Θεμελιώδες σφάλμα απόδοσης

Κωνσταντίνα Γεωργαντά, Εγχειρίδιο ενός ρακένδυτου

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume I

Unclear Encounters

Those who met by chance on the road were strangers they didn’t speak

they didn’t beckon with their hands or a glance Although

they looked as if they agreed with the moonlight entering through

the blinds in a closed villa as though in agreement with the whimper

of a shirt falling on the floor – Perhaps Hellenes. They had

a scar on their foreheads – an intimate mark – some time ago red

had turned whitish lighting their faces They didn’t speak

Only during the nights of September, they look absentmindedly

at the gardens of old houses, the gas stations the kiosks

a light blue lamp under the trees the clock of the

Customs Building and bit by bit their arms became longer

and they turned into fishes those who learned the deep

underwater voices and now stay silent

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Ithaca Series, Poem # 689

Picture by Germain Droogenbroodt, girl in Cambodian refugee camp

GIVE ME A BRIGAND’S VOICE, LORD

Give me a brigand’s voice, Lord,

and a lion’s pen

on this earth

that sheds blood and

shows unspeaking children

with terror in their eyes.

Justice is

air

water

bread

grass that plays up to your knees

and a lilting voice…

flowering skylarks in their nests

that war shakes up

and devastates.

Maria Nivea Zagarella (Sicilia)

ΔΩΣΕ ΜΟΥ, ΚΥΡΙΕ

Δώσε μου, Κύριε, του κλέφτη τη φωνή,

του λιονταριού την πένα

στη γη τούτη που χύνει

το αίμα αμίλητων παιδιών

με τρόμο στα μάτια τους

ζωγραφισμένο.

Δικαιοσύνη είναι ο αγέρας

το νερό,

το ψωμί,

και το γρασίδι που παίζει ως τα γόνατα σου

και μια φωνή που ανυψώνει

κορυδαλούς μες στις φωλιές τους

που ο πόλεμος συντρίβει και καταστρέφει.

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Translated into English by Gaetano Cipolla

From: Ncuntraiu lu mari, 2019

Κωστής Παπαγιώργης – Περί μέθης

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

New Pretexts

He recalled the young newspaper sellers, winter,

         in the underground Station.

Sparrows of the schoolyards in front of the foggy

         windows.

Those small children’s beds in the hospital — how

         guiltless.

Just before Christmas, it was raining; they were singing

         Christmas carols, down in the city.

“What do I have?” he asked. No one answered. The question

looked elsewhere. Same with poetry, elsewhere, with

         the kitchen apron

warming up our yesterday meal. “Yes, and poetry, he said,

or rather a few words and long in-between pauses”.

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Π.Π. Παναγιώτου, Λαύρειο

Tasos Livaditis – Poems, Volume II

Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards

(excerpt)

I now climb on one of the carriages which pass

         in my sleep

and I escape. You’ll find me again in the most beautiful

poems of the next century

where I’ll feel nostalgic for God.


However, during the nights I take pills and go to bed

           early not to sleep

but to experience strange encounters with people

           I have lost

or with uncertain persons, vague, who I met years ago

           suddenly in the night

and thank God I never understood the world

and this shiver that runs through the house is from

          actions we avoided (and regretted)

great events that vanished in the bustle of the days,

beautiful thoughts content in a few tears and

during the night the bitter memory of those who

betrayed me and who sleep forgave. And I loved

words that humiliated me since they recalled me to

           another childhood.

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Marko Pogacar, Συντακτικό

Αναστάσιος Δρίβας, (Αθήνα, 1899 – 1942), Η κίτρινη αχτίδα του φθινοπώρου