AMY MIMS - «ΣΙΛΒΕΡΙΔΗ» SATIRICAL (AND OTHER ) PROSE-POEMS ΣΑΤΙΡΙΚΑ (ΚΑΙ ΑΛΛΑ ) ΠΕΖΟΤΡΑΓΟΥΔΑ A ATHENS / ΕΝ ΑΘΗΝΑΙΣ 2011
AMY MIMS - «ΣΙΛΒΕΡΙΔΗ» SATIRICAL (AND OTHER ) PROSE-POEMS ΣΑΤΙΡΙΚΑ (ΚΑΙ ΑΛΛΑ ) ΠΕΖΟΤΡΑΓΟΥΔΑ A ATHENS / ΕΝ ΑΘΗΝΑΙΣ 2011
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SATIRICAL (AND OTHER ) PROSE-POEMS A
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Once upon a time (and by Apollo, twas a very fine time) Mankind, enamoured of Freedom, had to fight the Tanks. Nowadays, it is the Super-Bankers and their damned Banks which bankrupt Freemen for the Rich, through Moody s, S&P, and Fitch with electronically forged «debts». Even I, the quondam worshiper of those good old times, have became an addict of Electronics indispensable nowadays. And so, instead of struggling to create an eternal, beautiful Edition of Poetry with Byzantine calligraphy and El Grecoan icons on the emerald-incrusted golden cover of handmade manuscripts, I herewith bow down to the inevitable compromise with sine qua non electronics despite my own seventh threnody, entitled Computeritis*. * (See: Seven Deadly Ways to Kill an Artist ). 7
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IN THIS INHUMAN DAY AND AGE, when the sacred word FREEDOM has been so brutally abused, these prose-poems are dedicated to the ideal of a truly Free Mankind. A quick glance at the Titles of many texts will make this crystal clear especially in Parts 1 and 2, as well as the motto for Part 3 (quoted from Joan Baez stirring song: Oh Freedom! Oh Freedom!/ Before I ll be a slave/ I ll be buried in my grave/ And go home to my Lord/ And be free. ) In preparing this final version of the book, I ve decided to keep the English and the Greek texts separate. Although originally intended as a companion to my immediately preceding anthology of lyrical poetry (with a similar format juxtaposing the English and Greek versions on adjacent pages), in the present collection of satirical (in the broadest sense of satire, occasionally interspersed with lyrical ) prose poems written in English, at very different times, (between 1960 and 2010), I realize that it is impossible to force the Greek version to harmonize with the precise details of the English. This explains various differences and deletions in the Greek. For example, The Black Nomad was first written at the very end of the 1970 s, when the last of the Hippy Generation (except for the one-and-only very Last Hippy, reported to be still alive in a Matala Cave, in southern Crete) had reached The End. But in certain ways, the English text is still timely today. Nevertheless, for readers, who have not actually experienced the Hippy Generation, it may be confusing to repeat all the details in the English original. On the other hand, certain other texts may be more meaningful mainly for Greek readers. Indeed, this discovery has led me to write two different epilogues : 9
The first (particularly for native English speakers), ends with an egocentric appeal to the Poet patron-saint of my own particular life, to help me become free to sing in the Sea. In the second epilogue, with the compassionate moral support of a ninety-year-old monk named Ambrosios and a Greek Orthodox icon of the Parthena-Panayia-Maria (as well as the blessings of Homer s Odyssey ) I find the renewed strength to go back to the World and to go on fighting for what I believe in. A far more humble (in the good sense) and more human Greek way of looking at life. 10
PART ONE FREE THE WORLD FROM PLANETARCHS AND PUNKS j
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THE ATHENIAN EPHEBES 2003 a.d. AND THE PLANETARCH S WAR The only Light against the black insanity of the Planetarch s War: the Resistance of People all over the World and above all, of the eternally young (regardless of actual age) as the adolescents of Athens demonstrated this springtime 2003 a.d. every other day, day after day, marching through the streets of Athens making Athens come back to life making Athens smoulder, as in the days of Grigoris Lambrakis and Petroulas, with the Laughing Boy ever present making Athens burst into flames, as in the era of the Junta with the 18th Slim Song of the Bitter Motherland resounding yet again and the trident of the Sun goading the Greeks not to bow their head. These Athenian ephebes 2003 a.d. were galvanized into forming a brave phalanx with a huge reproduction of Picasso s Guernica and only two words underneath: BASTA GUERRA! as they stamped their feet in rhythm to the two big drums leading them forwards. These Athenian ephebes 2003 a.d. were electrified into singing whole stanzas from Elytis Axion Esti, as they recalled the youngsters killed at the Polytechnic, mourning their brothers of 1973, when they themselves hadn t yet been born. These same Athenian ephebes 2003 a.d. were stung into scrawling scurrilous slogans on the walls outside the Hilton Bordello ( Opium-Den of the Bourgeoisie, they christened it), as well as that semi-humorous placard inscribed: It s all the fault of Columbus! 13
