Βεατρίκη

Βεατρίκη

Στο δρόμο προς τον Έσπερο, τον πρόλαβε η νύχτα

καθώς κατέβαινε βουβή και σκέπαζε τα δάσα,

από μακρυά ερχότανε ο άνεμος που αλύχτα

και σάρωνε την άσφαλτο με παγωμένη ανάσα.

Μουντό το πάσο τ' ουρανού, στο σκότος οδηγούσε

φλογίτσες λαμπυρίζανε, τα άγνωρα αστέρια

η Βεατρίκη το νερό του Κράθη εκερνούσε

ως υδροχόος της Στυγός, σε ιδεατά παρτέρια.

Με σάλπιγγες και κύμβαλα χορεύαν ακροβάτες

αποκυήματα νυχτός και χρόνου ασυμβάτου,

- του κινητήρα άκουγε τους υπερτροφοδότες,

των Εσπερίδων κάλεσμα ή τάχα του θανάτου;

Για χρόνια το πεντάλιτρο, τραβούσε προς τη δύση

σε δάση από βελανιδιές, και μέλανα ελάτια

οι ακροβάτες είχανε ωστόσο ισορροπήσει

σ' αόρατα σχοινιά που βγουν στου Άδη τα παλάτια.

Απάνω τους χορεύανε χιλιάδες παντομίμες

με τα γεράκια πιο ψηλά τροχιές να διαγράφουν

τον Βόρειο να αιωρεί απόκληρες τις μνήμες,

στο μαυρονέρι του Χελμού που θρύλοι περιγράφουν.

Στο μούχρωμ' αφανίστηκαν, με γέλια οι ακροβάτες,

το μελανί πεντάλιτρο κεντούσε τα σκοτάδια

σχεδιάζοντας ιδανικά, στου ποταμού τις όχτες,

τροχιές που απειρίζονταν στου Άδη τα λιβάδια.

© G. Venetopoulos, 2015-09-29, All rights reserved

(Iambic decapentasyllabic verse)

Blue fenêtre

Blue fenêtre

Τhe night encompassed his face and voice, 

outside the blue fenêtre alone he stood, 

his thought succumbed to a doubtful choice 

unfinished structure made from balsa wood.

Τhe flying daughters of the night, wind-wrought, 

escorted shades of blue and raindrops shed, 

she fled, a monochrome contrast he sought; 

in air her photograph averts, misled.

The nighttime beckoned on its steady mold; 

in that same sight he touched her face and braved, 

the longitudes besought, belied and called, 

contrasting him outside his dream and grave.

In air suspended a newspaper folds 

dispatched, waving renders his advance

its insignificance his spirit holds, 

before the sill she mends his nightly dance.

© 03-22-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved

(Ιαmbic Pentameter)

Blue Fenêtre 

Μαέστρος

Μαέστρος

Αερικό του ορεινού κι ατέλειωτου χορού,
ασφάλτινος ο δρόμος ζωντανεύει·
εκεί που κατευθύνεται το διάβα του καιρού,
στου άπειρου τ' απέραντα ερέβη.

Κουβέρτα εβένινη νυχτός και πέταγμα του νού,

των φύλλων αγκαλιά τον σαβανώνει
που γίνονται αλλόκοτη υπόσχεση κενού,

ο βρυχηθμός της μηχανής, παγώνει.

Ιδανική χορεύτρια σε χρόνια αντικρινά
ωδή συγγράφει στης ζωής την άκρη
της πρωτινής αντάμωσης φορά τα γιορτινά,
και άνθηρα στου άνεμου το δάκρυ.

Και ο χορός τους λέγεται το τάνγκο του καιρού
επιταχύνουνε κι η νύχτα φεύγει
ασπάζονται τις αστραπές, στην άκρη τ' ουρανού
κι η θαλπωρή της μοναξιάς τούς στέργει.

Οριακά, στα κόκκινα, ηχεί η μουσική
τετράχρονης στον παγωμένο δρόμο
βουνίσιο οδόστρωμα, των άστρων εθνική,
πια της ζωής του καταπάτησε το νόμο.

Ω! Πόσο τέλεια χορεύει κι είναι χθες,
μαέστρος, στροβιλίζεται στο χιόνι·
κι ακολουθεί του ουρανού, ιδανικές τροχιές
καθώς το πεπρωμένο του ανυψώνει.

Copyright 2015-01-16, G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved

(Iambic 14/11 syllables verse)

Μαέστρος 

Το ρόδο

Το ρόδο

Το ρόδο στον καθρέφτη μου, αγκαθερή πορφύρα,

το χρώμα στάζει ρυθμικά, τους όρκους που δοθήκαν,

μοναχική σε διάσταση, πελάγου σημαντήρα,

με τις σταγόνες της βροχής, για πάντ' αγαπηθήκαν.

