NUMBER 1 POEM IN GREEK (with a few mistakes I am sure).

ΟΤΑΝ ΜΠΟΡΩ ΝΑ ΓΡΑΨΩ ΕΝΑ ΠΟΙΜΑ ΣΤΑ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ


Όταν μπορώ να γράψω ενα ποίημα στα ελληνικά

Θα μιλήσω για τα καύσωνα τα καλοκακίρια
Όταν κοιμάμαι το απόγευμα.

Θα μιλήσω για τους κρυούς χειμώνες
Όταν η μυρωιά του καμένου ξύλου με ακολουθεί.

Θα μιλήσω για το φθινόπωρο
Όταν οι αγρότες φαίνονται κουρασμένοι.

Θα μιλησώ για την άνοιξη
Όταν αναπνέει ο Θεός ζωή σε όλα.

Και Θα σας πω πως νιώθω
Όταν κοιτάζω τα αστέρια
Στο φωτεινό ουρανό,

Πως νιώθω οταν ακουώ τα πουλάκια
Στην ψιλή μαρκίζα,

Πως νιώθω όταν αγκαλιάζω τα δέντρα.

Και θα σας εξηγήσω γιατί είμαι ερωτευμένη με την Ελλάδα.

Εν τω μεταξύ θα καθίσω στη σκιά,
Οι λόγκες των ακτίνων το ήλιου
Με θυμίζουν τον Αχιλλέα.

Jane Sharp
September 2008

JACKSON POLLOCK?

Jackson Pollock passes by in sleep
A name I keep on my lips
Till morning,
Not knowing who he is
Or why I want to meet him.
He spills out roughly over my dry tongue
Into consciousness,
And even as I stretch and yawn,
Thinking daily things,
My mind brings forward
Jackson Pollock.

So I open a window and ask space for an answer.
Had I come across the name in conversation?
Had the information flashed across a screen
Surreptitiously hidden from me
To be revealed in dream?

Could it be that Jackson Pollock, in death,
Was left splashing the universe with his colour?

Was he yet weaving snaking lavender threads of pure emotion?
The unfettered Jackson Pollock.

It is no surprise to find the man
Behind the name had, in life,
Trapped something of his genius on canvas.
Chaotic scenes of brilliance woven
Like Aztec visions of hell
Transcendental spiders’ webs within which a part of Jackson Pollock remains visible,
Captured like a snapshot American Indian.

Three names were in the dark but only one remains a spark: Jackson Pollock.

I wonder, will someone in some other time awake with my name in their head?
Are we ever dead?

ODE TO A MARKETING WHIZ

Oh soft the sweet computer calls you by
And flirting bids you sit for hours on end
'Clicking on' and 'keying in' which I, shy
Of talking by machine my right defend
To play Sudoku, watch TV or sew
And silently do pass my day (and night)
Alone, widowed by a whiz whose bloggin
Pays for my homely comforts, don't ye know!
And though I'd love some male attention, right,
Nothing beats a profitable 'log in'.

Jane Sharp
Lonely Poets' Society

A HEART THAT'S AS COLD AS STONE

(I wrote this song in the aftermath of the split between G and me)

It doesn't bother me that you hurt me so
It doesn't bother me I'll just let you go
It doesn't bother me that you told me lies
It doesn't bother me that you criticize
And now you're all alone
A heart that's cold as stone
And crying in the dark.

It doesn't bother me that you loved and lost
It doesn't bother me that I pay the cost
It doesn't bother me that I burnt my hand
It doesn't bother me it's just a ripple in the sand
And now you're all alone
A heart that's cold as stone
And crying in the dark.

No more dancing in the summer sun
Two hearts that now will never be as one
You locked me out and now you're all alone
With a heart that's as cold as stone.

It doesn't bother me that you locked me out
It doesn't bother me now there is no doubt
It doesn't bother me that you lost your way
It doesn't bother me our love was easy thrown away
And now you're all alone
A heart that's cold as stone
And crying in the dark.

No more dancing in the summer sun
Two hearts that now will never be as one
You locked me out and now you're all alone
With a heart that's as cold as stone...repeat and fade...

FLYING HIGH

It's like this,
Yer flying along in the middle of nowhere,
'Cos the sky is full of nothing and 30,000 feet is a long way up,
When outside yer see a man in a top hat peddling for all he's worth
On a bicycle.
That's strange, yer think,
And because nobody else sees the guy (or at least doesn't let on they 'ave),
Yer think, nah, couldn't 'a' been, and continue reading the in-flight mag
Which 'ad been so boring as to cause ye to look out the window in the first place.
All the same, yer think, that guy was mighty real to me, and ye look around
To see if anyone else is looking 'disturbed'.
Yer don't want to say anything 'cos yer
Know it's impossible for a man in a top hat to be cycling throught the air
At 30,000 feet.
And anyways yer don't want people to think you've 'ad an embolism.

He was wearing yeller trousers too,
But he weren't a clown, at least I don't think so.
He were just 'sit-up-and-beg' enjoying the ride.
I could tell he were enjoying the ride 'cos he 'ad such a 'gleeful'
Smile on his face.

I can't believe no-one else saw 'im.

I look out the window again half expecting to see some of his mates
On the same track,
But no,
No such luck.
And now I feel sort of privileged to 'ave seen 'im,
A bit like descovering some rare botanical thing in the 'edgrow.
There's loads o' times yer the only one that notices these things.

I wonder where he was off to,
That chap on the bike, 30,000 feet up, in the middle of nowhere.
It could just 'ave been a weekend thing,
People do all sorts o' crazy things on a weekend.

Ye', yeller trousers... and a blue shirt...

Must 'a' been a Chelsea supporter!