These Athenian ephebes 2003 a.d. were not duped by the double-faced promises of Western politicians; and transcending the triple impasses of Triplomacy, they planted olive-trees full of silver sprigs in the bloodstained ground of Ghoudi, transforming the former Disasters of War into a blessed Garden for Peace. These same Athenian ephebes (Anno Domini 2003) are keeping alive the Greek People s age-old struggle for Freedom genuine FREEDOM not the travesty of so-called Liberty on the lips of Planetarchs! (Damnation on them for defiling the sacred word F reedom better remember what Thucydides said about the devastating ways of debasing words until they lose their original meaning, or even worse, end up being twisted into their opposite: as when the perfidious Peace-Monger (Peace a la Turca ) Ecevit unleashed that infamous Peace Mission in Cyprus) Against all this tricky mendacity and assassins schemes the only lasting source of hope for our era is the everlasting Protest of the Young People who still have the courage and the strength to wage a constant battle for Peace on this Earth. But in April of that third year of the third millenium, there could be no hope of future young generations; there could not even be a breath of Springtime in the withering blitz of the Planetarch s war. No! Despite whole walls full of lush clusters of wistaria, despite the reddest of red poppies, despite the yellow daisies growing as tall as giant sunflowers in the greenest fields ever seen in Greece 14
despite all the flowers of all Creation, there could be no joy this spring of 2003 a.d. The very fruits on the most fruitful fruit trees were rotten at the core before they had time to ripen. Yes, even in the orchards of Edessa with their heavenblessed apricots and plums, there was not a single cornucopia in this third year of the third millennium, no fructification anywhere, a curse upon the Planetarch s Wasteland. In order to exorcise my anger for the annihilation of Springtime, I decided to retreat into my own space where I could unfurl a rainbow banner for World Peace and listen, unimpeded, to our ancient LP record of Jesus Christ Superstar. And there and then, thanks to those explosive rock rhythms, I remembered the fiendish wild-cat Judas, possessed by malice and emitting hyena shrieks, after Christ admitted: Then I was inspired, Now I m sad and tired. And suddenly, I was so angry with the traitor Judas and he reminded me so vividly of the traitor Planetarch that I rediscovered my former fighting spirit and began to wave my own Peace banner against the warmonger Bushman. Just at the point I was about to fade away, I came back to life, eager and ready to add my voice to all the other voices still calling out for Peace. 15
ARSON Blackening every midsummer nightmare in the dream-laden land of Greece, whole oases of olive-trees and lemon-trees and evergreen living green Trees are murdered by sylvacidal arsonists. Whole verdant islands all the way from Samos to Thasos, from Chios to Ikaria, whole heavenly peninsulae from Pelion to the Mani, and from the Halkidiki to Euboea whole mountains from Parnes and Pendeli to once upon a time glorious Hymettos are systematically decimated, ready to be reduced to anthracite. Each successive holocaust leaving in its wake zillions of diabolical scarecrows and skeletons of headless gazelles stranded in wastelands inhabited only by stray packs of howling wolf-hounds. Back in the comfortable city, anaesthetized TV-viewers sit back passively to watch show after show (in between endless ads) with far less passion than they expend to watch the daily football matches, swallowing all the pomp in the funeral orations of hypocritical politicians broadcast in the name of the victims of each holocaust fake rhetorical speeches full of mendacious phrases, such as: The Government, as always, took impeccable measures to face the emergency! ( Impeccable!, but non-existent ). Words, hollow words-words-words, quickly drowned out by the shouts of the football fans. Meanwhile, the Arsonists the actual criminals, who should be hanging on the gallows for all mankind to spit upon and shun, remain unpunished, always slipping through the fingers of the lawless Law, abetted by the inhuman indifference of brainwashed slaves to all the televized lies. 16
