I feel sorry for the housewives
the way they struggle
every morning to dissipate the dust from their home -
dust, the fleshless' ultimate flesh.
Brooms sweepers
vacuums feathers brushes
dusters rags clowns
noises and acrobatic styles,
the movements fall like a whip
on the domestic dust.
Every morning the balconies and windows
amputate a movement and a hot flash:
bodiless heads bob like a yo-yo,
arms protrude and writhe
as if something is cutting them up internally,
broken bodies, halves
severed by the bending.
One more rupture of the Whole.
It keeps breaking,
it breaks even before it exists
as if for this exact reason -
not to be.
So much for a whole life.
But why call it a whole life
when the gage you are holding when we measure it
is always faulty?
Whole is a pathetic word.
It wanders, strapping, as if out of this world.
That's why the skint magnitudes call it crazy.
Dustings airings
for the dust to leave the dark places
to leave the sleep's deep nests,
the sheets and the covers.
And those times at night
when the body jumps up frightened
screaming my Lord I am dwindling,
they will get dusted as well -
dust, the decline and fear
and like I can't bear airing
the private life out in public.
The sleep's swollen pillows
punch each other badly and I get scared
worried in case there will be any damages:
the dreams' crystal wills are in there.
A dream inherits all other dreams,
humans inherit none.
I fear, I can't bear to watch
such a global disinheritance
being tossed away like dust.
Rug bangs
to oust the dust from the designs' nests,
to make it fall in from the colour's bridges.
And the fast gait -
all that delirious to and fro inside the house
on the shallow trust of the carpets
so the people downstairs won't hear what treads
won't hear what doesn't conform -
will be dusted as well
and like I can't bear airing
the private life out in public.
I feel sorry for the housewives
their barren strain.
The dust does not go away, it does not diminish.
Whenever time meets time
a new dust settlement is agreed on.
What protects from it - be it Clean
or Stability - are actually vehicles for its return.
They are the first in line to bring it back.
I have not seen surfaces covered with more dust than those two.
Even Light, the ultimate pristine
delights in carrying dust:
it is a miracle to watch
how the still dust advances through a sun ray,
as if on an electric escalator
those modern ones, the hypnotic ones,
with the emasculated steps.
It is carried
visible like thick ground-up air
to reenter from the open windows
from its open rules.
It makes our existence its home and future.
I let it settle, untidy as I am.
There, studious on the back of a book
about Senescence.
On the prudent photograph of my children
when they used to wear me
their white collared perfectly round Mother
loose sewn from the inside
with hidden sparse stitches
on their school uniform.
They are dressed as Adults now,
the dust now wears their uniform
the round collar,
the dust wears the Mother me
- like all relationships and addictions
should be sawn,
with sparse loose stitches,
so that they can easily be unravelled.
I never dust
the brass athlete
that decorates the big brass clock.
Its muscles
seem angry.
Perhaps because it is forced to firm up
something very invisible,
maybe it firms up time,
maybe time wants
to run faster than usual.
Dust would be pleased with that track record.
It sits on my mirror,
I gave it away, it can have it.
What would I do with such a heath object anyway?
I stopped cultivating my faces in there,
I am not up to ploughing changes
and being doubled up as any other.
I let it sit
I let it approach
come aplenty
I let it pour over me
like a ground up narration of a long story,
I let it approach apace apace
like time that got firmed up
to run faster than usual
and there it sits the heavy cumbersome dust,
I let it sit, age,
it covers me cumbersomely, I let it
to cover me I let it
it covers me
that you leave me behind I let it
that you leave me behind I permit
you leave me behind
to leave me behind
I permit you
because I can't bear airing
the private life out in public.
---------------------------------------------
Personal notes:
This poem was published as part of the collection 'My last body' (1981). It is one of Dimoula's longest poems, perhaps the longest.
When the poem was written in the late 70s and early 80s, and more so than in recent times, many women in Greece were not employed in the public or private sectors. They stayed home as housewives and performed daily chores around the house, including dusting and airing sheets. These images were (and perhaps still are) very familiar and intimate to the Greek psyche, particularly to Athenians. Most Athenians live in high rise building blocks that do not allow for much privacy. One can easily observe her/his neighbours by just having a look out of the window or the balcony.
