David Garyan: California Poets Part 6, One Poem
David Garyan - Meteora Greece (photo by Tigran Hovhannisyan)
October 18th, 2023
California Poets: Part VI
David Garyan
One Poem
St. John’s Dance*
Every single word is an exodus for a meeting, canceled many times.
—Yannis Ritsos
On a planet covered only by water, how do drowning people say help?
—Plato
There once was a man
who never tired of anything.
Like a leaf on a tree,
he stayed green the whole year,
but when those fall
seasons came,
he alone didn’t change colors.
And when winter, too,
graced his doorstep,
he neither opened
when it knocked,
nor did he shut any windows—
even when it came in without asking.
For this man, whose name
was EÃmai Kourasménos,
the sea had no shore,
only transient coasts,
and the land no borders,
just short-lived divisions.
His life had begun
like a ruler praying
to be measured.
The scales in his time had left
the plant without markings,
and except for this flaw,
all else seemed perfect.
Those who looked closer
saw his mind’s straightness.
Those who really knew
him saw something else:
He was a yardstick
without a yardstick for measures.
Yet, even the strongest fire
must burn with laws of the flames;
even the toughest
wind mustn’t doubt
the direction it’s given.
EÃmai Kourasménos
had this curious trait,
and so he never
questioned his life’s path:
When people invited him,
he always left the party last.
When kindly asked to leave,
he was the first
not to take offence.
EÃmai Kourasménos lived this way
not because he liked it,
not because people both
hated and loved him—
he simply couldn’t
tire of being hated and loved.
Still, EÃmai Kourasménos
was a man of taste and judgment.
Since he never slept for pleasure,
he drank only the finest coffee.
Since he always had energy,
he bought the most precise watches.
When he explored a new city,
he never walked too much or little.
He visited his mother often,
but always took the longest way there.
When his wife was away,
he never managed to miss her.
When she was in his presence,
he also couldn’t tire of her.
It seemed like Lýpi Kourasménos
had found the perfect husband—
except for some small details:
She could get sapped
walking foreign cities.
When her mother called,
she gladly took shortcuts to visit.
When her husband was away,
she never drained missing him.
When she was there
she felt sure he didn’t care.
So it was that Lýpi Kourasménos
also had taste. And judgment too.
Hence their marriage
couldn’t last.
*The above is an excerpt from a book length-poem, as of yet unfinished.