If the Rebel Prometheus had foreseen just how the Greeks would misuse the precious gift he gave them maybe he d have given them Water instead? Perhaps it would have been better for Mankind to remain in prehistoric caves instead of new-fangled skyscrapers erected on the ruins of the forests. Too late now for Prometheus to reclaim his double-edged gift,but under the Damoclean threat that all too soon not a single tree will be left standing, let Prometheus set fire to the souls of the Greeks. Summoning all his immortal strength (unlike that poor mortal fireman, young Karamalengos, burnt alive atop Mount Hymettos, arm-in-arm with two other firemen trying to extinguish the holocaust) let the god of fire lead the Greeks to join together in Panhellenic Resistance against Sylvacide. Let Prometheus voice resound again: Greeks, it s time at last to forget your differences. Time to transform impotent rage and frustration into omnipotent action. Time to wake up and unite, instead of destroying yourselves in the holocaust of Discord. 17
THE BLACK PEDLAR (2000 a.d.) In the public Square of the Big City, a black man is trying hard to peddle his wares: an ebony elephant, an elegantly shaped bow-and-arrow, a dark wooden box handcarved by African artisans nobody, not a single person expresses any interest in the black man s work although not long ago, other great Peoples were also forced to become pedlars in foreign lands. This particular black refugee, a tall princely man in a magnificent caftan and satin cap, walks with a crutch, limping back and forth across the Square where the Bankers have ordered huge portions of food (much of which they leave uneaten, to be thrown away in bulging rubbish-bins). The black pedlar, although desperately hungry, is too proud to beg, too frightened of the eagle-eyed police on the look-out for all coloured refugees, with orders to expell them like flocks of hunted blackbirds, with their sacks and caftans flapping in the winds. Forced to flee the western cannibals; trapped hopelessly between the devil and the deep blue sea, these black men know that if they go back to Africa they will surely die of starvation, but if they stay in the Western World, they will die of the inhuman indifference of rich pigs glutted on wasted foodfests, pigs wallowing in the mud of money and contempt. Oh you poor proud Black Man with that black sack of beauty on your back and that black hole of sadness inside your soul Black Man seesawing between No Man s Land and Nowhere, teetertottering in the streets of the Big Cities of the West, infested with Alcatraz skyscrapers and heartless inmates, who no longer have a stomach for helping hungry strangers or sheltering personae non gratae oh poor Black Man such a long long way from home where can you go now along with all the other uprooted homeless outcasts of this inhospitable World in this post-brechtian Era of Beggars, mutely, without a single word, crying out to deaf passerby I M HUNGRY! 18
TO THE BLACK NOMAD (1979 a.d.) (Flash-Back) Nevertheless, we must ask ourselves in the Year of our Lord, 2000, how has the World ever strayed so far from those days those were the days! of the Sixties, when the youngsters (and all the Young in Spirit), backed by Baez and Dylan, used to chant: Black is beautiful! The Black Panthers are beautiful! Angela Davis is beautiful! Above all, the Dream of Martin Luther King is beautiful! Those youngsters were so full of belief, they even believed Jimmy Hendrix was beautiful when he burned his white guitar with kerosene They even believed in Janis Joplin when she sailed in from Outer Space, decked out with feathers and with a desperate smile, from bangled wrists to spangled breast screeching outraged shrieks against coloured T.V. and the famous Mercedes Benz They even believed in her when this incarnation of the agitated Sixties sang that Freedom was just another word when there was nothing else to love or lose! Although these same youngsters were willing to die for what they believed back then Oh yes, in the Sixties, the young people did believe unlike the hundred-yearold youngsters of the 70 s, who believed in nothing at all, as when they boarded the Trans-European (from Athens to London) vehicle, that ramshackle vehicle nicknamed The Magic Bus. Now all the passengers aboard this Magic Bus are supposed to be going home. But in grim reality, they re just plain lost. Like Frank O Learey from County Cork, on his way to Berlin to bail his Slovenian girlfriend out of jail: Frank with his dyed red feathery wig and shiny rhinestone in his right ear and his wild little mutt cavorting up and down the ouzo-stained aisle of that Magic Bus. And like chinless little Cynthia, on her way to Iceland 19
