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Vol. 36 No 3-4
Greek Poetry: New Voices and Ancient Echoes

Spring 1999

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Háris Vlavianós

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The Angel of History (1998)

The Angel of History


They don't have to believe 
in Heaven and Hell 
or even to play 'cops and robbers' 
in the dark alleyways of metaphysics 
or even of course to yield the palm 
when seeking the fleece of perfect form. 
They have other priorities, 
other needs, 
another view in fact. 
(`Key phrase'). 
They watch, 
observe, 
know when the crucial moment comes 
how to fix their gaze, 
their penetrating, ecstatic gaze 
on life's image 
('which one I wonder?') 
and —click—
to imprint all its lustre 
onto a shiny, colour snapshot,
in which beside the —click— beers, cigarettes, lighter,
beside the —click—
glossy magazine  
beside the—click— sun oils, lotions, mobile phone, 
you can make out
('with a little good will...')
the lusty, windswept bodies of young lovers,
— for what else does the man's head denote
the way it's resting tenderly on the woman's belly —
and in the background behind the bougainvillea
a renovated windmill
('which naturalement comfortably sleeps six or eight at most').
But perhaps it's a little late for all that,
I mean late for that sort of bitter, ironic humming and hawing
— even standpoints —
where your glorious,
meaningful past
(your words),
conflicts with their parched, dreary present
(your words again)
since you know, far better than me,
that it's not easy to wrap things up
with a 'but what's more important is to...',
'circumstances dictate that...';
naturally I prefer in my free time
— which, just between us, is not so free —
to read Marianne Moore's 
'Blessed is the man'
'than to...'
(analyse the impasses of relativism).
Yet:
if it's true that 'blessed is the man'
who 'does not denigrate, depreciate, denunciate'
'does not excuse, retreat, equivocate'
who knows
'that egomania is not a duty'
who's in favour of 'diversity, controversy, tolerance'
who 'will not comply... the unaccommodating man'
then who is indeed among us is
able to say,
rather to shout, so everyone might hear him, 
(even those inside your yuppie windmill) 
'yes I'm that man,
I'm the chosen one 
who has come not to bring Peace 
but the Sword'. 
Who?  
No one I'd say, 
and I think that you'd agree. 
So, back to square one. 
Or if not square one exactly,
somewhere close at least.
Of course there are gradations, scales,
we're not going to put everything in the same boat.
We won't let ourselves be submerged in rubbish!
Yet Eurydice would have vanished in the darkness
even if Orpheus hadn't turned to look at her.
That's the nature of things
— and let's not open that chapter now
on the ritual of confined movements
and the looks that never meet.
Orpheus ('as an artist') should
have known,
have known that life is a continually
repetative momente mori
in which everything takes place
in the confined
time of our conscience. 

Of course there's no point any more
in persisting in these matters.
The sea stretches infinitely 
before our eyes
and the sun is at its highest point in the sky.
Come, let's lower the blinds,
let's lie on our white, newly-washed sheets.
We too need a little sleep.
History can wait.

Translated by David Connolly

Page(s) 159-161

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