“Περί Ποίησης” – Νέα Υόρκη: George Wallace (Γιώργος Βλάχος) / επιμέλεια Ξανθή Χονδρού – Χιλλ

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Preface
By Xanthi Hondrou-Hill

This is Antioch — a city both real and imagined, a crossroads of memory, desire, and history for George Wallace (Giorgos Vlachos), through which he explores his Greek identity, the roots of his personal and generational history. In this poetic journey, he enters a silent dialogue with poets and composers from the most emblematic century of Greek music and poetry — Theodorakis, Hadjidakis, Gatsos — as well as with ideals and visions of politics and civilizations striving to change the world and make it better. This poetic collection navigates, through 19 poems, the borders of the body and of time, engaging in conversation with ancient myths, recent history, and traditional heritage — both musical and poetic — weaving in love, gods, campaigns, traumas, and memories. Orpheus on the river Evros, Adonis in the dew, Icarus in the deep, the Night Goddesses, refugees, lovers, revolutionaries — all speak in the poet’s language, who records both the sacred and the profane with the same intensity. From ancient Orpheus to the “Castle of Naousa,” the entire collection is steeped in Hellenistic symbols and stories, drawn from gods and demons, paradise and hell, revolution and sacrifice, myth, incense, dance, and song. “This is Antioch” — “Εδώ Αντιόχεια”: a poetry collection that functions as a ritual of return to a place of memory, where the human and the divine, the political and the existential meet in a whirling journey of self-knowledge, pain, and redemption. A return to the poet’s own identity, as he remembers and revives the weight of his heritage — his birthright.

SO THIS IS ANTIOCH

So, this is Antioch,
& the people, celebrating
news from the war
imposters and warriors
who have lifted the sword
and struck cleanly
thru the bowels of civilizations –
Antioch, surely!
sitting in the victory garden
with prostitutes
and warriors,
eating dates and pistachios
drinking Syrian wine –
how swift the sword,
how beautiful the chrysanthemums –
& what are kings or gods
compared to Antioch
sweet to the tongue,
dust and sun
in the marketplace,
sweeter than the scent of Antioch roses
this is Antioch, surely!
i savor its name
the blood of forgotten empires
my head spins
like a chariot wheel
to be in Antioch
Antioch! I will lie with any woman or man,
until the
true king
arises
until the
true king
arises
in Antioch, my love
Antioch! I will lie with any woman or man,
until the
true king
arises
until the
true king
arises
in Antioch

MOTHER AND CHILD

she has the prettiest hands
the prettiest wrists
she the prettiest marriage
to the prettiest marriage bed
she has a pretty little baby
to push past the monkeycage,
the prettiest little baby
to push past the authorities
to push past the authorities
the prettiest explanations
the prettiest extenuations
the prettiest documents
to push past men and women in this town
she walks quickly through the garden
quickly through the gate
mother and child
nervous as refugees
nervous as saints
nervous as a people who have never been free
they walk quickly through the garden
they walk quickly through the gate
their eyes the color of freedom
their eyes the color of pride
their eyes the color of freedom
their eyes the color of prayer
their eyes unaccustomed
to the weakness of the northern light
and do not speak to strangers
or each other mother and child
they walk quickly through the garden
they walk quickly through the garden
their eyes the color of the blood of the world
their eyes the color of the blood of the world
their eyes the color of the blood of the world

Ο ΠΟΙΗΤΗΣ  του George Wallace

O ποιητής είναι ένα
εγκαταλελειμμένο δωμάτιο
σε μια αποτρόπαιη πόλη,
ζει με ξένους,
ζει με τους νεκρούς,
στοιχειώνεται από μνήμες,
που κρέμονται πάνω από μια γυμνή λάμπα.
Μέσα στο κεφάλι του
περιφέρονται τζάγκουαρ,
τζάγκουαρ και τσακάλια.
Ο ποιητής ξοδεύει όλη την ημέρα
γεμίζοντας το κεφάλι του
όπως η βρύση που στάζει μέσα
σε ένα βουλωμένο νεροχύτη.
Είναι ένας άνθρωπος με αποστολή,
είναι ένας άντρας με έναν
μικρό εθισμό στο τζόγο.
Συμπληρώνει ένα λαχείο
με όλους τους λάθος αριθμούς…
Τι γέλιο! Ο ποιητής είναι ένας ντετέκτιβ
χωρίς παράσημα,
είναι παρών στον τόπο του εγκλήματος,
όλοι τον αγνοούν…
Μα ποιος είναι αυτός ο τύπος τέλος πάντων;
Αφού φύγουν οι μπάτσοι
δοκιμάζει όλα τα ρούχα στην ντουλάπα,
τίποτα δεν του ταιριάζει,
γεμίζει την τσέπη του με καραμέλες
και κρέμες προσώπου.
Είναι ένας ρακοσυλλέκτης,
είναι όλα τα παραπάνω.
Η ανθρώπινη ιστορία
είναι δεμένη στη γροθιά του σαν θηλιά,
είναι ελεύθερο πεδίο για τους εραστές
και εμπόρους ονείρων.
Μιλάει όλες τις γλώσσες,
όλες οι ειπωμένες φράσεις
των χαμένων εθνών παίζουν
στο μυαλό του
στο νου του η φωτιά,
ο εγκέφαλός του είναι γεμάτος τσιμέντο,
το μυαλό του γεμάτο με ιερογλυφικά,
ζει στον τάφο των ξεχασμένων βασιλιάδων,
η γλώσσα του είναι ζωγραφιές σπηλαίων,
η διαθήκη του γράφτηκε
από ένα φοβισμένο παιδί,
και η πόλη τον απεχθάνεται.
Δεν έχει χρήματα
και δεν έχει τίποτα να προσφέρει
εκτός από λόγια, λόγια, που
όταν έρχεται ο σπιτονοικοκύρης στην πόρτα
προσποιείται ότι είναι νεκρός.

Rendition – Presentation  Xanthi Hondrou – Hill

GEORGE WALLACE (March 22, 1949 in Hempstaed, New York) is a writer in residence at the Walt Withman Birthplace, autor of 38 chapbooks of poetry, and editor of NYC FROM THE INSIDE. He is a prominent figure in the New York City poetry scene, he teaches at Pace University in Manhattan and travels internationally to share his work. He was named the first poet laureate for Suffolk County, Long Island.

THE POET by George Wallace

the poet is an
abandoned room
in a terrible city,
he lives with
strangers,
he lives with
the dead, he’s
haunted by
memory,
overhead
a naked
light bulb
swings,
inside his head
jaguars prowl,
jaguars and jackals,
the poet spends
all day filling
his head up like a
faucet leaking into
a clogged sink, he’s
a man on a mission, he’s
a man with a small
gambling problem,
he is filling out a
lottery ticket with
all the wrong numbers,
what a laugh! the poet
is a detective without a badge,
he is present at the scene of the crime,
everyone ignores him, who is this
guy anyhow, after the cops leave
he tries on all the clothes
in the closet, nothing fits him;
he lines his pocket with hard candies
and skin creme; he is a rag picker,
he is all of the above, human history
is knotted up in his fist like a noose,
he is fair game for lovers and
merchants of dreams, he speaks
all languages, all the uttered phrases
of lost nations are at play
in his head, his brain
is fire, his brain is smeared
concrete, his brain is
hieroglyphics, he lives in
the tomb of the forgotten kings,
his tongue is cave paintings,
his will was written
by a frightened child,
and the city loathes him,
he has no spending money
and nothing to offer
except words, words, when
the landlord comes to the door
he pretends he is dead.

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