DIMITRA KOTOULA

Decision

It’s light fading into light.
The sea, the dazzling sea that will endure.
The horizon that vanishes into the horizon’s own despair.

The evening draws back into itself rustling.
Pure silence drizzles in our veins.
There’s something insistent in the air
— a decision —
not quite formed but momentous.

And see.

See within
this tiny fragile face rising.

Be kind to it.

(translated by Anthony Hirst and Dimitra Kotoula)

Landscapes

II.

‘Facing the Music’
after Paul Auster

Not
in a flare of beauty
or the vertigo of love
but-

In the gap between death and dying
what was that which was glowing bitter
which was gathering – bitter-
in the staring eye
the relentless bleeding
of a momentous blue.

I want you to feel it
colour of utter devotion, of despair
and nothing else
how it has lived inside me all night long
the harsh agony
for nothing else but this
and how it kept breaking in myriad manifestations inside me
becoming these words.

I want you to feel this blue
colour of loneliness and uncertainty
and nothing else
while the air and the earth resound
a random conflagration in the irritated atmosphere
that dwells nowhere.
I have to tell you everything about it
I have to name for you the encounter
since this very night this colour
and that something we had forever lost inside it-

Impossible to hear it any longer.

Language is irreversibly drifting us away from what we are
every single word becoming an elsewhere
something that moves
eloquent and competent in this
more sharply
than the blind eye.
And nowhere amidst these words can we be at rest.
And nowhere amidst the colours resides this blue.
And nothing here begins by merely naming it
not even these words
that I keep speaking to you –tonight-
strange and emotional
driven by this blue
and how it has grown inside me
a tender violent force
overwhelming my inner self
and

There is nothing these words could give you
but the pure contemplation of a colour.
And there is nothing these words could give you
but the unforeseen horizon
that is our denial to accept
that they had failed us-

And as if these words do not exist.

And as if this blue has never existed.

(translated by Dimitra Kotoula)

LINGUA FRANCA

Silence where language breathes


Ask me of it.
In the gap between seeing and saying, in the way that leads from the event to the story of the event, where the event awaits its story not the manifestation of a secret but of their relationship with it, with that which, between them, remains hidden - hidden to them, manifestly hidden to itself, present-
Ask me of it.
Each word like a used up pain waiting for its happened self to happen
But language is our superiority over it. Language is its hidden secret.
Events have no secrets.
(You will never find the limits of language no matter how far you may be able to remain silent.)
What did you say?
Ask me of it.
But I did.
Ask for nothing. Only ask.

*

Even if it is spoken it will never be spoken enough. Even if you have spoken it, it is not certain that you are aware of it, that you will be capable of repeating it.
You could not question words. It is like a prohibition. Between the word and you something had already been expressed in advance, something that you have to take into account.
Meaning in words is superfluous.

*
His feeling of fulfillment, the feeling of the emptiest disappointment-
She did not know if he was remaining silent or if the words were just gently and obscurely dropping into silence.

*

So, you did say it. At least once.
Are we not its hidden secret?
This is the gift of silence: you will never remain silent enough never too silent- a violent gift.

*

The silence that language gathered inside him is destined not at arrive to the accomplishment of silence but rather to let silence remain unaccomplished.

*

Each word becoming slow and solitary incapable of remaining silent for lack of a sound-
but we have heard it. We know it.
But in hearing it they only reached an ability to remain silent that far exceeded any silence.
(She was the only one who has heard it.)

*

This feeling that she was there with him in a place of ignorance and attention turning towards him, making a sign, taking hold of him in an instant of freedom, violently abandoning him in an instant of freedom-
You speak too much.
Yes, I am a traitor.

*
Each word in them becoming slow and solitary- familiar to that which is unknown to them to a knowledge that it is not theirs. It wants to take possession of them-
but we have spoken it. We know it.
If we speak it we will no longer know it, we will no longer belong to it. Speak.

*

One says nothing other than that which one says. He is not talking to her. They do not speak.

*

No one converses with no one. There is no real dialogue. Only words waiting for silence to carry them far enough so that they can be remembered and expressed.
Someone in me converses with-
There is no real silence. Only words. Only the oblivion of words.
He is not talking to her. He is no longer speaking.

