Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Selected Books, Volume II, Second Edition


Uncle Karas has been sick for a few days;

his moustache drooped, wilted.

A Thessaly sundown drizzles in his eyes,

a Brallos cloud crawls on his forehead.

His arms, crossed on his chest, resemble

two cut spruces in the morning mist.

Uncle Karas has a son made of flint stone.

His son has two black pigeons hidden in his

         mended shirt

for this, sometimes his smile resembles a col

         after the rain

while a broom of rays sweeps the fresh grass 

and four buffalo and a colt with its light-blue

bead and bell graze in his eyes.

We hear this bell at dawn when uncle Karas’

son boils his father’s tea or when  he takes

his father’s hand and guides him to the sunshine.

This son wraps his old father in his woollen blanket,

tidies his bed, like a young shepherd cares for his

         old sheepdog

replenishes the water in the dog’s cup

gets off the ticks and thorns.

Uncle Karas is better now

since he hears that bell in his son’s eyes and

it’s because his son hears the bell of the evening star

         behind the mountains

it’s because we are all uncle Karas’s sons, his son’s


it’s because we’re all comrades.

Every evening the shepherd’s bell rings in the tent

and the mountain bells echo under the tents  

and uncle Karas sleeps in peace

and we’re all peaceful

only Karas’s son leans over his old father

and lights the lamp of doves over the rocks of our sleep.

Uncle Karas, don’t be afraid of anything as long as

            this lamp keeps burning.



Wheat Ears – Selected Poems


Moth plays

with the flame of the candle

his fingers feathery sensation

touch her fiery skin

game of entering

and exiting begins

body heat entrapping

the unsuspected visitors

enamored moth

dancing with the flame

and his soft blow

onto her feminine lips

captivate moments as

the light breeze enters

to erase the mark his tongue

left on her clit


Neo-Hellene Poets, an Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry, 1750-2018

Poem by Dionysios Solomos


Stop the melodious chords

of the guitar.  

They remind me of my youth

and grieving heart,

my youth that passed

so fast before me

and left behind

not one consoling thought.

The traitor only left

a wretched meditation
that expertly foretells 
the hour of my death.
Here is the eye that craves
to see the sun again,
here the mouth that yearns
to take its final breath.


Γιώργος Θέμελης, Ακροτελεύτιος ύμνος

Βίκυ Παπαπροδρόμου: ό,τι πολύ αγάπησα (ποίηση, πεζογραφία & μουσική)

Συλλογή Ο γυρισμός (1948) του Γιώργου Θέμελη

Σχέδιο για μια λυρική εποποιία

Πόντον επ’ ατρύγετον δερκέσκετο δάκρυα λείβων
Οδύσσεια Ε 84

Έβδομη ραψωδία

Ακροτελεύτιος ύμνος

Κι εσύ αθάνατη, εσύ θεία,
που ό,τι θέλεις ημπορείς…

Διονύσιος Σολωμός

Πατώντας τάφους παλιούς και τάφους νιόσκαφτους

Τη συνοδεύουν σπασμένες πέτρες κι ένα πλήθος σκιές
Και μια βοή, ένας καπνός που βγαίνει από μεγάλα βάθη

Με το ματωμένο φουστάνι, το τρύπιο σώμα της παρουσίας
Με τη λεπίδα στα μαχαίρια της αυγής σαν την ακονισμένη αγάπη
Που σκοτώνει


«Τόπο» λέει η ματιά κόβοντας θάλασσα «τόπο»
Αγναντεύοντας τ’ αδύναμα περιστέρια που δεν μπορούν να σηκωθούν πολύ ψηλά
Κι αφήνουν άσπρους παραδαρμούς πάνω στους κίονες
Στα χιόνια των Καρυάτιδων που κρύβουν ωραίους αιώνες
Στους θείους λαιμούς οπού κρατούνε κάνιστρα αετών
Που ψάλλουν την εντέλεια κι υμνούν το φως μες σε γαλήνια τόξα
Δροσίζοντας πότε πότε το στήθος τους μες στους αφρούς του Αιγαίου
Για να πάρουν κουράγιο…

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