Περαστικοί οι άνεμοι από μακρυά φυσάνε,

πετούν με τα φαντάσματα σε δάση και λειμώνες,

στεφανωτά με χαιρετούν κι αθώρητα τραβάνε

για του Απρίλη τ' άβατα, ακάνθων αλγηδόνες.

Και αναγγέλλουν άταχτα αυτά που νύχτες φκιάσαν

με άμετρη την προσλαλιά από το περασμένα

για στίχους μόν' ανείπωτους, μάτια που δεν γελάσαν,

και του βοριά αναθήματα, πούν' της ψυχής ταγμένα.

Το πορφυρό του μήνυμα, σε νοητές διαστάσεις,

του σμήνους παίρνει τη μορφή, πτηνών που ταξιδεύουν,

γιατί όσων πέταξαν και πάν στα πέρατα της πλάσης,

τα σχέδια των δεκαοχτώ, για πάντα αληθεύουν.

Μοναχικό το φέγγος του, στο βάθος του καθρέφτη,

αργά περνά από τ' άνθηρα της νύχτας κι αλαργαίνει

σταγόνες ρέουν της βροχής, του σκοταδιού της ξέφτι,

στον αργαλειό τό μούχρωμα, η τρίτη μοίρα υφαίνει.

© 2015-04-10, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved

(Iambic decapentasyllabic verse)

Το Ρόδο 

Six empty shells

Six empty shells

The sun was blinding as she stared aside,
he walked the distance to adjoin his fate,
a swirling, laughing wind began to slide
and jokingly their lives to desecrate.

Despite the heat, he wore the tailored suit
of color black; beneath the Stetson's shade
his stare was sweeping the contacting butte,
with dusty ghosts to mime an odd charade.

Replacing the six empty shells he turned
to see her worried glance beyond the blooms,
that innocent, embellished unconcerned
the recklessness of braves aside their tombs.

The Smith and Wesson forty-fours, then, bucked,
she knew the blooming noon was ending fast
and nothingness neglected to obstruct
what fates adjudicated to recast.

She saw the copper shells to fall in dust;
monochromatic synthesis and hues
of sunset were blurring in the gust
that whirling sang their lonesomeness and blues.

Beyond the turnpike, where the roads converge
a flock of crows was messaging the tale,
the spinning wind was bringing up their dirge,
on the deserted Arizona trail.

© 2014-08-24, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved

(Iambic pentameter)

Six Empty Shells 

Well, I declare

Well, I declare

On artful prints her beauty dwelt

diffused in haze, a pristine bloom,

ethereal her figure svelte

and French perfume.

Well I declare, her love I sought,

unplaced on canvas her response

so diffident her stare and thought,

of renaissance.

Alike a dancing muse she stepped,

her graciousness a veil of night,

caressing wave, the shoreline swept

her smiling bright.

Upon the sands she coasted then,

of Springtime incandescent beam,

an everlasting red cayenne

and fervent dream.

A classic arts connoisseur,

well I declare, my reddened rose,

I yippee yipped with spree and spur

and kissed her nose. :)

© 2014-09-06, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved

(Iambic tetrameter - Iambic dimeter)

wore suit bespoke

wore suit bespoke

They prompted my request's constrain,
- the ghostly harbor and sixth sense -
I knew the mowing death's sequence,
- same notion haunted me again.

Have heard the windy, short advice -

of those who left along their pride, 

and sailed on the ocean's tide,
"disputed man must be precise".

The storm was thumping rhythmic waves,

the fates demanding new death tolls,
in town the women wore black stoles,
the 'killed in duel' dwell in graves;

As dusk befell, our vessel moored
inside the port on shoot down's edge,
much red was shed on cypress sedge,
my instincts sharpened and inured.

Tall stood he on the wharf, I knew
the ropes were whipping on the mast,
we drew the guns, he lifted fast,
my guns shot down, respect to ensue.

I felt the slug, he moved across,
already a ghost on moorings stood,
I tasted blood, got up, I should,
with red drops staining grass and moss.

(I saw her standing on the field
amid red poppies and tall trees,
her thought became my holy shield,
bestowing forth, her grace in breeze.

She spread her arms and called me aft,
above the clouds to Astral Halls
cognizing specter, flying waft
where blinking stars transmit their calls.)

Was wearing hat and suit bespoke

with people watching me round-eyed;
perchance a dueler did die,
as darkness wore her reigning cloak.

© 08-05-2012, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic Tetrameter - revised on 2016-08-05)

Her Soul, the Sea (The Ship)

 

Her Soul, the Sea (The Ship)

The shadows deigned in precise sequence
where skylines have conducted fore the ship,
its blackened sight to boss the thought and sense
of sailors that imagined its long trip.

The Northern wind was cutting like a knife,
injurious, its messages behowled,
equilibrating on the brink of life
of the foregone to seas, the thinking prowled.

