in my life, and yet I've spent the whole night crying for you. In my book though death is nothing but a journey's end, and all the journeys sooner or later come to pass.

My soul that for times immemorial used to resemble a windless port, now looks like a furious sea that fights hard to turn me into a castaway to the seashore of your remembrance.

My thoughts return time and again to the blessed past, to all the things I've left unsaid, to the few I've dared to speak loud. Everyone knew that I loved you, how much I loved you, including you. Before meeting you I was like a turtle that never dared venture out of its shell. I never told anyone what I felt about them, especially the women that had the ill fortune of crossing paths with me. But you came to change me. To change me and go away, as a hurried wanderer.

You, with your watery eyes and shuttered words, made me confess my secret love for you. And you also tried to stop it from breathing out into the open. Despite that I've felt that you loved me also, Eleni, but there was always something or someone pulling you away from me.  What was to blame? Who was to blame? Maybe me who I am not meant to enjoy anything in the world anymore.

I overhear people talking about love and without really realizing it I start laughing. What do they know about love, these people that follow a schedule every single day of their lives? Who kiss each other hurriedly in the morning before going to work? That consider doing something crazy every now and then think "yes, sure, but…"? Who only make love on Friday and Saturday nights, before or after the news hour? That believe that what really counts in life is credit cards, saving accounts and market shares? What do they know about love? Most of them would ignore its very existence if someone else hadn't informed them about it.

To love it to feel pain when your loved one does, to weep when they weep, to share their joy with them, to talk and to listen, to spend your every living breath for them.

The daylight is a devious comrade when it comes to memories. It doesn't even allow you the sweet relief of feeling desperate and expressing that through tears. The night is the big sister of all the souls, the clouds their worries, and the starlit sky the dreams the dead have left behind to those who are still alive, but, alas, don't know how to live.

I will go now. I will go and leave you in your lonesome to rest, at least according to the stupid know-it-alls who claim that the soul shares the same fate with the body. Some other people will come here soon enough, of that I am sure, to light a candle in the memory of the soon to be forgotten, to adorn the dust that covers your shell with brand new marigolds and then water it with the tears of their ignorance, as in their foolishness they think that they cry for you that you are gone and not their egoist selves that have lost you. And, I bet, every single one of them will say, how good a person you were, and what a shame it was that you had to go so early. Every day will be the same, a rerun of the same play, until the body turns into earth, dust, and like dust it dissolves into this overland abyss, blown away by the winds of lost memories, and then you will be forgotten almost by all, my own and only, and eternally beloved.

To be continued

This is the first draft of the translation of my first novella Lathos Pathos that was published in Greek in 2000. The words written in Italian fonts are by the Greek poet Maria Polydouri.

The image was taken from here

 

Don't Believe it's Love by Ana Zumani

I would never come to you, never, even though I know you're dying for me.

You've written that to me a thousand times, a thousand times I saw it in your macabre eyes.

In your eyes I saw how much you wanted me, but I had no reason to save you, none whatsoever.

I've abandoned you to your destiny, just likes thousands of men thousands of women they abandon to their own destiny.

But I finally came to you. The doctor told me that I had only one year left to live.

That's tragically too little for a woman that loves life so much.

All of a sudden I was able to see my whole being as it is and realized that only to you I'd like to give,

To give, to give, to give, like a fresh spring to the thirsty traveler.

Don't believe that this is Eros, or love, or something deeply personal.

It’s selfishness.

The pure selfishness of a dying organism wanting to become a memory in another.

Not to die for good, to vanish, to suddenly be erased, to be lost.

Today you've fully enjoyed the body that for years you longed for.

The more you enjoy me, the more you'll bring me back to life after my death, you'll rouse me.

You see, that will be my Resurrection, my Return.

Don't believe that this is love, I just want the most secure heart in which to go on living.

You are my monument, and that is all.

I've translated this from Greek. Image taken from here
 

Anton Chekhov - Love

Just before the night falls, there's nothing better to make you relax than a story by the old master, Anton Chekhov. Here's the Love:

