Added value

I read an utterly interesting
scientific verification

that us humans
are the only beings on earth
that cry.

And I felt proud that
only our own introversion carries
such effusive solicitous glands.

I say - an assumption -
if I were a little tree with lemon buds
and my flower thickened into a lemon
and a hot air, thirsty
for something juicy
wrung the branch's throat
and stole the lemon
cut it in half
with the little theft's innocent
pocket knife
squeezed it forcibly
dripping the juices
in the mouth of its burnt
wide open puff
and a tang of stinging droplets
sprung unintentionally
into your distant eye
- a wish can spring
as far out as you want -

perhaps - an assumption -
your lacrimal glands
would welcome it.


-------------------------------


Personal notes: 

This poem was published as part of the collection 'Greenhouse grass' (2005).

The poem is addressed to an unidentified person who perhaps does not share the poet's sensitivities, vulnerability and compassion - or even passion (love). Dimoula wishes that this person experienced the same intensity of emotions and thoughts that can lead someone to tears.

The poem is full of images that hint to violence and pain  - tears, wringing of a throat, squeezing, acidic droplets, knife, thirst, burning. The poet's choice of inducing tears through the stinging droplets of a lemon is very indicative of the intensity of this poem.The poem's images emphasise the poet's internal ('introversion') struggle with her emotions and thoughts, and her wish that these were acknowledged by the people close to her - perhaps her husband. 

The centrality of pain and emotion in this poem brings to mind Frida Kahlo's work. 

[Untitled]

I acknowledge
it was you, Need, that created the world as a continuum
first with "give to me", then "I don't have".
But not love, not you, Need
love was created by death
out of a wild curiosity
to grasp
the meaning of life.


---------------------------------------------

Personal notes: 

This poem was published as part of the collection 'The finder's fee' (2010). 
Dimoula addresses human need, which she personifies (hence the capital N). She acknowledges that humans act mainly driven by their needs and that human relationships are driven by an exchange of needs. The third line suggests that possession and denial/deprival can be important elements of a world driven by need. 

However, the poet does not believe that love is mainly driven by need, although one would expect it to be. Instead, Dimoula believes that love is the creation of mortality. Since love is created by something that demands an end, it is doomed to be finite. This statement, that love is death's manifestation of life, subverts the common perception of love as desirable and everlasting.

We learn by euphemism

Tonight the sky

came down further two three steps

from itself

and with a relatively starry interest

leaned over to comprehend

the accusations claimed to it by

Despair

- who introduced itself as a completely 

unbeknown former client -

"Here below

abandonment riots helplessly

all of the soul

erected to offer shelter and prosperity

to mortality

remains empty

no human sets foot in it

gone missing

owes a bunch of communal charges

for how long will dreams pay up

the deficit

and the deceased of course delight in everything

for how long will they exist?

Send a human."

Oh Despair

the most durable of all sorrows

who rarely graces consolation

how you have kneeled clinging

from the sky as if it knows

what a human is

not even you Despair

knows what a human is

despite loving humanity all the way up

to the sky.

---------------------------------------------

Personal notes: 

This poem was published as part of the collection 'We moved next door' (2007). 

The main theme of the poem is abandonment and loss (of a significant other, of one's own life - mortality) and the inevitable feelings of despair and sorrow that these bring. Its narrative includes a vocal exchange between 'Despair' and the 'sky', two abstract terms that Dimoula personifies in this poem (though one can argue that the 'sky' is not an abstract term, it is used here to allude to the idea of mortality, and perhaps divinity). 

The words that 'Despair' shares with the sky are full of metaphors and personifications (abandonment as a riot, the soul as a house, dreams as guarantees, and the deceased as living beings). 
In these words, Dimoula suggests that humans dream to reconcile with an existing or potential loss (and perhaps their mortality) and that our souls remain vulnerable to these losses. 

These are desperate words, and this is where the poem's comedic undercurrents kick in: Despair in its personification is actually desperate (it voices out a despair), and Dimoula is subtly sarcastic in the last two stanzas, acknowledging that Despair's despair is actually futile. 

In those last two stanzas, the poet doubts that the 'sky' and Despair can understand what it means to be human. Why can't they?Perhaps this implies that desperation is an illogical state with no particular meaning, which can only be described as 'human', and as part of our own mechanisms for dealing with loss and mortality. The last two lines suggest that we remain in desperation until our death, our 'ascent' to the sky. 

Dust

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 plural

Love,
a noun - alias substantive,
indeed substantive,
in the singular form,
neither feminine nor masculine,
etymologically defenceless.
In the plural form
defenceless loves.

Fear,
a common noun,
at first in the singular form
and then in the plural:
fears.
Fears
of everything from now on.

