Span: Journal of the South Pacific Assoc for Cwlth Lit and Language Studies
Number 36, 1992
Postcolonial Fictions:
Proceedings of the SPACLALS Triennial Conference 1992
Edited by Michèle Drouart


Vasso Kalamaras


My poems! To open their wings
And fly away
like dreams.
To face - face to face -
To have a short,
warm chat
My God! Do you hear me?
You created us like you.
You prove your existence, your presence
in crimes
in cruelty
in stupidity
I question
I cry
I scream
forever amen.

Our suffering, your special pleasure
in eternity, it is truth
Forever amen.


The town with many faces
many races.
Unfamiliar but with a common smile,
they are dying.
Their graves
Uncomfortable and strange
embrace their foreign bodies.
To sleep a long endless dream
of their land,
their fatherland
far behind.
Now in a steel copper-burnt sky
a vast, a desolate vastness.
No consolation
no relief
for their grief.


Far, far in the east
is a tiny little town
built of tin, iron and wood.
Cheap design and poorly cast
little houses with hand-made curtains
and knee-high fences.
No trees
No flowers
No yards.
Only bleached, faded glances
from round faces.
With black,
pitch black tired eyes.
This little town,


The little doves white as clouds
on an autumn day, early in the morning,
flew above us and gave so much
warmth and sweet dreams.
The sun sailed amongst them all
with millions of children waving hands.
Go well, go well beautiful peace.
Your fingers blossom, roses and lillies.
Angels are singing and drums are beating
one melody
a tune
a song of happiness.
No more wars!
No more wars!
No more wars!
No more wars!


So Dad
Neither my two tiny hands
nor my child's body
with a young heart
to love you
were enough
to hold you close to me.
My mother
with all her wrongs and rights
sleeps alone at night
having me only by her side
to soak my young brain
in so many
complicated bitter thoughts.


Now the earth that so hard
I worked once many
years ago
stays alone, abandoned to
different needs.
Those afternoons before the sun
embraced passionately
the roundness of those feminine hills
which lie still.
The moist evenings as always
in deep silence.
I listened to all the sounds
from the country's secret places
blending together the hidden thoughts
secret to my heart.
Slyly, unwanted shadows slip
in between my fingers
clutched tightly to my chest,
holding out desperate distress.
But more than that
to keep them all
a little more;
The love of all of those
keep in myself
Before we part forever
Before we say farewell.
I will miss them
I will cry in vain
after all.

Perth, WA

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