In the first stanza, Dimoula appears to disapprove these daily rituals. She playfully uses words associated with dusting as if mocking the housewives and their effort. However, a closer read reveals that Dimoula is using the act of dusting, and 'dust' itself, as a metaphor. Her references to other housewives are not literal.
In fact, Dimoula is addressing herself in this poem, perhaps using the term 'housewife' to allude to her own situation. The poem's main theme is her struggle to acknowledge and cope with the inevitable passing of time, and the toll that time takes on human relationships (including her marriage and the relationship with her children) and the human body.
The poet associates dust to 'dwindling', 'decline and fear', and 'Senescence'. She describes how, despite all efforts, dust is inevitable, suggesting that the passing of time is something that no one can avoid.
In the third stanza, Dimoula repeats a sentence twice: 'and like I can't bear airing the private life out in public'. She will end the poem repeating this sentence, emphasising its importance to the poem's theme. This sentence is an acknowledgement of the value that Dimoula places to her private life, including her own thoughts and her emotions, and of the difficulty in sharing these with others - not only with the general public but also perhaps with the people close to her. It is this difficulty in externalising her thoughts and emotions that lead the poet to accept the 'settling' of 'dust' (and all it represents) in her life.
The fifth stanza contains perhaps the most startling acknowledgement of the poem - a reference to the relationship between Dimnoula and her children. Motherhood is not a usual theme in Dimoula's poems, so this is a significant reference. She reminisces the past, when her children went to school and when perhaps they were more attached and close to her. She then acknowledges that those times are gone, and now that her children are adults, her role is almost indifferent. She is not the same mother she used to be. This is a painful realisation, one that many parents would hate to admit.
The last stanza's first few lines find the poet in front of the mirror, conceding to time's effect on her face and her appearance. She admits that vanity does not interest her, or at least that she has lost any energy required to 'cultivate' her appearance. She then continues on to accept and embrace 'dust' (and what it represents) in her life.
The last few lines are the poem's most intimate and personal ones. Dimoula changes her narration from first to the third person, directly addressing another person and giving him/her the permission to leave her behind, to forget her. This third person or persons could be her husband, her children, or even time itself. By doing so, Dimoula completely comes to terms with the passing of time and all its effects, because she acknowledges how futile any kind of resistance can be, including externalising her thoughts and emotions to the people around her.
the way they struggle
every morning to dissipate the dust from their home -
dust, the fleshless' ultimate flesh.
Brooms sweepers
vacuums feathers brushes
dusters rags clowns
noises and acrobatic styles,
the movements fall like a whip
on the domestic dust.
Every morning the balconies and windows
amputate a movement and a hot flash:
bodiless heads bob like a yo-yo,
arms protrude and writhe
as if something is cutting them up internally,
broken bodies, halves
severed by the bending.
One more rupture of the Whole.
It keeps breaking,
it breaks even before it exists
as if for this exact reason -
not to be.
So much for a whole life.
But why call it a whole life
when the gage you are holding when we measure it
is always faulty?
Whole is a pathetic word.
It wanders, strapping, as if out of this world.
That's why the skint magnitudes call it crazy.
Dustings airings
for the dust to leave the dark places
to leave the sleep's deep nests,
the sheets and the covers.
And those times at night
when the body jumps up frightened
screaming my Lord I am dwindling,
they will get dusted as well -
dust, the decline and fear
and like I can't bear airing
the private life out in public.
The sleep's swollen pillows
punch each other badly and I get scared
worried in case there will be any damages:
the dreams' crystal wills are in there.
A dream inherits all other dreams,
humans inherit none.
I fear, I can't bear to watch
such a global disinheritance
being tossed away like dust.
Rug bangs
to oust the dust from the designs' nests,
to make it fall in from the colour's bridges.
And the fast gait -
all that delirious to and fro inside the house
on the shallow trust of the carpets
so the people downstairs won't hear what treads
won't hear what doesn't conform -
will be dusted as well
and like I can't bear airing
the private life out in public.
I feel sorry for the housewives
their barren strain.
The dust does not go away, it does not diminish.
Whenever time meets time
a new dust settlement is agreed on.
What protects from it - be it Clean
or Stability - are actually vehicles for its return.
They are the first in line to bring it back.
I have not seen surfaces covered with more dust than those two.
Even Light, the ultimate pristine
delights in carrying dust:
it is a miracle to watch
how the still dust advances through a sun ray,
as if on an electric escalator
those modern ones, the hypnotic ones,
with the emasculated steps.