to work in a fishery; after a long stint on an Israeli Kibbutz she was trying to earn her fare back home to some godforsaken hole in Australia But the most lost of all the lost passengers on that ramshackle vehicle is nicknamed Mr. Trinidad : Oh, Mr. Trinidad, where are you going? Stranded out there in the middle of nowhere where are you off to, you hundred year-old youngster, you wanderling lost in latitudes far beyond your own ken When your fellow passengers ask where you re from, they haven t got a clue where Trinidad is, and your answer is mumbled in a sleepy drawl: Hey man, don you know no geography? Dat s my home in de Carribean! But when the bus-driver drops you off near the outskirts of Munich, amidst thousands of giant posters of Dangerous Terrorists, it s your turn not to know and you call out for Help : Hey man, where am I at? Hey, where is this place? Why are you guys dropping me out here? I jes wanna go home But oh, Mr. Trinidad, you can t possibly go back home: you re a homeless fatherlandless motherless orphan. How did you ever get so lost, without anything to believe in without anything to fight for even Vietnam s faded out from your Map you ve really got nowhere to belong, nowhere to go So you d better get off this ramshackle bus going nowhere! No, Mr. Trinidad, it s time to stop rambling from one No Man s Land to the next. Or else Mr. Trinidad, you ll end up abandoned in Outer Space. 20
FREE THE MOON FROM THE ASTRONAUTS! Hi there, Neil Armstrong! Hi there, man! Gee whiz, wow! Hey, Neil baby, how s it feel to be back home? How s it like in quarantine, behind that T.V. screen? Jesus Jack is this all the Moon has come to? A heap of old grey stones Moonstones dead stones dem stones, dem stones, dem dry stones Moonstones as cold and mouldy as the old stones in The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World WONDER ONE HALIKARNASSOS: (or Bodrum, as it s called today) celebrated as the birthplace of Herodotus and the super-colossal Monument built by Artemisia for her late husband (until the time came for the Crusaders to defile it, using it for limestone). And now, two-and-a-half millenia after its glorious start, it has ended up a pitiful pit of miserable grey stones in an abandoned farm-yard smothered in donkey-dung, with a toothless hag wrapped in zebra-striped veils, charging 21
two pennies for her incredible parody of a Guided Tour Through The Fabulous* Past. WONDER TWO EPHESOS: Temple of Temples with the thousand columns dedicated to the Goddess of Fertility displaying her hundred breasts (until the self-appointed madman HEROSTRATOS set fire to the Temple and burnt it to the ground) and now, not even a pitiful pit of old grey stones remains, only a handful of pitch-black broken rocks. WONDER THREE RHODES: The infamous Colossus of Rhodes: But here the Wonder ended up Invisible nothing survives except a shiny pile of brand-new stone slabs for the seaside promenade. As for the remaining Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, silence is best. Let s leave those poor old stones in peace. Likewise for the Moonstones: DON T MUCK ABOUT WITH THE MOON! * Fabulous: hardly the right word for that messy heap of dead stones, deader than the Moonstones. 22
(as the tragi-comic Irishman sang in his play). KEEP MYSTERY MYSTERIOUS as the fanatics howl. ANTI-LUNARIZATION as the reactionaries bark. But all these phrases are just words, words, words as disappointingly empty and dead as the old stones of the Seven Wonders and the Moonstones of the Astronauts And yet, for us humans who are trapped between the dead-ends of the petrified past and the freezing lunar future, the dilemma remains: How can we go on? Neil Armstrong of this fleeting moment Wow! what honours they ve heaped on you, wow! what national anthems, what star-spangled banners what speeches and rhetorical promises with loud-mouthed Senators swearing to vote for you as the Best Vice-President of the U.S.A.! With the President himself awarding you a gold medal for being the First Conqueror of Space, as he broadcasts, on world-wide TV networks: AMERICA HAS CONQUERED SPACE! And yet, what a fake Conquest In fact, just what have you conquered? An uninhabited and uninhabitable planet whose only products are mouldy Moonstones. Vanity, vanity, vanity of vanities. 23
