Spartan Room
A Spartan room endures
the steps of a Giant
a temperate chair upholds
the weight of your stature.
A passionate brush sustains
your infinite creativity
an ecstatic hand manifests
one by one your symbols.
A glowing Cretan sun idolizes
your colors
litany of your Cretan glance captures
your everlasting marvels.
A poetic palette stands
guard of your images
tools in your hands
angelic instruments and
your wide open heart embraces
the ascent of your idols
to the beyond
to immortality.
Poem by Manolis Anagnostakis
THEY WERE YOUNG
The roads were dark and muddy
the food on the table scarce
the kiss by the front door stolen
and love locked in their little hearts
they were young, just children
and by chance they were of a good crop
they spent their nights in basement tavernas
and roamed the neighborhoods all night long
ah, those side streets and corners
how nicely they kept the honest words
they were young, just children
and by chance they were of a good crop
at home they knew no father, no mother
they didn’t care about anything
they never saved any coins in piggy-banks
they never held a measuring tape or compass
they were young, just children
and by chance they were of a good crop
ALL WHO tried to look for us vanished on the way and
those who finally rediscovered us found a simple
name written on the wall.
Yet those who accepted the heavy day kept us
forever
like women hold a basket with swaddling clothes.
Until the day’s trial ended and the dusk arrived which
you get to know as the years pass.
(αποσπάσματα)
κάτω απ΄ τα πόδια
σφιγμένα δόντια
στην κεντρική λεωφόρο
ουρλιάζαν τα περιπολικά της αυγής
ποιος δε θέλει να σκοτωθεί;
χόρευμα η απλωμένη φωνή μας
ένας με τέχνη μαντική
σκαρφαλώνει σταγάλματα
ο θεός κατέχει από τι κορώνα έρχεται το κακό
ανοίγει το δρόμο για το ιερό άσυλο
ένας γκρεμός φίλος μου
βγάζει φτερά
περνάμε
γλιστράνε τα κλειδιά
ο Θερσίτης θριαμβεύει
απομένει
τρέχει το άλογο διψασμένο
ο σκύλος με το πεσμένο στόμα
τι ωραίος ο λεγάμενος
ξεγεννάει σιωπή
αν τα σάπια καράβια ξαναπετάξουν
ξερνάει
σφυροκόπημα
άγκυρα στη στεριά
σκάγια στα πουλιά
ξεράσματα
πικρή σκουριά
στραγγίζω διαλεχτικά
γλιστράνε τα κλειδιά
ενός λεπτού σκοτωμένος
τρέχει το άλογο διψασμένο
τι είν’ αυτά!
αυτά δεν τάγραψε ο Μαρξ
άμμος
αμμοθύελλα
και τι άλλα νέα;
δεν είπα τίποτα
κι αν είπα δε θυμάμαι
μια χαψιά και σ’ έφαγα
εγώ δεν είμαι εγώ
είμαι ο άλλος που σας είπαν
αυτός εκεί τυπωμένος
κ υ κ λ ο…
View original post 71 more words
ΜΑΚΡΥΑ
Θάθελα αυτήν την μνήμη να την πω…
Μα έτσι εσβύσθη πια…σαν τίποτε δεν απομένει—
γιατί μακρυά στα πρώτα εφηβικά μου χρόνια κείται.
Δέρμα σαν καμωμένο από ιασεμί…
Εκείνη του Αυγούστου—Αύγουστος ήταν; —η βραδυά…
Μόλις θυμούμαι πια τα μάτια ήσαν, θαρρώ, μαβιά…
Α, ναι, μαβιά, ένα σαπφείρικο μαβί.
FAR AWAY
I would like to tell you a memory…
But it seems nearly erased…and as though nothing remains—
because it lies far away in my youthful years.
Skin like it was made of jasmine…
That day in August—was it August?—the night…
I barely remember the eyes; they were, I think, blue…
Ah yes, blue; a sapphire blue.
Το ταφικό μνημείο της Αμφίπολης βρέθηκε στο επίκεντρο της 28ης Επιστημονικής Συνάντησης για το Αρχαιολογικό Eργο στη Μακεδονία και τη Θράκη, με αφορμή την ανακοίνωση του γεωλόγου, διευθυντή Αρχαιολογικών Eργων της Εφορείας Σπηλαιολογίας – Παλαιοανθρωπολογίας και μέλους της διεπιστημονικής ομάδας της ανασκαφής Ευάγγελου Καμπούρογλου, με γνωστούς αρχαιολόγους είτε να συμφωνούν, είτε να διαφωνούν.
View original post 625 more words
Poem by Miltos Sachtouris
PRESENTS
Today I put on
the red warm blood
people love me today
a woman smiled at me
a girl gave me a conch
a boy gave me a hammer
today I kneel down onto the sidewalk
I nail the naked legs
of the passersby on the slabs
they’re all teary eyed
yet no one of them is scared
they’ve all stayed in places which I reached
they’re all teary eyed
yet they gaze at the neon signs up high
and the female beggar who sells Easter Bread
on the sky
two men whisper
what’s he doing? Is he nailing our hearts?
Yes, he’s nailing our hearts
for he’s the poet
A LITTLE SLEEP
The distant voice of the lottery vendor. The swaying of the tree.
A canteen steadied in the sand.
The west is burning. A purple reflection over the seashore.
The few houses painted crimson, silence and sundown.
You have a summer handkerchief in your pocket,
a sorrow you left behind on the ledge
like the ripped shoe of the spring that was left on
the rock
when the last group grabbed three meters of sea
and left stooping among the tents of the wind.
How fast the sun goes down in your eyes;
your coat is already smelling of moist,
you put your hands in your gloves like the trees
get in the clouds.
Where the tempest stops your glance is re-ignited
where the sky ends your song and your whole face
are reborn.
There is a yellow star in your silence
like a small daisy on the side table of the sick man
a little warmth on every yellow leaf that turns
the pages of time backward.
It is enough that you know. The other communication
doesn’t end at midnight.
The line is continued from deep inside and from afar
with a few stops, interruptions, accidents,
it continues
and autumn finds shelter on the railings of the station
or the fence wall of the Orphanage,
it listens to the call for silence on the damp roofs and
to the gramophone of the seashore bar,
that the moon turns,
a scratched vinyl, a very old tango. No one dances.
But you, turning the moon to its other side,
beyond midnight, further from the ledge,
you listen to the great music while you saunter
in the harbour with the twelve boat masts
like a speechless restaurant server who cleans
the autumnal tables
folding carefully the napkins of the night,
gathering the stack of plates with the leftover
fish bones.
The sea and the songs continue.
All these that the locked people left outside
belong to us:
the hurrah of the wind in the darkened rooms,
the music that descends in big waves and hits
the window shutters,
the silence that opens its purse and looks at itself
in her square little mirror,
and the woman who wraps herself with the army blanket
and sleeps next to her bag
and you too, as you light your cigarette with a star
over the calm plain of your soul
like the guard who stays vigil over the sleeping soldiers
and thinks of his woman
of the sea
the city with the flags
the trumpets
the sun-dust and the glory of men.
And next to you, you know it,
this big smile
like the circular alarm clock next to the sleeping worker.
It’s time to sleep a little. Don’t be afraid.
The clock is properly wound up. It’ll get you up on time
with the bucket of dawn that draws water from the well,
with the crawl of a proclamation that noiselessly sheds
light under the door of your silence. Be assured.
It’ll wake you up.
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?
VIII
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?
Ages!
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.
Manolis 