Wheat Ears – Selected Poems

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.



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

Poem by Manolis Anagnostakis


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


Tasos Livaditis – Poems, Volume II

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


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.


Κωστής Τριανταφύλλου, κατεδαφιστής (χορός πάνω στο δρόμο του μύθου)

To Koskino


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
γλιστράνε τα κλειδιά
ο Θερσίτης θριαμβεύει

τρέχει το άλογο διψασμένο
ο σκύλος με το πεσμένο στόμα
τι ωραίος ο λεγάμενος
ξεγεννάει σιωπή
αν τα σάπια καράβια ξαναπετάξουν
άγκυρα στη στεριά
σκάγια στα πουλιά
πικρή σκουριά
στραγγίζω διαλεχτικά
γλιστράνε τα κλειδιά
ενός λεπτού σκοτωμένος
τρέχει το άλογο διψασμένο
τι είν’ αυτά!
αυτά δεν τάγραψε ο Μαρξ


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…

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Constantine P. Cavafy – Poems


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.


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.


«Μάχες» για τον λέοντα της Αμφίπολης


amfipoliΤο 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

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

Poem by Miltos Sachtouris


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


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


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.


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.