THREE o'clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can't sleep, I am so happy! "My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. I can't analyse it just now -- I haven't the time, I'm too lazy, and there -- hang analysis! Why, is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? Is he in a state to do it?" This was more or less how I began my love-letter to Sasha, a girl of nineteen with whom I had fallen in love. I began it five times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all over again. I spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel I had to write to order. And it was not because I tried to make it longer, more elaborate, and more fervent, but because I wanted endlessly to prolong the process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one's study and communes with one's own day-dreams while the spring night looks in at one's window. Between the lines I saw a beloved image, and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at the same table writing with me, spirits as naïvely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully smiling as I. I wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had lately pressed it, and if I turned my eyes away I had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate. Through that trellis Sasha gazed at me after I had said goodbye to her. When I was saying good-bye to Sasha I was thinking of nothing and was simply admiring her figure as every decent man admires a pretty woman; when I saw through the trellis two big eyes, I suddenly, as though by inspiration, knew that I was in love, that it was all settled between us, and fully decided already, that I had nothing left to do but to carry out certain formalities. It is a great delight also to seal up a love-letter, and, slowly putting on one's hat and coat, to go softly out of the house and to carry the treasure to the post. There are no stars in the sky now: in their place there is a long whitish streak in the east, broken here and there by clouds above the roofs of the dingy houses; from that streak the whole sky is flooded with pale light. The town is asleep, but already the water-carts have come out, and somewhere in a far-away factory a whistle sounds to wake up the workpeople. Beside the postbox, slightly moist with dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter, wearing a bell-shaped sheepskin and carrying a stick. He is in a condition akin to catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but something between. If the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the decision of their fate, they would not have such a humble air. I, anyway, almost kissed my postbox, and as I gazed at it I reflected that the post is the greatest of blessings. I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with rapture at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its way through the folds of the curtain. Well, to facts. . . . Next morning at midday, Sasha's maid brought me the following answer: "I am delited be sure to come to us to day please I shall expect you. Your S." Not a single comma. This lack of punctuation, and the misspelling of the word "delighted," the whole letter, and even the long, narrow envelope in which it was put filled my heart with tenderness. In the sprawling but diffident handwriting I recognised Sasha's walk, her way of raising her eyebrows when she laughed, the movement of her lips. . . . But the contents of the letter did not satisfy me. In the first place, poetical letters are not answered in that way, and in the second, why should I go to Sasha's house to wait till it should occur to her stout mamma, her brothers, and poor relations to leave us alone together? It would never enter their heads, and nothing is more hateful than to have to restrain one's raptures simply because of the intrusion of some animate trumpery in the shape of a half-deaf old woman or little girl pestering one with questions. I sent an answer by the maid asking Sasha to select some park or boulevard for a rendezvous. My suggestion was readily accepted. I had struck the right chord, as the saying is. Between four and five o'clock in the afternoon I made my way to the furthest and most overgrown part of the park. There was not a soul in the park, and the tryst might have taken place somewhere nearer in one of the avenues or arbours, but women don't like doing it by halves in romantic affairs; in for a penny, in for a pound -- if you are in for a tryst, let it be in the furthest and most impenetrable thicket, where one runs the risk of stumbling upon some rough or drunken man. When I went up to Sasha she was standing with her back to me, and in that back I could read a devilish lot of mystery. It seemed as though that back and the nape of her neck, and the black spots on her dress were saying: Hush! . . . The girl was wearing a simple cotton dress over which she had thrown a light cape. To add to the air of mysterious secrecy, her face was covered with a white veil. Not to spoil the effect, I had to approach on tiptoe and speak in a half whisper. From what I remember now, I was not so much the essential point of the rendezvous as a detail of it. Sasha was not so much absorbed in the interview itself as in its romantic mysteriousness, my kisses, the silence of the gloomy trees, my vows. . . . There was not a minute in which she forgot herself, was overcome, or let the mysterious expression drop from her face, and really if there had been any Ivan Sidoritch or Sidor Ivanitch in my place she would have felt just as happy. How is one to make out in such circumstances whether one is loved or not? Whether the love is "the real thing" or not? From the park I took Sasha home with me. The presence of the beloved woman in one's bachelor quarters affects one like wine and music. Usually one begins to speak of the future, and the confidence and self-reliance with which one does so is beyond bounds. You make plans and projects, talk fervently of the rank of general though you have not yet reached the rank of a lieutenant, and altogether you fire off such high-flown nonsense that your listener must have a great deal of love and ignorance of life to assent to it. Fortunately for men, women in love are always blinded by their feelings and never know anything of life. Far from not assenting, they actually turn pale with holy awe, are full of reverence and hang greedily on the maniac's words. Sasha