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LEFT ME L A N C HOL Y
VASSILIS LA M B R O P O U LO S
Since the very start of the Trump Presidency American poets have rapidly
mobilized in news-making numbers and noises to participate in protests
across geographical and generational divides. W ith a remarkable sense of
urgency (witness Boston Review's collection Poems for Political Disaster, pub-
lished in January 2017), they have been repurposing old media and creat-
ing new modes to reach a public eager to harken to verse again. Many of
these poets are experiencing for the first time what it means to write under
national emergency and uncertainty, what it takes to join forces and raise
your voice in defiance. This dramatic experience may make them particu-
larly attuned to the voices of the Greek writers assembled in the splendid
anthology Austerity Measures: The New Greek Poetry, edited by Karen Van
Dyck (New York Review Books 2017):
We stayed awake
in the quiet of our small room
stubbornly, whining
like children treated unjustly
waiting without dinner
to grow up all at once
in one night
and finally receive
the explanation for their unjust punishment
and the world.
(Danae Sioziou, 189)
I want to understand
(I try to understand)
that which hurries to give the mind its freedom
that which, at the heights of refinement,
asks the mind for its freedom back
the whole of history
the script and the knife.
(Dimitra Kotoula, 67)
Thetis
the one in position
perhaps
always the one who posits
as we know even she
who refused to be placed
to a man to surrender
becoming
The messianic belief that the revolution would fulfill a human covenant
and redeem history has been renounced. The younger generations feel
“Imprisoned, lifers of later/ We wait for it, it never comes” (Yiannis Doukas,
59).
The same mood prevails in another excellent anthology that cov-
ers complementary ground, Futures: Poetry oj the Greek Crisis, edited by
Theodoras Chiotis (2016). The bankruptcy of the revolution, along with
the exhaustion of postcolonial emancipation (and even more, in the Greek
case, the extraordinary compromises of the Left government with foreign
creditors), have inspired in young poets a combination of resignation and
resilience that we might call melancholic (as opposed to optimistic) dignity:
I have no fatherland
I live within words
That are shrouded in black
And held hostage ...
My words do not speak on the news
They’re out hustling every night
My words are proletarian,
slaves like me
They work in sweatshops night and day
I want no more dirges
I want no more verbs belonging to the non-combatants
I need a new language, not pimping
I’m waiting for a revolution to invent me
Hungering for the language of class war
A language that has tasted insurgency
I shall create it!
Ah, what arrogance!
OK, I’ll be off
But take a look: in my face the dawn of a new poetry is breaking
No word will be left behind, held hostage,
I’m seeking a new passage.
(Jazra Khaleed, 157-9)