Wheat Ears, Selected Poems

Wooden Soldiers

Wooden soldiers of the enemy

stood motionless by our borders

rifles unpolished and

bayonets dull

full moon split the land

in light and shadow lots

and we stayed on guard

kept aiming at them

what one could do with bullets

but count fallen rose petals

and missed kisses

what one could do with bayonets

but take a picture of the monarch

as it defined the perimeter of our dreams

and the center of our love?



Katerina Anghelaki Rooke, Selected Poems


What time before dawn

when in dream I reach the precipice

and I fall, fall

without my body?

All deaths are staged here

by people

the breath of leaves is heard

new birds replace yesterday’s

just to sing with

one flutter, one soul.

Where am I at that moment

the only important moment

that underlines the great adventure

where am I when

they take away from me

one spring every night

and I don’t touch the womb

that gives birth

the butterfly that turns dry?


All ages are poor

and the age of eighteen

is dimply lit by the other miracle

it tastes darkness a little

and they don’t count

the value of the body

the infinite nature of the body.

And innocence, like blindness

and the old fool saints

fly a kite up in the air.

That hour which poets

match to a wolf

that hour, known only to the body

that writhes, growls

the sky of sleep turns dark

I and you too die

a thousand times

before dawn.


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


Our hands remained empty;

they have rubbed on the unshaven chin

of the wind a thousand times

they have grasped the barbwire a thousand times

they have touched the frozen railings of death

a thousand times.

Our hands grew knots from using the spade, from

pounding the rocks, from battle and

more so from handshaking;

they now grasp things with certainty.

The wind of the house and mother’s shadow

were two soft gloves, two woollen gloves

that warmed our hands, didn’t let us

grab flesh to flesh the hands of others.

Now the gloves ripped, we use them

to make gauzes to cover the wounds

        of our comrades

we use them to wash and clean our plates,

utensils and mess cauldrons.

Our hands remained empty;

got used to work, silence, aiming;

they held the cock of anger up and down many

          a time

they cut and cut again the bread of patience with

          a pocket knife

they hit face on the wall and the night.

Now our hands, totally empty, rest on our knees

like the sun over the mountain

like the mountain over the sea

like the comrade’s heart over its resolve.

These are the hands of the communists.

When they squeeze your hand you know that all

the world capitals are lighted behind the night

when they carry buckets of sea water up the hill

you know that tomorrow the sun and the sea are theirs

you know that the heavy sack with the stones feels

           light in their hands

because, always, Freedom carries half of the weight.

These are the hands of the comrades.

Empty hands, exposed veins of naked hands

like the railroad rails on the world map.

Empty hands, the line of night was erased in

          their fists.

They hold the fate of the world in their fists.

These are the hands of the comrades.


«Διαβάζουμε την Γραμμική Α, αλλά ακόμη δεν την κατανοούμε» – Γυναίκα έφτιαξε βάση δεδομένων με σύμβολα της γραφής


«Μπορούμε να διαβάσουμε τη Γραμμική Α, αλλά δεν μπορούμε ακόμα να την κατανοήσουμε» / Φωτογραφία: ΑΠΕ-ΜΠΕ

Μπορεί η σύγχρονη τεχνολογία να βοηθήσει στην αποκρυπτογράφηση της Γραμμικής Α, της μινωικής γραφής που κρατά ακόμα καλά τα μυστικά της;

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