Memory,
the first name of sorrows,
in the singular form,
only in the singular
and with no inflection.
The memory, the memory, the memory.

Night,
a common noun,
etymologically feminine,
in the singular form.
In the plural form
the nights.
The nights from now on.


---------------------------------------------

Personal notes: 

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

The poem's tone is didactic and playful - the poet is delivering a 'lesson' in grammar, describing how different words can be categorised (in parts of speech) or inflected based on their gender and number. These grammatical functions are significant to the poem's meaning. They emphasise the experience and effect of the poem's key words - love, fear, memory, night. 

The poem's main theme is revealed in its first word - 'Love'.  Mrs Dimoula's lesson (this poem) is not just about grammar, but also a lesson about love.  

She first suggests that the word 'Love' has no gender. In the Greek language, 'Love' is actually etymologically masculine. By stating otherwise, that love is neither masculine nor feminine, Dimoula perhaps suggests that someone's gender may not matter when experiencing love. What matters is that the person who falls in love is defenceless, in all (or most) occasions ('In plural form'). 

The second 'lesson' is about 'Fear' and love. The source of this fear is not exactly evident in the poem, although one can associate this fear with the defenceless state of being in love. That this fear multiplies over time suggests that the passing of time can deteriorate love. Love is defenceless over time. 

The 'lesson' about 'Memory' and love is an interesting one - Dimoula here suggests that love is associated with one single and very strong memory (the past) that is inflexible and unchangeable. This state of the past is in contrast to what is happening at present and what will happen in the future. Dimoula suggests that memories and the past are important when being in love, perhaps because they are the only constant part of it. They are also an act of desperation, of holding onto something when everything is changing or deteriorating. 

The last 'lesson', about 'Night' and love, binds together the previous arguments - the fear that love will deteriorate defenselessly haunts the nights of the person in love, forever. 

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. 

---------------------------------------------

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. 

Exercices for losing the extra kilos in short time period

Lie down. On something hard.
At first, the comforts' spinal bones may hurt
but slowly slowly they will straighten
the inactivity's back.

Retract now your bad habits
in a rigid line.
Bring your hands gently to your chest
like temporary wings of temporary angels.
Do not change position.
The supine oars deftly.

Do not be afraid. Fear fattens
it contains hunger.
Do not chew sensations. They have many calories.
They cause the deprivations' fat.

Your eyes closed please, completely
no misinterpretable crevices
no sight lollipops.
They radiate ultraviolet nostalgia.

Exhale deeply, stay still
do not breathe do not breathe
it runs the risk to show
only half of the boatman in the x-ray.

Let go now on the sleep's slide.

I will play you a tape, relax,
of your mother's lullaby
there there my baby
willing or not will say.

Weigh yourselves. Stand still please
your body contains an inlaid scale.


---------------------------------------------

Personal notes: 

This poem was published as part of the collection 'Greenhouse grass' (2005).
Its title is long and unusual for a Dimoula poem, but it is successful in setting the tone and the overall narrative of the poem. 

There are perhaps several ways to interpret this poem. I understand it best by accepting the premise that the poet is addressing herself, and that the exercise regime central to the poem's narrative relates to eliminating the 'weight' of mortality as carried by someone who is approaching old age. 

Here are some observations that support this interpretation.

In the first stanza, the poet suggests that the person performing the exercises has been neglecting her physical (and perhaps mental) health, living a life of comforts and indolence. These attitudes to life become more tempting as one gets older, and Dimoula is approaching old age. 

In the second stanza, the poet describes a set of hands as 'temporary wings of temporary angels'. This is a direct reference to mortality. She also insists that one remains in the supine position, which is a common burial position. [In the fourth stanza, she insists also that the eyes remain completely shut, and then, later on, asks her subject to let go and 'sleep', which also alludes to dying]

In the third and fourth stanzas, the poet reveals the sources of one's 'extra kilos'. These include 'fear', 'nostalgia', and 'deprivation', which tend to exacerbate as one gets older. At old age, one fears dying, one longs for the past, the sensations of a younger age, and everything that one has been deprived of in life. 

The fifth stanza provides the stronger clue for this interpretation. Dimoula switches narratives and instead of addressing a person performing fitness exercises, she addresses someone lying on a medical bed about to take an x-ray. It is typical of Dimoula to switch into such contrasting narratives  - from a regime (and a lying position) that is mostly associated with fitness and health to a regime that is associated with illness and death. 

The seventh stanza reiterates themes of nostalgia and makes a direct connection between the beginning and the end of one's life. A small baby falls asleep to her mother's lullaby, while an old person is about to fall asleep forever. 

The poem's last stanza is Dimoula's answer to the 'weight' of her mortality. She acknowledges that it is part of herself, something that no exercise may be able to eliminate, but also something that depends on her own perception and coping mechanisms.