Faux

across the lake a loud machine —

gas powered — blows a yard, don’t let’s revert

to weeds & wildflowers, let’s pay to prune

& sculpt, whack & shave our native earth’s

life — dollarweed pays no bills, chickweed raises

no chickens, the noise exposes the tool’s id —

blower, vile invention, only laggards choose

gas over arms pulling a rake, soil & mold

flying through air allergic & asthmatic victims

wheeze on — exile the mow-blow-&-go teams

down below where blades cut & turbulence flays

week after week, let faux-gardeners pay

with perpetual pain, let’s reweave Gaia’s threads

liberate suburbia from perpetual dread

Process

by Yannis Ritsos

Day by day he disarmed himself. First he stripped off his clothing,

a little later his underwear, then later his skin,

and finally his flesh and bones until in the end

only this simple, warm, limpid essence remained

which indiscernably and without hands he shaped

into small jars, poems, and men.

And most likely he was one of these things.

Morning
by Yannis Ritsos

She opened the window shutters, spread the bedsheets on the
windowsill, saw the day.
A bird stared her in the eyes. "I am alone," she whispered.
"I am alive." She went back into the room. The mirror too is a
window.
If I leap from here, I shall fall into my hands.