I went through

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly 

                                                         T.S. Eliot

I walk and it gets dark.

I make up my mind and it gets dark.

No, I am not sad.

I have been curious and studious.

I know of everything. A bit of everything.

The names of flowers when they shrivel,

when the words become green and when we become cold.

How easy the feelings’ lock turns

with any of oblivion’s keys.

No, I am not sad.

I went through rainy days,

I joined in behind that

liquid barbwire

patiently and unnoticed,

like the trees’ pain

when their last leaf departs

and like the fear of thοse who are brave.

No, I am not sad.

I went through gardens, stood next to fountains

and saw many statuettes that were laughing

at invisible motives of joy.

And little cupid-likes, braggers.

Their outstretched bows

appeared like half moons at my nights and I begun musing.

I had many and beautiful dreams

and had dreams of being forgotten.

No, I am not sad.

I walked a lot through feelings,

mine and others,

and there was always enough space left between them

for the wide time to pass through.

I went through post offices again and went through again.

I wrote letters again and wrote again

and prayed in vain to the god of the answer.

I received brief cards:

A heartfelt goodbye from Patras

and some greetings

from the leaning Tower of Pisa.

No, I am not sad that the day is leaning.

I’ve talked a lot. To people,

to lampposts, to photographs.

And to chains a lot.

I learned how to read palms

and to lose palms.

No, I am not sad.

I travelled for sure.

I went a bit to here, and a bit to there…

Everywhere, the world was ready to age.

I lost a bit from here, and I lost a bit from there.

I lost when being cautious

and when being careless.

I went to the sea as well.

I was due something wide. Let’s say I received it.

I was afraid of loneliness

and imagined people.

I saw them falling

from the hand of a quiet dust particle

that run through a sun ray

and others from the sound of a slight bell.

And I was rung through the chimes

of an orthodox barrenness.

No, I am not sad.

I touched fire and got slightly burned.

And I did not even miss the moons’ know-how.

Their cast over the seas and the eyes,

dark, it ground me.

No, I am not sad.

As much as I could, I resisted this river

when it had a lot of water, not to drag me,

and as much as possible I imagined water

in dry riverbeds

and drifted away.

No, I am not sad.

It’s getting dark at the right time. 

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Personal notes: 

This poem was published as part of the collection 'The little of the world' (1971).

It is written in the first person, in a 'confessional' mode. One can argue that Dimoula is voicing here a retrospect of her life, or aspects of her life as they approach their end. The title ('I went through') supports this view. 

In each stanza, Dimoula presents what she has experienced and learned in life  - what she 'went through'. Many of her observations relate to human feelings and ideas of affection and loneliness. These experiences are bound by the poem's central theme - loss. 

The first stanza underscores this theme. The end of the day approaches ('it gets dark'). The night here is a metaphor for the end of life or aspects of life and their loss. The stanza concludes with the phrase 'No, I am not sad'.  The poet repeats this phrase at the end of all the poem's stanzas. It is the poem's most striking feature. At first, this repetition may seem like an act of disbelief - that the poet is actually sad, and repeats this phrase to evade reality (in this case, the repetition acts as a double negative). This is a natural, human reaction to loss. However, a closer read reveals that the poet is approaching the end of things from a more mature perspective and that she has in fact reconciled with the idea, and is not sad about it. This is supported by the last line, where the poet admits that the night has arrived at the right time. 

This reconciliation with, and acceptance of the inevitable end of things - a mature, yet difficult achievement - is also the theme of a famous poem by Constantinos Cavafy, 'The god forsakes Antony'. It was written in 1911:

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear 
an invisible procession going by 
with exquisite music, voices, 
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now, 
work gone wrong, your plans 
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly. 
As one long prepared, and graced with courage, 
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving. 
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say 
it was a dream, your ears deceived you: 
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these. 
As one long prepared, and graced with courage, 
as is right for you who were given this kind of city, 
go firmly to the window 
and listen with deep emotion, but not 
with the whining, the pleas of a coward; 
listen—your final delectation—to the voices, 
to the exquisite music of that strange procession, 
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.