The moon will never be the same again. After its invasion, the beautiful illusion has been ruined. There will be no more magic anywhere. Honeymoons will cease to exist. No more magic wishes, only humdrum monotony will rule the World. Dear Neil Armstrong, of course it s not your fault! As long as you were groping towards that moon-sledge, we continued holding our breath for your safe return. We were there by your side, step by step, suspended there with you, spinning with you towards the mysteries you would meet, thrilled by your brave pirouettes in Space. But oh that godawful welcome home like a Super-Star and the Farce began! And then, all that presidential rhetoric and the Farce built up! And finally, those false promises of Glory and the Farce collapsed! Instead of the vain boasts of loud-mouthed politicians perhaps a thoughtful enigma expressed by a latterday Pythia might be more apt: Who dares to conquer the Space inside himself containing Infinity within his own infinitesimal Soul? 24
FREE THE ARTISTS FROM ALL MAUSOLEUM-MUSEUMS Oh, how I hate Museums. I d like to see the whole World glutted with their Mausoleum remains. A curse upon these Museless Museums where hordes of bored Art Lovers pass their time flibberty-gibbeting in front of Titian or Rubens (it s all the same to them), as they titter: What a lovely painting! Wunderschön! n est-ce pas, dahling! Oh, I go mad inside Museums. First and foremost, there s so much glass! Those horrid glass panes on top of almost every painting. Impossible to see beyond the reflection of one s own face. Next: the sounds of all those idiotic comments of the fur-garbed snobs scurrying through the crowded premises of the Mausoleum. However, for the sake of argument, suppose that a glassfree work of art is finally found and one can actually see the painting (and suppose the bibble-babble snobs have finally disappeared, on their way to the next cocktail party), just then, another nightmare begins: the jumbled voices of guided tours blared in a hundred different languages, a deafening. Tower of Babel led by polyglot tourist guides (the loud substitutes for the rare, oldfashioned poetic Guide with her mellifluous voice quoting the most appropriate treasures of World Literature, from Homer to Goethe ) Alas, the present-day climate of frenzied haste leaves no room for Poetry. Electronic paraphernalia, (i-pods, digitalia, etcetera, etcetera) threatens everyone with electrocution. Panic-stricken, we try to find the nearest Exit. But even if all these impediments are removed, these Museless Mausoleums will still remain prisons walled into claustrophobic enclosures plucked out of their natural settings where the works of art were born. (Ach, where are the hills of Fiesole? Where the hidden gardens of Andalusia? Where the flowering meadows of southern Provence?) Inside the Museless Museums the paintings wither, in danger of fading into cold lifeless abstractions incarcerated in impersonal morgues. 25
Oh, there is something horrifying about Museums, but also boring, like a dull Encyclopedia trying (in vain) to summarize ten-thousand centuries of Creation. On the contrary, the FREE MUSEUM we are dreaming of will respect the unique surroundings of each Artist and above all else, will protect the Light the blessed, ever-changing Light each painter saw while he painted. Consequently, the Founding Fathers of our Free Museum will forbid all permanent lighting systems all panes of glass on any work of art all Tower of Babel guided tours. Furthermore, there will be no ceilings to conceal the light. Indeed, there will be no walls at all! Our MUSEUM must BE OUT-OF-DOORS! Out of doors! our far more practical Benefactors protest. Well... as if the painters works are out of doors, we answer triplomatically, so as not to offend the Patrons. We are not demanding anything difficult: just a wisp... a sprig... a fragrant scent... a whispered air... to suggest a poetic detail akin to each Painter. Near the Tintorettos, we would plant