Mediterraneo
by George Kalogeris
Home > No. 13 > Poetry

after Montale

Antico, I'm drunk on the sound of your voice
pouring from the mouth of a heavy green bell
that swings forward with each cresting wave,
before the cathedral collapses on itself.

And now the summer house of my childhood
cannot be remembered apart from a shoreline
known for the glisten of its scorching sand
and mosquitoes that swarm dense as dust clouds.

Standing in your presence still turns me to stone
when the waves cross and their steady cadence
washes over me again, even though I no longer
feel worthy to hear your grave injunction.

You were the one who first made it clear
that my fears were groundless, and the turmoil
I so often felt swirling up inside
was simply the spume of your constant churning.

Instructions that led me to plumb the depths
of my being, as if I could sound the meaning
of your dangerous maxim: to be vast and various
as the shifting currents, but anchored in nothing.

As if I could purge myself of impurities
as you do each day, tossing up on the beaches
the filthy refuse of your dark abyss,
scattered among cork and seaweed and starfish.

This is but one of a selection of poems by this poet. To read the rest, please continue your travels in the Republic by purchasing No. 13, Summer 2004.

George Kalogeris' bio is forthcoming.