The ship's black smoke ascended to the skies
from supercilious tall funnels, smog,
bestowing sacrificial offing size
to sovereign Gods that lived inside the fog.

The tidal and enshrouding foaming spills,-
advanced the dusk, advanced the bawling horn's
unearthly sounding out; the flowing rills
retracted in the sea its crying mourns.

In front of us, the ship's displacement thrilled
approaching, so, magnificent the moors;
Her Soul, the Sea, her eulogy instilled
inside our minds and souls, where faith adjures.

Pristine the sea, baptized the scene in depths
where psyches stay in canted-over keels,
deceptive were the reasoned-out percepts,
infused where catastrophe conceals.

The night descended when the ship's steel gaze
examined curious and measured me,
proposing wedlock and a fate of blaze,
my competence, demanding, in the sea.

Across the Straits, young lady Sadness kissed
with ripping cold my twenty years and eyes,
resembling Her Soul, the Sea, amidst
the Northern winds that howled and my demise.

© 10-15-2013 G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic Pentameter)

Her Soul, The Sea (The Ship)

Lady A. On The Meadowland

Lady A. On The Meadowland

The lady walks upon the meadowland
composing a romantic pentameter twixt
the sovereign trees, meantime the zephyr sound
and her Iambic knitting intermix. 

So amorous, she paces on the ground,
where gracefully the butterflies romance,
divine her inspiration, in command,
requires in verse the nature's élégance.

Her carefree doggy jumps around the trees
and blithely at the insects laughs and woofs,
the bees encounter blooms inside the breeze
and harvest nectar nighly and aloof.

Whate'er the maiden's inspiration forms
disperses round the flowers and the trees,
the dreamy pentameter, hence, transforms
to abstract lines the buzzing bees appease.

"Woof hither not, ungrateful doggy mine,
my lines' last syllables repose unstressed;
while thou art dancing round the blooms and pines,
I'll miss the deadline of the Greek's contést.

Apollo, bless my metered création
and countenance me as thy designee
while I pronounce my heart's déposition
to be perpetually thy devotee."

© 2015-02-01, G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved
(Iambic pentameter)

That night, I walked the street

That night, I walked the street

Beneath the clouds, I sensed the tears she shed,

her visioning of birds that fled in pairs,

as dusk descended on our torn affairs,

the cotton fog was dense - my only wed.

It was September then, the month of rain;

the harvest ended and the maidens passed,

persistently the nimbus clouds amassed,

- drops falling randomly to our refrain.

The maid was walking in the rain and mist;

our glances, blades to cut-and-thrust, beset

each others mind on sacrificial debt,

the beckoning of fates conjoined our tryst.

So somberly she walked that month of Fall,

pristine, accustomed to the old vendette;

the rain was falling on our courting duet

revolting to our burning blood and souls.

She wore black clothes due to her lost affiance,

betrothal waging to the recent war

of forty-nine, injurious memoir,

her mind was set to fight; she stared askance.

That night, I walked the street below her louvres,

she watched; her velvet eyes and beauty braw

her feral attitude, were bold and wraw

when she inhaled my scent and aural oeuvres.

As I recall, the moon had risen round;

untamed she came, defined inside its light;

against the wall her flesh became my rite,

to carnal prayer metamorphosed on ground.

And then from molten skies, the rain began

with eyes reflecting flash, on earth she groped,

with me, confessor of her sins, eloped,

beneath the rain, her kissed lips to part.

© 08-06-2012, G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved

(Iambic pentameter)

black crayon

black crayon

The winter's spirit and advancing maid

above the landscape fled before nightfall

her hand extended to regale ahead

a glass of red and her betrothal call.

The molecules of mist descended on

the surface of the pond where shadows welled

the lady's features made from black crayon

and glancing sacrosanct, my eyes beheld.

The shadows of the field surrounded me

her bridal veiling o'er my ghostly mast,

a standing versus the horizons tree,

diffused its branches fore the gray contrast.

2015-07-28, © Giorgio A.V. All rights reserved

(Iambic pentameter)

black crayon

The weaving song

 The weaving song

The radio messages have warned
cause fates designed our last escape,
their weaving vocals singing mourned
behind the weather's hanging drape.

Concealed the routes, spilled wine,
blue ribbons o'er a twilit throne
discolored undulate alone,
seas destined are our crew to shrine.

Her windy assonance I knew,
befallen soul's charisma lost,
enthralled she, so, my nineteenth ghost
in orchards of engaging rue.

The ribbons beckon neath the stars,
while ocean asks his crossing tolls
the scythes of Northern swanning calls
conduct our unforgiven mars.

Beneath the sky, invited groom,
the maiden sensed my solemn bid,
my weaved fate on ancient loom,
the ocean depths' insatiate greed.

Begotten valor, thistle proud,
she threaded her betrothing due,
and o'er the brines, engulfing shroud,
our ship encompassed and crew.

© 05-22-2015, G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)