Ηeat Wave
Soft island hills
lapping on sea froth
cicadas fire up
their endless arias
come close to me, you said to me,
stand before me like Hermes
a naked graceful cypress
that I’ll keep you
in my eyes for
the long winter days
when we’ll be apart
moments I’ll
yearn for your warmth
come close to me, I beg you
let me touch your skin
the day is fiery
and unbearable like
the body’s conflagration
ΤΗΝ ΠΡΩΤΗ νύχτα ήταν ακόμα φτωχός, “Κύριε” του λέω
φυσικά δεν είχα άλλους συγγενείς κι έπρεπε να τον φροντίσω
“είμαι ο νέος συγκάτοικος” είπε, για να μη δείξει πως ξέρει,
σήκωσα τότε με ταπεινοφροσύνη την πέτρα και την ακούμπησα
απαλά, μη μας το πάρει ο αέρας, «σε περιμένει η Μαρία» του λέω
μα εκείνη στεκόταν λυπημένη πίσω του, γιατί δε θα γνώριζε ποτέ
το Θεό, αφού τον έφερνε κιόλας μέσα της κι όταν φάνηκαν οι τρεις
γυναίκες τους έδειξα τον τάφο, απ’ όπου έβρισκε πάντα τον τρόπο
να βγαίνει, είχαν αρχίσει, μάλιστα, να μυρίζουν τα ροδόδεντρα
και στη στροφή του δρόμου, πάνω απ’ τη σπασμένη στάμνα,
η μικρή υπηρέτρια δεν έκλαιγε πια.
Αυτό ήταν το πρώτο θαύμα.
THE FIRST night he was still poor “Sir” I told him since
of course I had no other relatives I had to take care of him “I am
the new roommate” he said just to conceal that he knew; then
with humility I raised the rock and I placed it down softly that
the air wouldn’t blow it away “Maria is waiting for you” I said
to him but she sorrowfully stood behind him because she would
never get to know God since she already carried Him inside her
and when the three women appeared I showed them the tomb from
where he always knew how to escape; in fact the rhododendrons
had bloomed and at the turn of the road over the broken pitcher
the young servant girl wasn’t crying anymore.
This was the first miracle.
Aνάμνηση
Ναι, ζήσαμε κάποτε στα μικρά κάτασπρα σπιτάκια
με την ασβεστωμένη μάντρα και της κληματαριάς
τον ίσκιο δίπλα στης λίμνης το τραγούδι, που όταν γυρίζαμε
απ’ έξω δεν βρίσκαμε μέσα στο σπίτι παρά των παιδικών μας
χρόνων την αγνότητα και στο διάδρομο ο καθρέφτης
με πρόσωπα που κοίταζαν αμήχανα σαν να `θελαν να βγούν
έξω απ’ τους τοίχους και να τρέξουν στο δρόμο.
Αυτά τα πρόσωπα δεν τα γνωρίζαμε καθόλου κι όμως
πίσω απ’ την πόρτα το μυστικό που μοιραστήκαμε μας έγνεφε
διακριτικά, λες κι ήτανε αυτό ο μάρτυρας όλων μας των κρυφών
νοημάτων, των σκοτεινότερων σκέψεων που κολυμπούσαν
στο μυαλό μας: αβεβαιότητα και ατολμία νειότης, άσκοπη
θά `λεγα κι όμως το ξέραμε το μονοπάτι που αργότερα θα
παίρναμε και που θα μας έφερνε εδώ στ’ άσπιλο σκαλοπάτι.
~Μου αρέσουν εκείνοι που γίνονται ολόκληροι πνεύμα
της αρετής γιατί μόνο έτσι θα μπορέσουν να περάσουν
ανάλαφρα τη γέφυρα.
Memory
Yes, we lived, once, in the little white houses with
the whitewashed fence, the shade of the grapevine near
the lake’s song, though when we returned from faraway
we found inside the house nothing but our childhood
innocence and the hallway mirror with awkward
faces wanting to jump out and run to the streets
like wild animals. We knew none of these faces yet just
behind the door the secret we shared signaled to us
discreetly, as if it witnessed all our concealed messages,
our darkest thoughts, uncertainty and timidity of youth,
purposelessness I would say, yet since then we had known
the path we were to follow later which has led us here
before our mighty Hero.
I like those who become pneuma of virtue because only
thus they will be able to go as light as a feather over
the bridge.
READY
Step by step the tents on the hillside
straight to the sky
nailed on the rocks
staked by stubbornness
with the harpoon of the sun in their chests.
Days come and go. The stone doesn’t change.
Sometime a ship goes by, a cloud
leaving behind it a bit of a shadow
a small window open to the trees and to time.
Nothing changes;
nor does the heart or the stone.
Stone bed where we sleep
stone bread onto which we sharpen our teeth
stone hand onto which the night steadies its chin.
The wind doesn’t blow them away.
The sundown folds its red flag;
we’ll sleep with a stone between our teeth again
with the sea nostrils close to our ears.
