Diálogos has just released a comprehensive selection of work by revered Greek poet Veroniki Dalakoura, selected, introduced and translated by John Taylor. Bird Shadows Selected Poetry and Poetic Prose 1967-2020 includes selections from all Dalakoura’s eight books, beginning with a selection of her precocious first poems, which she began to write when she was fifteen years old and which immediately brought her originality to the attention of major Greek poets, and continuing through her seven subsequent collections. 

Thanks to Athina Rossoglou and the Reading Greece website for choosing Bird Shadows as the Book of the Month: “. . .a generous selection, for the first time in English, of Dalakoura’s poetry and prose poetry. Masterfully translated by John Taylor, the book begins with a selection of her precocious first poems, which she began to write when she was fifteen years old and which immediately brought her originality to the attention of major Greek poets, while it also includes translations of her most significant pieces from her seven subsequent collections.” Read the entire article here.

Here are two prose poems from her second book, The Decline of Eros.

December

Some poets write when they get carried away with bitterness—considering only the passions of a tender heart. This is how I learned that Cortez was one of the most desperate poets. When he captured Chamboara, he ordered all the beloved graven images to be destroyed. Then he fell weeping into the arms of a woman whom he venerated, without knowing that she belonged—indeed—to a divine race. But let’s put myths aside. Let’s open our palms to see the lines of revelry or the eve of something sad. Let’s stroll with modest looks suiting students of love and those who can discern an oncoming passion. This winter will be full of clarinets with the same color as our palms, which have traveled.

Song

Years ago, at an age neither youthful nor mature, I found the romantic music that had slit the throats of trees. Then I caught eros on my fingers and crushed it. Afterwards, I tried to make every kind of sensitivity vanish. I found no love—fortunately. My painting would stir my blood, for a little while, before I read masterpieces of grass. I took great pleasure in genius and death. And when I was tired of suffering, neither silence nor an exotic creature came to say farewell to the Greek winter. Hypnos and The Honored One had set out for better seasons.  

from:  Bird Shadows Selected Poetry and Poetic Prose 1967-2020