Zephyr Wind Talks to a Kite in Athens
Clean Monday marks the first day of Greek Orthodox Lent.
Children celebrate it by flying kites.
—A.E. Stallings, Hapax
Yassou! Here you are again. Not a diamond in the sky,
but a hexagon: beryl-colored glacé paper six-
sided sail.
I’m glad to see you enjoy the current
with the monk parakeets and magpies, along my waves
blowing in from the Aegean Sea.
Here above Philopappos Hill, I see
the prison of Socrates, and hear his ancient sighs.
Marble footpaths still eddy and weave
along the hill. How many are there? Six?
I’ve lost count. Who runs the current
taverna at the hill’s base? Is it the same place that would sell
lagana bread and mussels today? I hope they still sell
those ambrosial treats. See?
I remember these yearly meetups. I know, in your current
form, you may not be exactly the kite I saw last year. Skies
change things. You’re a unique six-
pointed wonder. Yet the latest wave
of fashion is to get a plastic, diamond kite. I shouldn’t wave
that in your face—forgive me. They sail
better, according to some six-
year-olds on the hill. But we don’t need permission to seek
mercy in the sky.
We still have the dunamis to stay current.
Case in point: here’s another current
for your pleasure. I’m not one of those vicious siroccos. My waves
are gentle, so that you and everything else in the sky—
the incense, the swallowtails, and hell, even the smog—can sail
without fear, just relaxing, and taking a seat
in the atmosphere. Let those wind socks
get worked up later. Today should be sweet, like honey from a six-
sided honeycomb, or a slice of halva with currants.
You know the kind, right? With the sesame seeds?
But we can waive
all that today. I know your sole
purpose now is finding catharsis here in the sky.
Let’s wave in celebration of those first through sixth
day creations: the sails, the trees, the humans. All that is past and current,
everything in the sky, everything in the sea.
A Game of Oware in Ghana
Hands fly like birds, and seeds
migrate. Some pits empty,
while others swell and bloom.
Sage-colored nickar nuts
clack when hands drop them one
by one, counterclockwise,
which sows a new crop. Clonk!
Onlookers watch the flight
while players harvest pits
that hold two or three seeds.
The crowd banters and jokes,
their laughter infusing
the air. Chale wote!
Feathered neem tree branches
spread canopy and shade.
One hand has reaped twenty-
five seeds—a winsome crop
shared with everybody.
Poet’s note:
Oware is an African pit and pebble mancala board game. It is played with two players and a board of two rows, each with six pits. The game starts with four stones in every pit.
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