Whatever may come now, comrades,
will find us with a bag on our shoulders
with all our heart in the bag
whirling our determination on the oath of democracy
as we whirl our finger in the button hole of our friend’s
overcoat
not that we don’t have anything to say
but because we love him so much and it’s always
like that
when we love we can’t talk
we play with a twig of wild olive tree in our hands
we scratch a name in the soil
always the same ready, always ready
always the name of Freedom.
Continuum
Unclasped it falls buzzing
like a wasp in a clean jar
unclasped from the underbelly
of the airplane
the bomb falls
wirelessly sending message
to computer that switches
into replacement mode
factory on alert for spent bomb
button pushed, robot’s
memory card awaken
to build the replacement
absurd absence of absurd sanity
III
Remember the baths
where you were murdered
I woke up having in my hands this marble head
that exhausts my elbows and I don’t know where
to lean it.
It was falling in the dream as I was coming out of the dream
thus our lives joined and it will be very difficult for us to
separate again.
I gaze at it in the eyes; neither open nor closed
I speak to the mouth that keeps trying to speak
I touch the cheeks that have gone through the skin.
I don’t have any other strength;
my hands disappear and come back near me
mutilated.
Separation
In the crystal night I’ll find you
again in the plaza close to the same
statue that saw us separating
that cold October morning
you to the west I to the east
from the merging point
of two lives, two lines
going opposite directions but
I’ll come back to you
holding a book in my left
hand and a carnation in the
other just in case you come
looking to stir my emotions
just in case you come yearning
for kisses like that cold
October morning we separated
Poem by Odysseus Elytis
LITTLE GREEN SEA
Little green sea thirteen years of age
how I would like to adopt you
and send you to school in Ionia
to learn of mandarin and absinthe.
Little green sea thirteen years of age
in the little tower of the lighthouse at high noon
to turn the sun and hear
how destiny becomes undone and how
from hill to hill our distant
relatives still communicate
holding the air like statues.
Little green sea thirteen years of age
with the white collar and your ribbon
enter Smyrna through the window
to copy for me the reflections on the ceiling
and from the God Have Mercy and the Glory to You
and with a little north wind and little lavender
wave by wave come back.
Little green sea thirteen years of age
I would secretly sleep with you
and find deep in your embrace
bits of stones the gods’ words
bits of stones quotations of Heraclitus.
ΠΟΛΛΑ χρόνια πέρασαν. Μάχες χαμένες κι άλλες που τις κερδί-
σαμε
χωρίς ποτέ να το μάθουμε, και πάντα η λησμονιά και τα φύλλα
που έπεφταν.
Αλλά θα `ρθει μια μέρα που θα κλείσουμε ειρήνη με το όνειρο,
αιώνια κυνηγημένοι — ώσπου τη νύχτα ήταν αδύνατο να μην τους
συγχωρήσεις.
Κι αχ, μόνο μ’ αυτό ζήσαμε, μ’ αυτό που δε θα βρει κανείς ποτέ
μέσα στις ιστορίες μας.
MANY years passed. Battles we lost and others
we won
without ever being informed of it and always forgetfulness
and the falling leaves.
However a day will come when we’ll make peace with
the dream
we the forever persecuted; until, at night, it was impossible not
to forgive them.
And, ah, only with this we’ve lived, which one will never find
in our stories.
YANNIS RITSOS-POEMS, Selected Books
Η Ελένη/Helen
Τί θα γινόμουν αν δεν είχα κι αυτές; «Υπομονή, υπομονή», λέω·
«υπομονή», — κι είναι κι αυτό σαν μια ελάχιστη νίκη, την ώρα
που αυτές διαβάζουν τις παλιές επιστολές των θαυμαστών μου
ή τα ποιήματα που μου ’χαν αφιερώσει μεγάλοι ποιητές· — τα διαβάζουν
με ηλίθιο στόμφο και με λάθη πολλά στην προφορά, στους τονισμούς, στο μέτρο
και στο συλλαβισμό· — δεν τις διορθώνω. Κάνω πως δεν ακούω. Άλλοτε πάλι
σχεδιάζουν με το μαύρο κραγιόν των φρυδιών μου μεγάλα μουστάκια
στα αγάλματά μου, ή τους φορούν στο κεφάλι ένα παμπάλαιο κράνος
ή το δοχείο της νυκτός. Τις κοιτάζω γαλήνια. Αυτές θυμώνουν.
What would I do if I didn’t have them? “Patience patience” I say
“patience” – and even that’s a small victory when
they read my old letters from admirers or the poems
that famous poets dedicated to me – they read them
with stupid emphasis and mispronunciation
the accents the meter
and the syllabification – I don’t try to correct them I pretend I don’t
hear Other times
they draw big mustaches with my eyebrow black crayon on
my statues
or they place an ancient helmet or the night chamber pot
on their heads I look at them calmly They get angry
Manolis Aligizakis 