Live Encounters Greek Poets & Writers September 2026
The Pencil, poems by Kostas Mavroudis.
Translated from Greek by Aristi Trendel.
The Pencil
…and when the clerk stepped away
to ask a colleague
“about the matter,”
a rare pencil,
with Stratford’s red logo,*
gave me a knowing wink.
It isn’t difficult.
I’ll pretend to jot something down
and then, with saintly naturalness,
pocket it.
I possess legions of pencils,
enough to write entire encyclopedias,
but who would leave behind,
in a public office, such a legend?
“Come with me, famed piece of wood,
quite possibly from the forests of Birnam Wood,**
from their mists and their myths.
You shall live among common pencils,
you, a branch of an English birch!”
I say to it with admiration.
Its genealogy fascinated me,
and I could not rule out the possibility
that one day I might write a text with it,
or some ordinary phrase,
such as the one an elderly lady,
visibly moved, once said to me
while pointing to her antique dinner service:
“Not a single crack,
every one of the thirty-two pieces still intact!”
At the tip of a pencil
anything may appear:
an arithmetic calculation, two lines of verse,
even the monologue from Wings of Desire,***
if, in the darkness,
I draw it out in time
and write down
what the old poet
is reciting in the public library
(Homer’s persona, if I understood correctly):
“The world is sinking into darkness.
I have been rescued from History.
I am protected from the present
and I feel safe for the future.
I no longer roam through the centuries,
nor through the past.
My heroes will no longer be
warriors and kings,
but quiet objects, short-lived.
No one has written an epic for peace.
Why does peace no longer inspire us?
If I leave,
humanity will lose its storyteller,
and if it loses him, childhood will be lost too.”
Author’s notes
* Stratford-upon-Avon: Shakespeare’s birthplace.
** “Fear not till Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane” (Macbeth, Act V, Scene 5).
The witches’ prophecy to Macbeth.
*** Wings of Desire (1987), Wim Wenders’ poetic film, from which the quoted monologue is taken.
The Lizard
The archaeologist guides the British crew
and the theatrical presenter
—full of self-satisfied mannerisms—
through the museum.
“This statuette,” he explains
(a female torso),
“was found dismembered.
The head is made of serpentine (a silicate material),
the limbs have been covered with ivory and gold,
a masterpiece of miniature craftsmanship,” he says.
A little later—now in a long shot—
scattered stones from the city,
“Of the Early Minoan period, unwalled,
its inhabitants numbered over thirty thousand,” he clarifies,
as the camera turns toward collapsed walls:
“Ruins of dwellings, cemeteries,
but also built ossuary chambers.
The floor is sandstone.
An exceptionally high standard of living is inferred.”
“The boundaries of the beginning
of the Western world are expanding,” she comments.
She has been impressed by information
about the ancient matriarchy
(her feminist eyes shine).
He takes the floor again,
speaking of a great fire,
“The city may have been burned
by the Mycenaeans;
we have no evidence,” he says,
“we hypothesize it.”
They converse before the remains
of a wall.
Dry grasses sway at their feet.
A lizard climbing vertically
(in outdoor shots, animate life always intrudes)
crawls for a while
and then remains motionless,
archaic, uncomprehending of what is being said.
It watches them,
as a lizard once
looked Tolstoy in the eyes.
“The sun warms you, you are happy,”
he told it,
and, after a brief silence,
added:
“I am not.”
(Unpublished)
© Kostas Mavroudis
Kostas Mavroudis (Tinos, 1948) studied Law at the University of Athens. He made his literary debut with the poetry collection Logoi Dyo (1973) and has since published five poetry collections, as well as several volumes of prose and essays. His books have been translated into various European languages. Since 1978 he has continuously edited the influential literary magazine To Dentro (The Tree).