*

This enormous necessity for useless words- Her enormous necessity for useless words-
She realized that he had spoken to her only so that he could respond to the impossibility of himself having spoken.
She realized that he had spoken to her only so that he could respond to the impossibility of himself remaining silent.
Yes, it is dreadful.
(He does not want her. He never actually spoke to her)
Exhausting the inexhaustible. Dreadful, yes.

*

How can we be sure that we are still ourselves?
We cannot.

*

In order to speak it would not be necessary to speak but rather-
Speak.
He could. He knew that he owed the ability to remain silent to that assurance. But somehow he felt that speaking, speaking to her, was something that he could not accomplish, something that could never be carried out.
He could have spoken though. But not to her. And this assurance was a kind of proof. He could have spoken because at a certain moment he could not speak.

*

Speaking in a language that speaks nothing-

*

You did not warn me- Why?
I had confidence in you.
But you knew.
Yes, I knew.

*

Speaking in a language that speaks nothing-

*

Is it too strong to be heard?
Even if you are not saying it, you will still be saying it.
Words do that. As soon as one says something one says a little less of it.
So, we will remain silent.
Silent, yes, but with no sound.

*

The secret is that he had said it. That he knows it.
The secret is that they are not aware of it anymore. That they belong to it.
- I do not know it. It does not belong to me.
Which means that it was already a part of him, the most uncomfortable part of him- still a dream.

*

Silence is when language is in excess and when language is nevertheless short on language. This overabundant lack of language is the duration of words.

*

Every single of their words is a word entrusted to silence.

*

- But we are speaking now.
- Sometimes language can be remembered in silence.
And expressed?
What do you mean?

*

Each time he spoke he made language wordless.
Each time she spoke she made language wordless.

*

But we have said it.
It was not exactly said. It was spelled out.

*

Language is still there, between them, because at a certain moment they had surrendered themselves to silence.

*

Language consists of placing your faith in that which you do not believe.
Silence consists of placing your faith in that which you do not believe.

*

I speak only in order to respond to the impossibility of myself speaking.
He spoke only in order to respond to the impossibility of himself speaking to her.

*

I want to tell you everything, she says.
Everything does not belong to language.

*

That is the gift of silence: you will never be attracted enough, never too attracted to it.

*

Are we speaking now?
Is it really so important?
So, we are speaking. So, you are speaking. You are speaking to me. And does silence come quickly?
Quickly, yes. And it is long.

London, Spring 2003
(I consider Lingua Franca to be a poem. I have composed it as such. As a poem that consists of twenty-nine poems)

Landscapes

I.

It’s an icy day.

A lifeless wing of morning light
hangs there, defiant
banal.
The smell of frost
and the red leaves of the plane tree steaming.
Fresh furrows of wet raw material
my hands
held straight out to me
worn down by desires
dragged through the mud of all that indulgent nostalgia
find their bearings.
Remaining faithful to this light
I can perceive myself more clearly
I remember myself more clearly
beyond the expected or the actual.
The autumn smoke rises peacefully.
The forest of my inflamed thought stirred up again.
Hovering.
The sound fading red into my mouth.
Keep your eyes closed.
Keep your eyes closed to-

I, you and- this.

Grief is scattered in handfuls above the sea.
The sea so apparently glorious.
We have no glory.
Only our hands now coupled
white hands amidst the greens
worn down by desires
dragged through the mud of all that indulgent nostalgia
hands borrowed and lent
live
for a moment almost bright
then are reduced to nothing
the small violent army of an imperious triviality
only our hands a couple
-but wingless-
ravelling and unravelling promises
forcing decay to recede.

I you- this.

The horror in words rising
we lying
silent
in the dark
each starring at the other

each holding onto the other
silent
in the dark

and the heart asks for nothing

-for we are poor-

just breathes

-the rhythmical breath of its own relentless pounding.

(translated by Anthony Hirst and Dimitra Kotoula)

Snapshot

It’s you.

Yes, I can hear you.

A fine skin spreads over my tongue.
Caresses it.
A fine skin caresses my tongue.
My hands resound full of fruits.
Full of abandonment.
Whatever is going to happen in the tale
is happening now in my hands.
You blow my day.
Surprise it.
Your smell flustered my day.
It whirls.
Falls.
My day whirls and falls into yours.
My heart
a warm meek mouth
that your heart’s scented caress
has condemned to survive
wide open
stammering
without lips.

(translated from the Greek by David Connolly and Dimitra Kotoula)