listened to me with attention, but I soon detected an absent-minded expression on her face, she did not understand me. The future of which I talked interested her only in its external aspect and I was wasting time in displaying my plans and projects before her. She was keenly interested in knowing which would be her room, what paper she would have in the room, why I had an upright piano instead of a grand piano, and so on. She examined carefully all the little things on my table, looked at the photographs, sniffed at the bottles, peeled the old stamps off the envelopes, saying she wanted them for something. "Please collect old stamps for me!" she said, making a grave face. "Please do." Then she found a nut in the window, noisily cracked it and ate it. "Why don't you stick little labels on the backs of your books?" she asked, taking a look at the bookcase. "What for?" "Oh, so that each book should have its number. And where am I to put my books? I've got books too, you know." "What books have you got?" I asked. Sasha raised her eyebrows, thought a moment and said: "All sorts." And if it had entered my head to ask her what thoughts, what convictions, what aims she had, she would no doubt have raised her eyebrows, thought a minute, and have said in the same way: "All sorts." Later I saw Sasha home and left her house regularly, officially engaged, and was so reckoned till our wedding. If the reader will allow me to judge merely from my personal experience, I maintain that to be engaged is very dreary, far more so than to be a husband or nothing at all. An engaged man is neither one thing nor the other, he has left one side of the river and not reached the other, he is not married and yet he can't be said to be a bachelor, but is in something not unlike the condition of the porter whom I have mentioned above. Every day as soon as I had a free moment I hastened to my fiancée. As I went I usually bore within me a multitude of hopes, desires, intentions, suggestions, phrases. I always fancied that as soon as the maid opened the door I should, from feeling oppressed and stifled, plunge at once up to my neck into a sea of refreshing happiness. But it always turned out otherwise in fact. Every time I went to see my fiancée I found all her family and other members of the household busy over the silly trousseau. (And by the way, they were hard at work sewing for two months and then they had less than a hundred roubles' worth of things). There was a smell of irons, candle grease and fumes. Bugles scrunched under one's feet. The two most important rooms were piled up with billows of linen, calico, and muslin and from among the billows peeped out Sasha's little head with a thread between her teeth. All the sewing party welcomed me with cries of delight but at once led me off into the dining-room where I could not hinder them nor see what only husbands are permitted to behold. In spite of my feelings, I had to sit in the dining-room and converse with Pimenovna, one of the poor relations. Sasha, looking worried and excited, kept running by me with a thimble, a skein of wool or some other boring object. "Wait, wait, I shan't be a minute," she would say when I raised imploring eyes to her. "Only fancy that wretch Stepanida has spoilt the bodice of the barège dress!" And after waiting in vain for this grace, I lost my temper, went out of the house and walked about the streets in the company of the new cane I had bought. Or I would want to go for a walk or a drive with my fiancée, would go round and find her already standing in the hall with her mother, dressed to go out and playing with her parasol. "Oh, we are going to the Arcade," she would say. "We have got to buy some more cashmere and change the hat." My outing is knocked on the head. I join the ladies and go with them to the Arcade. It is revoltingly dull to listen to women shopping, haggling and trying to outdo the sharp shopman. I felt ashamed when Sasha, after turning over masses of material and knocking down the prices to a minimum, walked out of the shop without buying anything, or else told the shopman to cut her some half rouble's worth. When they came out of the shop, Sasha and her mamma with scared and worried faces would discuss at length having made a mistake, having bought the wrong thing, the flowers in the chintz being too dark, and so on. Yes, it is a bore to be engaged! I'm glad it's over. Now I am married. It is evening. I am sitting in my study reading. Behind me on the sofa Sasha is sitting munching something noisily. I want a glass of beer. "Sasha, look for the corkscrew. . . ." I say. "It's lying about somewhere." Sasha leaps up, rummages in a disorderly way among two or three heaps of papers, drops the matches, and without finding the corkscrew, sits down in silence. . . . Five minutes pass -- ten. . . I begin to be fretted both by thirst and vexation. "Sasha, do look for the corkscrew," I say. Sasha leaps up again and rummages among the papers near me. Her munching and rustling of the papers affects me like the sound of sharpening knives against each other. . . . I get up and begin looking for the corkscrew myself. At last it is found and the beer is uncorked. Sasha remains by the table and begins telling me something at great length. "You'd better read something, Sasha," I say. She takes up a book, sits down facing me and begins moving her lips. . . . I look at her little forehead, moving lips, and sink into thought. "She is getting on for twenty. . . ." I reflect. "If one takes a boy of the educated class and of that age and compares them, what a difference! The boy would have knowledge and convictions and some intelligence." But I forgive that difference just as the low forehead and moving lips are forgiven. I remember in my old Lovelace days I have cast off women for a stain on their stockings, or for one foolish word, or for not cleaning their teeth, and now I forgive everything: the munching, the muddling about after the corkscrew, the slovenliness, the long talking about nothing that matters; I forgive it all almost unconsciously, with no effort of will, as though Sasha's mistakes were my mistakes, and many things which would have made me wince in old days move me to tenderness and even rapture. The explanation of this forgiveness of everything lies in my love for Sasha, but what is the explanation of the love itself, I really don't know.

Source: OnLine Literature

Book Choice: Forty Stories