Greek Avant Garde Poetry



     

Yiorgos Likos






THE WINDMILLS


A  little further beyond 

from  the  houses'  white  foam

by  the sea of the yearly wind

gold tentacles of the sun

crawling on the farmland

slowly gather

and write with cinnabar

the ruined  mills

and mythical dead birds.



Human  hunting

always  for  new  machines

that  release hands

hands  raised 

ruins  in  the  west.





LIGHT'S SHRUB



Sun  sun  sun

an awesome leap

the death teeth.






PROPHET



Old man

with a sprig of  beauty

in the desert stick

half-burnt  fir

rustling in the memory



But they shout danger

To die.


(Transl. Panos Bosnakis)