To Brecht
“what times are these
when a conversation about trees seems almost a crime.
Because it includes a silence about so many misdeeds!”
It's like this, Brecht.
The end of the world
is going on behind my
shoulders as I write.
I am trying
to describe
this one flower.
I have never
been so much in love
with gardens.
The lighting’s gone
but
the flames of the apocalypse
mean I can work
by night too.
I am doing my best
against odds
to preserve something.
————————————————-
A guide to Greece, l970
These are the Greek people vanished behind their faces.
These are the olive groves cancelled till further notice.
This is Mount Hymettos. It has become invisible.
This is a stone life-size copy of the Parthenon.
This is the country. Don't ask where the jails are.
This is Bouboulinos street winding round and round the country.
This is the rough Greek wine. It tastes of water.
This is the water. It tastes of air.
This is the air. It tastes of nothing.
Where is your hotel with its air-conditioning?
Don't ask a policeman: this is collaboration.
Here are two lovers with a policeman watching.
This is the language. Empty like a plague city.
This is Athens. Nobody lives here.
This is the language. You can learn it in a second.
This is the language: shouts when a man is beaten.
This is the Ianguage: screams when a man is tortured.
This is the language: weeps when a man is murdered.
This is the poet of the language. Yannis Ritsos. 61. In prison. On Samos. Coughing blood.
Here are the tourists taking photos of each other.
