Poem
Nikos Karouzos
THE STARRY PHOTOGENIC
The man who rushed into most remote griefwithout one single rose
with those eyes that kept their ochre so coarse,
pushing into the half-uncovered deserted chapel
the large crippled silence in the wheelchair of speech,
always aware of the inexhaustible situation: that we are
blood-stained amateurs of the Real
with a mystery which desecrates the intellect dividing
before the skin of the sea, raises Hades that much
higher.
The massive torrential storm smashes the eyeglasses and
great
fear seizes coming events,
forming abscesses in memory.
Flat on the ground of the unquenched silence, a mobile
worm memento.
The life that grows shorter: the great truth.
Whomever the hoe digs in becomes part of hoeing,
whomever drinks the water becomes part of drinking.
Spring comes ever-virginal offering fragrances,
holding by the thinnest of jet-black threads
in the open air of night
the spot where the small owl is, unknown beyond . . .
THE STARRY PHOTOGENIC
![](/media/4/2622_poem_nk-starryphotogenic.gif)
From: Collected Poems
Publisher: Icaros Publishing Company, Athens
Publisher: Icaros Publishing Company, Athens
Poems
Poems of Nikos Karouzos
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THE STARRY PHOTOGENIC
The man who rushed into most remote griefwithout one single rose
with those eyes that kept their ochre so coarse,
pushing into the half-uncovered deserted chapel
the large crippled silence in the wheelchair of speech,
always aware of the inexhaustible situation: that we are
blood-stained amateurs of the Real
with a mystery which desecrates the intellect dividing
before the skin of the sea, raises Hades that much
higher.
The massive torrential storm smashes the eyeglasses and
great
fear seizes coming events,
forming abscesses in memory.
Flat on the ground of the unquenched silence, a mobile
worm memento.
The life that grows shorter: the great truth.
Whomever the hoe digs in becomes part of hoeing,
whomever drinks the water becomes part of drinking.
Spring comes ever-virginal offering fragrances,
holding by the thinnest of jet-black threads
in the open air of night
the spot where the small owl is, unknown beyond . . .
From: Collected Poems
THE STARRY PHOTOGENIC
The man who rushed into most remote griefwithout one single rose
with those eyes that kept their ochre so coarse,
pushing into the half-uncovered deserted chapel
the large crippled silence in the wheelchair of speech,
always aware of the inexhaustible situation: that we are
blood-stained amateurs of the Real
with a mystery which desecrates the intellect dividing
before the skin of the sea, raises Hades that much
higher.
The massive torrential storm smashes the eyeglasses and
great
fear seizes coming events,
forming abscesses in memory.
Flat on the ground of the unquenched silence, a mobile
worm memento.
The life that grows shorter: the great truth.
Whomever the hoe digs in becomes part of hoeing,
whomever drinks the water becomes part of drinking.
Spring comes ever-virginal offering fragrances,
holding by the thinnest of jet-black threads
in the open air of night
the spot where the small owl is, unknown beyond . . .
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