The Stork

The Stork


The ship extended huge, outside the dew,

his past, he thought, conducted on her track,

across the board, the skyline folded dark,

- a stork he was or member of the crew?


Thus, curiously stood upon the moors,

an epitome of time to e'er rejoice,

but stern, the sea-waves' hum repressed his voice,

or was the dusk that realness allures?


Upon the moors he stood, irresolute,

side-gazing for the sunken to discern

meanwhile the seamen deftness and concern

applied the coloring of nightly soot.


The dusk abraded, thus, the ship's details;

all shapes in numbness stood; without a word

the nighttime, condescending, linked the bird

with time's perseverance, head-ropes and brails.


The boats, directed randomly to trip,

loose wooden cradle-coffins in the bay,

surreal, formed a definite array,

where timely margins, undulating, reap.


(Their sacrosanct ascent designed the stairs,

for spotless angel forms to fly in blue,

the stork recalls the one-time rendezvous,

- this nightly ship, shall take his soul to fares.


Perchance they fled to skies - two passing glows

that cut through distances, in ardent Spring

a song for wanderers, harmonic link,

- pure emeralds the shoreline noon bestows.) 


What foolishness of storks invites the ship,

our lives to marry on the silent quays

meanwhile four smoking ebon funnels praise

our wraiths' long flight on everlasting trip?

She called me holy inside the wind, her wraith

She called me holy inside the wind, her wraith;

Befallen souls of angels dream and nest,

Twas in my heart, a matter of false faith;

.

Mistral of dawn, glare to invite and saith,

'Of sea ghost nymphs, doe flye in foam's blue vest'

She called me holy inside the wind, her wraith;

.

Pearl skies, sea birds to fly on May the eighth,

On faraway was she but not to best,

Twas in my heart, a matter of false faith;

.

Enchanting wraith she was, conceived, on staithe;

Prevailed thence time reversed, but to divest,

She called me holy inside the wind, her wraith;

.

On sole appeal, invokes on dawn war graith,

Adventures on sea trips, I conquest,

Twas in my heart, a matter of false faith;

.

To aggrandize my cause, in pride to bathe,

Egressed my soul to seas - the time's request,

She called me holy inside the wind, her wraith;

Twas in my heart, a matter of false faith;

.

Γιώργος Βενετοπουλος

Τα σήμαντρα

Τα σήμαντρα

Όλες μου τις ζωές τις κράτησα για σένα
σε αναλλοίωτους των αλλοτινών
τα γυρισμένα στον άνεμο χέρια μου,
μετρούν βράδια πικρής γιορτής.

Και τα μικρά παιδιά σε κυνηγάνε,
με τους ανέμους της ονειρικής γιορτής
πρωτόγνωρος δικός μας ήλιος,
που φώτισε τα σήμαντρα σαν έφτασε πρωί.

Και ο παλμός μου που απλώνεται στα σήμαντρα
με συντροφεύει Κυριακές που σε θυμάμαι,
χτύπος καρδιάς που γράφεται στο χρόνο,
στο χρόνο που γυρνάς μόνο για μένα.

Όταν τις Κυριακές μου λένε γιόρτασε,
θυμάμαι το ποτάμι το πρωί
εσύ μέσα στο φως να είσαι δίπλα μου,
να μ' αγαπάς για όλη τη ζωή.

Boston.

Elegant Giraffes

Elegant Giraffes

He wondered if his verse was made for mules
and chickens cackling their jazzy tales;
composing dull sonnets was chased by bulls,
by elegant giraffes and crazy snails.

Amid the donkeys, in his country cot,
while gulping spirits the pig-farmer writes;
his scrawl becomes a cultivated naught
and straight he quaffs one more for his insights.

The detrimental muse of his confused
absconding inspiration, though, evades
poetics so much alcohol-abused
and drinking up the Absinth liquor, fades.

The prompting advent of a healthy burp
made pigs and chickens to comment 'superb'!

© 06-27-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(English sonnet, Iambic pentameter)

The lady of the lake

The lady of the lake

The lady of the lake on the water glides;
fair Guinevere, the bride of Queen Ygraine
departs to her beloved King Arthur's terre.

Her kinship with the distant Lord's soul guides
the boat of ebon and bequeathal bane,
his sovereign wraith and her eternal prayer.

© Georgios Venetopoulos 11-01-2013, All Rights Reserved
(Sestet - Iambic pentameter)

The maid of brines

 The maid of brines

The flag was waving on the stern;
she stared saluting and the mist
my face on forecastle, coldly kissed,
- she tried my figure to discern.

The Adriatic was that night
half covered by a cotton cloud,
- endowed the night's adorning shroud
and took our ship afar, forthright.

A ghostly ship, a ghostly log
- the maid of brines had left betimes
addressed us with the sounds of chimes
that rang accordantly in the fog.

Harmonious her song had welled
from depths, unearthly was the verse
that lingered in our minds' rehearse,
bespoken words, beloved and held.

Her image standing on the bow,
in dark my solitude enacts,
while shooting stars on earthward tracks
induct to quell by ocean's draw.

Our recklessness, the route defines
and nautical endangered role,
I know it's wrongful to recall
our bicycling and coastline pines.

The ghostly ship transports us there
attending to the deepness' shrine,
how beautiful the dewdrops shine
and grandness of her seaward fair!

© 04-21-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)

Two birds

We heard the hoots' becrowing words
foreboding of our steadfast grief;
they fled to dusk - two mourning birds
life's borderlines and false beliefs.

Two birds have passed, in gray and black,
straight arrows fled to vanish yon
our longest trip on the railway track,
bemocking company and gone.

Upon our train have sat the birds,
the passengers won't go to stars
and neither will their versing words,
that rhyme with unforgiven mars.

Unmoved the riders in the cars,
suspended is the pilot's gaze,
the rails become two iron bars,
and death's advancing mauve bouquets.

The heads advert the engine's chug
like dancing poppies in the breeze,
and none among us will debug
why are we Charon's invitees.

Black engine draws upon the rails;
the pilot, coolly, searches fore
subsequent the foggy veils,
our caravan of wagons, wore.

The souls imprisoned trail along
the pilot engine's wordless rites,
and wait through nothingness and wrongs,
the train to reach uncounted heights.