DOGS DON'T BARK IN FRANCE | SCULPTURE
by Artemis Chrysostomidou
National Prize of Best New Literature
Publisher: To Rodakio
Athens, October 2018
Number of pages: 112
After the war,
the eyes of the ancient statues
should have tears carved all over them.
With no pretense of sorrow ever touching them,
whereas beauty is deeply hurt.
NO LACK OF GLORY
So many words
that we don’t know and never won’t;
An everyday try to learn some more
in order to fill our present with sympathy.
Forgive me my love,
I’m limited by my lack.
No lack of Glory!
GARE DE L’EST
We are the obviation of the creation’s rhythm;
So much unrecognized beauty
And the sky discloses gray over our bodies.
Trees in array. Armies of aligned trees.
A man among the logs photographs the trains.
A symphonic orchestra of naked deciduous trees
Un, deux, trois
The valleys are filled with violins.
Simone Weil, what is the maximum speed of an image?
I hear the sounds of the universe
How can I convey the outside-inside,
the joys and the anguishes of the world
«Where is He? In His absence»
THE METAPHYSICS OF SCULPTURE
Nothing more to seize than the defeat of the material.
Every body is an alternate reality.
A silent composition of eternity.
The Creation, the freedom of proofless.
Half human gaze, half Parthenon,
half Tour Eiffel, half upper eyelids.
He didn’t make a stop before all the great painters.
What will make him stop now?
In the big train stations people will keep coming and going.
People in love with Resurrection,
with fever and huge steps that go by unnoticed in the crowds.
Grey sky will always unites them secretly.
UNE ROBE ABRI
Les oiseaux se cachent dans les plis sculptés de sa robe.
Une robe abri.
Elle sent l’odeur de la liberté, oh!
La proclamation de la volupté!
Une robe abri.
THE VISUAL SINKING OF MEDIEVAL MAN
She didn’t’ t want to be a face stuck on a wall,
but a bust among plants.
There is an entire space of interpretation within her.
The image becomes fully dimensional,
having the visual depth of medieval man.
The beautiful life of the Skies dives into her eyes.
Grief unites us. Joy is an eremite.
It’s late. No, it’s not.
We will meet in other epochs as well.
Dead will always have the majority.