by
Kelvin Corcoran
After
the final mountains we roll down to the sea
south
from Kalamata around Taygetos on the Aeriopoli road,
and
this is meant to be the literal poem of that journey,
one
of a series joining seven songs in transit
as
if your whole life comes in on the glimmering tide.
The
road turns in a certain way and you see everything,
along
this coast where gods and babies are washed ashore
out
of the sky into the doorways of abandoned villages;
you
can pull up and buy oranges, potatoes, honey
from
the last ones alive in unpopulated places.
In
the meadows and olive groves myth takes root
paths
in the hill lead there if you can crawl and scramble;
the
snake renews itself and polyphonous birds call,
strophe
by strophe in the month of fair sailing
the
world takes off to a single tone breaking underground.
The
road turns in a certain way -- miss it and you die;
ceremonies
lift the earth people, gibbering at the edge
and
the voice from the well asks -- what do you want?
The route is lined with bright and useless answers,
The route is lined with bright and useless answers,
as
if anything could keep us from the dreat descent.
Where
the land ends Helen's brothers look out for us,
striding
over the contours of the sea, they say;
as
candid waves explode on harbour walls
a
girl from Cythera rises, from the epicenter,
to
leave us drenched and shining in shock.
From Kelvin Corcoran, For the Greek Spring, 2013.
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