DIMITRIS ALLOS |
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biography | poems | gr | |
DIMITRIS LEOTZAKOS
Poland Poland is the pain. Land of imaginary, noble, high descents. Although high is not at all noble. Poland is the pain. Land where the high descends from, a small but crucial part of its body, a precise part of insanity as well. I wouldn’t know, naturally, if it is part of insanity’s leg. I am not presuming such a thing. Nietzsche, who also was – somewhat late, truth be told – declared Polish, that nightfall when he decided to sink into dementia, into insanity, he kissed a passing horse on the head. I do not find that insane at all. It is what I call Angel. This world’s Angel is made of pain. The Angel of History is Polish. Klee painted him. Benjamin wrote about him. Leontzakos Dimitris / translated by Dimitra Kationi /
Tears The land carries nothing noble. The sky of these gigantic, black, reverse birds. Their ink, more and more predatory is descending. It is deepening indelibly on our flat body. Causeless beings, we breathe almost everything. We, the fishes of a transparent world. A rice paper’s infinite, unreachable pores. Our tears are the body of an unknown language. Of a mute, milky, aggressive and inhospitable language. Just an earthen, distant voice, one that we recognize as friendly, accompanies us. In the dark dreams of blind labyrinths that we call eyes. It talks to us. It talks and we fail to locate in space. The voice’s name cries mournfully. Like a nightmare and like the sound of two enormous, pure white wings at night. Leontzakos Dimitris / translated by Dimitra Kationi /
Petros He is a theatrical creature. And he is the product of a leaning. The two dimensions are enough to him. Enough out of the rest of dimensions. He is built of colors, but never coincides with them. Except during his sleep. He has a body. He has one body that branches out. He is a creature that branches out, so his body follows on. His body follows. His body is following something as well, something impossible, that’s why it branches out. It’s being divided, separated, split. It takes after the trees. The trees that head to the light. He is a sitting figure, a bending figure, its branches are in fellowship with the light. Fresh light and water. His stem’s leafage ends opening in his right hand fingers. The fingers united against the tense thumb, form a V-shape. His innermost letter, the most secretive one. He, who is a creature of the alphabet. He rests his head there. Upon a creature of an alphabet. That is where his body ends up. Bizarre appendix, turning and circling and dividing itself. The body rests upon it. Perverted, bending appendix. He rests there. The head, which is something of a letter. It is faceless. Naked limb, delicate, elliptical, defective limb. He does not know why people have matched such a body’s posture with the act of thinking. He believes that thought much more resembles a leaning, or rather a flexion, a cavity, an incurvation. No, not a posture or a fall. He finds it funny and ironic when a creature like him – the posture and the being of something divided, something dual – is called Parmenides. Leontzakos Dimitris / translated by Dimitra Kationi /
[My sleep is a vowel]
My sleep is a vowel | Translated by Konstantine Matsoukas |
[We are a kind of leaf-spouting tree] We are a kind of leaf-spouting tree | Translated by Konstantine Matsoukas |
[ Riders on the irrational ] Riders on the irrational | Translated by Konstantine Matsoukas | |