a graceful willow-tree and then ask Aeolos to send a gentle lilting breeze to stir the branches We would make wistaria twine among the angelic landscapes of Fra Angelico We would scatter baskets of scarlet apples throughout the meadows frequented by Breughel For Toledo s master, we would summon lightning through black clouds and wind-lashed olive trees. We d bring yellow jonquils to Rembrandt... terra cotta water-jugs the colour of the earth in Andalusia to Picasso... octopus monophthalmic creatures of the sea to Hieronymus Bosch... Giotto would have plenty of cypresses and umbrella-topped pine-trees... Van Gogh a single flowering almond branch... while a few lacey graceful ferns would billow wherever the lovely maidens of Botticelli float nothing very grand just an almost imperceptible detail to remind us of the quintessential aura of each Painter. 26
At the risk of appearing whimsical, we might also add several details about the grounds surrounding our Dream Museum: They must be full of sunlight, but whenever needed, also shade. There must be bubbling brooks gurgling musically with Mozartian music. Somewhere nearby in a mountain grotto (like the Muses Cave on Mount Parnassos) is a rainbow boundary marking one side of the Dream Museum. On the other side, the precipice above Castalia s fountain has another rainbow boundary. Indeed all the boundaries of the grounds outside the Dream Museum are rainbows, rich in iridescent colours. In a single phrase, the surrounding grounds are full of Life, freeing the Artists imprisoned works from the gloomy Mausoleum tombs and returning them forever to the Light. Two final decrees binding the Founders of our Free Museum, which requires a Lifetime, not only a fleeting pass-time : The first decree: Works of Art must not be removed from the place where they were created. However greedily prospective Collectors covet the Works, they must recall the odious example of Lord Elgin, with those marble masterpieces he stole gathering only mouldy dust in the British Mausoleum. No! Art defies collectors! ART IS UNCOLLECTABLE! (AS a crass Yankee billionaire learned when he tried to borrow the Parthe - non and transport it to New York, for a Gala Exhibition, which boomeranged and almost killed the Texas Collector into the bargain.) The second decree: Works of Art, which have already been uprooted, should be returned to the place where they were born. A splendid example would be An cient Mycenae: beginning with the ancient stones near the place where once Cassandra sat there, our Free Museum would replace all the tiny Mycenaean statuettes... in every corner of the beehive structures, large amphoras would be placed... on the highest mountain, three diadems of beaten gold and a double axe sharpened to the nth degree of sharpness would adorn a purple chiton... for the underhanded Queen, a blood-red robe should be found, along with two twisted snake-bracelets to clasp the bitch s wrists... and for her 27
valiant daughter, the famous gold ring with the pomegranate-trees and the new moons. Finally, as the undisputed masterpiece: the golden goblets with the bulls and the phoenix-trees would be concealed inside a geometric vase, until the right time comes to toast the fair return of Mycenaean Art to Its birthplace. Such is the Dream of our Free Museum, thereby liberating Artists from the Curse of insatiable Collectors and enabling true Creators to breathe freely in the Light, with the sun and moon shining on them and the offspring of their Imagination. 28
FREE THE YOUNGSTERS FROM BOREDOM Boredom, Boredom eats your brains Hey, you Punks, this is your life! (From a Punk L.P., with The Adicts as they misspell the word Addicts ) They ve sentenced us to twenty years of Boredom. (Leonard Cohen) Ach, Mother Possessed Mother of angels and devils Mother of Punks unaware of where they were a split second ago so a whole generation of lily-livered worms pukes into existence ach, those junk-bunk skunk-drunk funk-dunked Punks. As killers of little children, draping themselves in vampire paraphernalia, they shriek: Beat that brat with a baseball bat! while the Dead Kennedies yelp: I m gonna kill you and skin you alive! and Tomato Do-Plenty and his Gang gag the youngsters and the fangs of the Mud Club wanna hurt you Meanwhile, Chipmunk Punk creeps slyly inside a vagina while Bridget O Sexicon dressed only in soapy lather makes love with a shaving machine blathering away about Test-Tube Babies. Meanwhile, the junkiest of the Punks (Big-Shot Simmons) 29
