Two Poems

by Helen Koukoutsis

Three Greek Words

δεν πήγα σχολείο

1.
I try to teach her English—
first the spoken then the written—
lengthy a’s like an Aussie G’day.
Wheel of Fortune—our go-to-guru
for phonics and literacy. Our laughter—
her fury—mixed, measured, godlike
because w won’t cooperate.

At the kitchen table, I recite
the alphabet like an ESL teacher.
She curves her c’s and dots her i’s
on the pages of an exercise book
we will bury one day in the TV cabinet
behind 80s video tapes and discarded floppy discs.

Her hand trembles. The pencil lead
collapses in on itself—
her fear—all this is pointless—
widowed and in her sixties.
Άφησε με úσυχα, Ελένη, δεν μπορώ.

2.
My mother never learned to read
or write Greek, or speak the language
she’s worn like a second-hand dress
for over 50 years. Δεν πήγα σχολείο
she told me once when I was too young
to question: how could she never
have gone to school. I swallowed my wonder
like medicine then—cups full of warm milk.

I knew never to ask how she travelled
to work by train or bus, how she distinguished
suburbs and street names, exits and departures.
When she needed to buy weekly groceries—
bleach instead of washing detergent
jam instead of marmalade—how did she know?
How did she count money through checkouts?
Take me to school? Talk to my teachers?

I knew never to ask her for help with homework
or challenge her with grammatical phrases
I learned in class at Greek (or English) school.
I stumbled over a 3500-year-old tongue—
I knew never to make hers trip and fall.

I’ve been her pseudo-interpreter for forty years
at home, in cafes, pharmacies, shopping centres:
το Chicken rice meal εχει μπιζέλια
η συνταγή για το Endep σου είναι ready
θέλεις coffee? θέλεις sugar? θέλεις?
I had no idea this unwritten agreement would last so long.

3.
Now when my Greek fails me—
nearly every moment corners me
into a dead end without windows or walls
and I’m done   watching her replace
ineptitude, ingratitude with Valium
spelling out for her
days of the week, months of the year
birthdays, name days, pension pay days—
arranging for her
medical appointments, prescription pickups—
translating for her
cooking shows, food labels, phone bills, junk mail—
I remember an exercise book, marmalades
for jams, and Mum’s uninherited, δεν πήγα σχολείο—
wars and rice fields, and younger siblings to raise.

In Conversation with My Mum about My Pappou

We were poor. But we never starved. Our father made sure of it.
He kept his children alive. Two wars—one Civil.
How difficult was it to grow up among so many siblings, so many men?
We were eight. But he married us all off. We gave him grandchildren.

He kept his children alive. Two wars—one Civil.
Food was plenty: lentils and beans. Spaghetti and yoghurt. Winter staples.
We were eight. But he married us all off. We gave him grandchildren.
How many were you when you all married and lived in the one house?

Food was plenty: lentils and beans. Spaghetti and yoghurt. Winter staples.
Our father who is in heaven now, God rest his soul, kept us fed. Yes, but—
How many were you when you all married and lived in the one house?
We were too many. We argued over food—later, over money and land.

Our father who is in heaven now, God rest his soul, kept us fed.
Nights, he drank ouzo and sang love songs in βουλγάρικα.
We were too many. We argued over food—later, over money and land.
How difficult is it for you to watch us eat fried meat and potatoes?

Nights, he drank ouzo and sang love songs in βουλγάρικα.
My father was a cook in the Greek-Albanian war. He was a cook at home. OK, but—
How difficult is it for you to watch us eat so much meat and chips? Nothing fried.
We ate meat once or twice a year. My father sacrificed a sheep every Easter.

My father was a cook in the Greek-Albanian war. He was a cook at home.
He was a good patriarch. He owned goats, at first. Then sheep. Then cows.
We ate meat once or twice a year. My father sacrificed a sheep every Easter.
My brothers ploughed the fields all day. They were given first servings.

He was a good patriarch. He owned goats, at first. Then sheep. Then cows.
We were poor—but our father made sure we never starved.
My brothers ploughed the fields all day. They were given first servings. Yes, but—
How difficult was it growing up among so many siblings, so many men, so much housework?

August 06, 2025

Helen Koukoutsis lives in Sydney and juggles her time between teaching, research, and poetry. Her poems have appeared in various online and in-print spaces, including Australian Multilingual Writing Project, Meniscus, and is forthcoming in KalliopeX. Her first collection of poems, Cicada Chimes, was published in 2017 by Ginninderra Press. She is currently working on her second poetry collection, distinguished by its multilingual voice.