It is carried
visible like thick ground-up air
to reenter from the open windows
from its open rules.
It makes our existence its home and future.
I let it settle, untidy as I am.
There, studious on the back of a book
about Senescence.
On the prudent photograph of my children
when they used to wear me
their white collared perfectly round Mother
loose sewn from the inside
with hidden sparse stitches
on their school uniform.
They are dressed as Adults now,
the dust now wears their uniform
the round collar,
the dust wears the Mother me
- like all relationships and addictions
should be sawn,
with sparse loose stitches,
so that they can easily be unravelled.
I never dust
the brass athlete
that decorates the big brass clock.
Its muscles
seem angry.
Perhaps because it is forced to firm up
something very invisible,
maybe it firms up time,
maybe time wants
to run faster than usual.
Dust would be pleased with that track record.
It sits on my mirror,
I gave it away, it can have it.
What would I do with such a heath object anyway?
I stopped cultivating my faces in there,
I am not up to ploughing changes
and being doubled up as any other.
I let it sit
I let it approach
come aplenty
I let it pour over me
like a ground up narration of a long story,
I let it approach apace apace
like time that got firmed up
to run faster than usual
and there it sits the heavy cumbersome dust,
I let it sit, age,
it covers me cumbersomely, I let it
to cover me I let it
it covers me
that you leave me behind I let it
that you leave me behind I permit
you leave me behind
to leave me behind
I permit you
because I can't bear airing
the private life out in public.
---------------------------------------------
Personal notes:
This poem was published as part of the collection 'My last body' (1981). It is one of Dimoula's longest poems, perhaps the longest.
When the poem was written in the late 70s and early 80s, and more so than in recent times, many women in Greece were not employed in the public or private sectors. They stayed home as housewives and performed daily chores around the house, including dusting and airing sheets. These images were (and perhaps still are) very familiar and intimate to the Greek psyche, particularly to Athenians. Most Athenians live in high rise building blocks that do not allow for much privacy. One can easily observe her/his neighbours by just having a look out of the window or the balcony.
In the first stanza, Dimoula appears to disapprove these daily rituals. She playfully uses words associated with dusting as if mocking the housewives and their effort. However, a closer read reveals that Dimoula is using the act of dusting, and 'dust' itself, as a metaphor. Her references to other housewives are not literal.
In fact, Dimoula is addressing herself in this poem, perhaps using the term 'housewife' to allude to her own situation. The poem's main theme is her struggle to acknowledge and cope with the inevitable passing of time, and the toll that time takes on human relationships (including her marriage and the relationship with her children) and the human body.
The poet associates dust to 'dwindling', 'decline and fear', and 'Senescence'. She describes how, despite all efforts, dust is inevitable, suggesting that the passing of time is something that no one can avoid.
In the third stanza, Dimoula repeats a sentence twice: 'and like I can't bear airing the private life out in public'. She will end the poem repeating this sentence, emphasising its importance to the poem's theme. This sentence is an acknowledgement of the value that Dimoula places to her private life, including her own thoughts and her emotions, and of the difficulty in sharing these with others - not only with the general public but also perhaps with the people close to her. It is this difficulty in externalising her thoughts and emotions that lead the poet to accept the 'settling' of 'dust' (and all it represents) in her life.
The fifth stanza contains perhaps the most startling acknowledgement of the poem - a reference to the relationship between Dimnoula and her children. Motherhood is not a usual theme in Dimoula's poems, so this is a significant reference. She reminisces the past, when her children went to school and when perhaps they were more attached and close to her. She then acknowledges that those times are gone, and now that her children are adults, her role is almost indifferent. She is not the same mother she used to be. This is a painful realisation, one that many parents would hate to admit.
The last stanza's first few lines find the poet in front of the mirror, conceding to time's effect on her face and her appearance. She admits that vanity does not interest her, or at least that she has lost any energy required to 'cultivate' her appearance. She then continues on to accept and embrace 'dust' (and what it represents) in her life.
The last few lines are the poem's most intimate and personal ones. Dimoula changes her narration from first to the third person, directly addressing another person and giving him/her the permission to leave her behind, to forget her. This third person or persons could be her husband, her children, or even time itself. By doing so, Dimoula completely comes to terms with the passing of time and all its effects, because she acknowledges how futile any kind of resistance can be, including externalising her thoughts and emotions to the people around her.