confesses his obsession with screwing zillions of horny females and watching The Exorcist 26 times while the Sex Pistols, led by Sid Vicious, craftily ask: Who killed Bambi? and then as easily as scratching their crotch they mutilate their mates while The Talking Heads fix altars to Lucifer complaining that Heaven s crowded with namby-pamby harps no sex no fun no dives to visit and the sex-starved Germs squirm and scream: We re Lexicon Devils! Give us your brain. Meanwhile, battalions of blasphemous Punks flaunting Murder spelled backwards on their armbands: Redrum! wend their slimy way down the AC-DC s Highway to Hell oozing with dirty deeds done dirt cheap dragging innocent sixteen-year-old ex-virgins down the drain whence there is no return no rebirth. Rebirth, for the Punks is only an L.P. title on a diabolical record-jacket decorated with a scarlet-horned Dracula mocking God and apeing Satan. oh Mother of crumbling identities and cement cities oh homeless Mother of displaced demons oh Mother who no longer know where you are or where we are Mother of a beatless bootless generation Mother of this sunk generation of Punks who scare me to death with their spaced-out spacelessness. 30
THREE BRIEF EXCERPTS from THREE PUNK SONGS (The previous version of this anti-punk prose-poem was first published in the June 1985 issue of Tetarto, the magazine launched by Manos Hadjidakis in the 1980 s. The 1985 translation of the three Punk Songs was by Yannis Negrepontis. But meanwhile, this year (25 years afterwards), I have reworked the texts so decisively that they are now completely different and therefore require no formal permission from any literary executor. The only thing that remains the same is my wrath against the absolute lack of character in the Punks: their abominable lack of ideals... their pseudo- Satanic violence... their miserable defeatism... and above all, their deadly Boredom. Where, oh where are the Flower Power Hippies, with their slightly naive, but ever vigorous vision the sine qua non of any genuine New Genera - tion.) Excerpt from THE FIRST PUNK SONG (sung by The Adicts ) We re all bored stiff we ain t got nothin to do so we belly-ache and yell and go on and on yellin. We want to escape but there ain t no place to go We re the New Generation trying to have some fun. Excerpt from THE SECOND PUNK SONG (also sung by The Adicts ) Last Saturday night they took me to the Police arrested for robbery and causin trouble They ve caught the wrong guy again! Without any reason, no cause at all they go on and on clobberin my Generation. 32
Excerpt from THE THIRD PUNK SONG (Sung by the Punk gang nicknamed The Stranglers ) When the whole shebang s dead, the war will be ended. But when a no-good victory is won, who ll celebrate then? Tell me who? For the harm that can t ever be set right In my nightmares I used to see Disaster. Now I can feel it. Yeh, I feel it comin closer and closer! 33
PART TWO SWEET -OR- SOUR «PORTRAITS» j
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THE CHILDREN OF JOAN BAEZ Joan Joan all alone on a hilltop in Athens alone without any electronic devices alone with her own guitar and the seven Greek words she has just learned (from the word for Thank you to the word for Freedom ) she s learned these words to be able to come closer to the Greek People but always with her own style and lovely humour: I don t want to leave Greece with the wrong idea: who dares to say the Greeks don t like to sing! I know that s not true! So let s join hands and become one big singing Family! The young people, seated high up on the Rocks of Lycabettus responded by lighting a big torch and shouting to her in English: How beautiful you are! So she continued the bantering dialogue: You must be a long way from the stage if you think I m beautiful! You d better stay where you are, so you don t change your minds! But little by little, the youngsters began coming down and suddenly Baez beckoned for them to come up to the stage. Pandemonium... Jubilation... Almost a stampede, as the youngsters rushed close to her. Consternation on the part of conservative oldsters with high-priced tickets. Consternation on the part of the Organs of Law and Order. But Joan Baez just turned her back on the rich guys and the cops and began to sing for only the young people surrounding her on that crowded stage. For two whole hours, standing upright in their midst, Baez sang for them alone. 37