Μια γνωριμία με το Νίκο Βέλμο (re-blog)

Übermensch

Philosopher

We left the hospital and with hands joined we crossed

the bridge, translucent water below us like the thoughts

in our minds. Suddenly rain started as if cleansing us

from our sins when we arrived at the philosopher’s dwelling.

We knocked at a door ravaged by the elements. There

was a time we would give our lives for the stamina of youth

though now we seek the wisdom of the golden years;

the philosopher opened his home joyfully like his heart.

He answered all our questions, ‘philosophy always

presents one answer to the question while religion

claims their answer is the only one, and there lies

their difference.’

Übermensch admired the clarity of his thoughts and

after He hugged him tenderly in a trembling voice

He said:‘he is another Übermensch, follow

his teachings.’

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume III

Persephone (excerpt)

You hear the horses in the stable and the water that

drips when the pilgrims raise two clay vessels one

to the east and one to the west, pouring out water

and honey or water and barley mixed with wild mint

over the plot with the laurels while they murmur vague

words and spells. And my mother’s voice saying,

golden wheat-ear harvested in silence. Night isn’t

resting us anymore, an endless suspecting hallway

with huge statues, embroidered curtains, masks, stones,

optical illusions, metal items, crystals, doors, one leading

to darkness one to the light, that same stairway with one

golden step and the other black.

Break it down, I said to him

and the three women always there, turned to their backs,

with covered faces, stooping over the empty well, yelling

indecipherable words, and the echo of their unrecognizable

words was multiplied by the well. I can’t endure it here

anymore.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B096TLBNFK

Wheat Ears – Selected Poems

Scandalous

He stops shaving razor floating in air

hand absentmindedly creates a circle in mid-void

like a bird stilled by camera lens

her scandalous vulva visits his mind

from days of that August

on the scorched island

in low tone siesta

in muffled moaning

lest the mirror would crack from tension

in the cool soothing room

before his eyes

finger in circular motion

swirling eroticism

higher and higher

near a shuddering apex

wind, pandemonium

lust and a red coloured

Lucifer laughs sardonically

as the razor touches his flesh

opening it

like hers

reddish colour

                                          Painting by Yaha Silo

Before the Joy

My words are no longer charcoal
as they were before
when in the heat of the glow
they had become black
now they move with the softness of hope
and at the dawn of beauty
they open their eyes
already adorning themselves
for the eternal journey.

            Hussein Habasch, Kurdistan (Syria), 1948

ΠΡΙΝ ΤΗ ΧΑΡΑ

Τα λόγια μου δεν είναι κάρβουνα

όπως πιο πριν

που με τη τη ζέστη της λάμψης

μαύρισαν.

Τώρα πλανιούνται στης ελπίδας τ’ απαλό

στην ομορφιά του ξημερώματος

που ανοίγουν τα μάτια

ματιές λατρείας

πριν το μακρινό τους ταξίδι.

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis

George Seferis – Collected Poems

MYTHISTOREMA

I

The angel,

we had waited for him for three years, concentrated

closely examining

the pines, the seashore, the stars.

Joining the blade of the plough or the ship’s keel

once again we searched to discover the first sperm

so that the ancient drama might recommence.

We went back to our homes broken hearted

with incapable limbs, with mouths ravaged

by the taste of rust and salinity.

When we woke, we traveled to the north, strangers

driven into the mist by the perfect wings

of swans that wounded us.

During winter nights the strong eastern wind

maddened us

in the summers we got lost in the agony of day

that couldn’t die.

We brought back

these petroglyphs of a humble art.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B096TTS37J

Ο ΠΟΛΩΝΟΣ (re-blog)

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

Ancient Polis

The Agora must had been here. Houses all around.

The Theatre stands out on the opposite side, hanging

off the hill. Big white boulders, yellow thorny burnets,

lizards.

During the summers, at noon, with the innumerable

cicadas, the shepherd leans over the dry water well

and screams.

The shadow of the echo rises, leaden-silvery, paints

his face, chest, hands. When he goes back, his dog

gets wild, barks endlessly doesn’t recognize him.

On the whitewashed wall appears the erect shadow

of an invisible horse with a naked rider.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CGX139M6

Τρελαθήκαμε τελείως; (re-blog)

Constantine Cavafy – Poems

SCULPTOR OF TYANA

As you may have heard, I am not a beginner.

Some good quantity of stone goes through my hands.

And in my home country, Tyana, they know me

well; and here the senators have ordered

a number of statues from me.

Let me show you

some right now. Have a good look at this Rhea;

venerable, full of forbearance, really ancient.

Look closely at Pompey. Marius,

Aemilius Paulus, the African Scipio.

True resemblances, as true as I could make them,

Patroklos (I’ll have to touch him up a bit).

Close to those pieces

of yellowish marble over there, is Caesarion.

And for a while now I have been busy

creating a Poseidon. I carefully study

his horses in particular, how to shape them.

They have to be so light that their bodies,

their legs, show that they don’t touch

the earth, but run over water.

But here is my most beloved creation,

that I worked with such feeling and great care

on a warm summer day,

when my mind ascended to the ideals,

I had a dream of him, this young Hermes.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1723961833