Hues
Why stand by your door
gazing the mountain
as if trying to paint it green
on the retinas of your eyes
and the light breeze how can
you paint it when you’re
blinded by emotion?
To what end do you point
your hand at the ice caped
peaks as if to let them know about
the ghosts never passing by
anymore, as if to tell them that
spring is coming soon
when they exude green velvet
when they redress in light hues?
ΕΠΙΣΤΡΟΦΗ
Στο βάθος, όμως, ήξερα πως κάτι το απροσδόκητο θα τα μα-
ταίωνε όλα ξαφνικά, κι όταν τους άκουγα να μιλάνε, ένιωθα σαν
να μην είχα μεγαλώσει ποτέ, τόσο ήταν αδιάφοροι (κι έπρεπε να το
προφυλάξω και κανένα μέρος δεν ήταν ασφαλές), κι όπως πήγαινα
στο δρόμο, έρημος, άπλωμα το χέρι χωρίς να `ναι κανείς, γιατί
ποιος μας λέει ότι δεν είναι κάποιος εκεί που περιμένει, τότε χτύ-
πησαν την πόρτα “πως ήρθες;” του λέω, ήταν ένα παλιός παιδικός
φίλος “έχω κάτι να τελειώσω ακόμα” είπε κι όλη τη νύχτα άκουγα
τους λυγμούς του στη διπλανή κάμαρα, γιατί είχε πεθάνει πολύ
νέος κι ήρθε να κλάψει, ώστε να τελειώσει ο προορισμός του
πάνω στη γη.
RETURN
In reality I knew that suddenly something unforeseen would had
cancelled everything and when I heard them talking I felt as if I hadn’t
grown at all so indifferent they were (and I had to protect that and
there wasn’t any safe place anywhere) and as I walked into the street
I, as desolate as ever, stretched my arm to no one because who knows
whether someone would be there waiting; then the doorbell rang “why
you returned?” I asked him; he was an old childhood friend “I still
have something to finish” he said and all night long I heard him sobbing
in the next room because he had died very young and he had come
back here to cry that his purpose on earth would be fulfilled.
IV
Next to the bed by the wall
marks of a girl
playing with the warn stucco
sometimes a person’s face
sometimes a ship
foretells the future
the fairy with the seven fingers dances
the serpent, the old nail
tie the tale together.
Turned to the wall
friendship with an unknown
tears for a death
— always a sudden death,
mine, my mother’s —
and flowers, a lot of flowers
in the remote chapel by the rock
solemn promise to Alexander the Great
and to the other saints…
the dream, but a yellow wall
and the incisions talk to children
and frighten the adults.
Teaching
And Themis was put in a dark dungeon
while I faced my kin’s delirious eyes
yet, though I had much to say,
I kept silent, momentarily, to give
time to their simple-mindedness
bubbling along with the creek’s murmur
innocent smile of child upon which
I entrusted my hope to rediscover justice
with spring flowers rejuvenating
the veins of impeccable Eros
my distraught friends remained imprisoned
and I, dressed in rags, walked over the lands,
and being soft-spoken and with new symbols
with new follies and new anecdotes,
I tried to revert the beliefs of
new Judases born with sharpened teeth
ready to devour each other
nothing to leave for the winds
the rightful inheritors of my teachings
YANNIS RITSOS-POEMS, Selected Books, Volume III
Χρυσόθεμις//Chrysothemis
Εκείνη δε ρωτούσε πια. Χαλάρωνε τα δάχτυλα της. Έστρεφα πίσω.
Οι δυο μας, πρόσωπο με πρόσωπο. Το δροσερό μάγουλό της
πάνω στο μάγουλό μου· κι όλο το χαμόγελό της — της το άρπαζα κι έτρεχα
με κυνηγούσε ολόγυρα στο σιντριβάνι.
Κάποια νύχτα
μ’ έπιασε επ’ αυτοφώρω η μητέρα: «Με ποιόν κουβεντιάζεις;».
«Κυνηγούσα τη γάτα μη φάει τα χρυσόψαρα», αποκρίθηκα. «Ανόητη»,
είπε η μητέρα· «δεν εννοείς να μεγαλώσεις». Κείνη τη στιγμή,
όντως η γάτα τρίφτηκε στα πόδια μου. Ένα μεγάλο χρυσόψαρο
τινάχτηκε έξω από το σιντριβάνι. Το άρπαξε η γάτα
και κρύφτηκε μες στις τριανταφυλλιές. Φώναξα. Την κυνήγησα —
(τρόμαξα μη μου φάει το ’να χέρι της σελήνης) — κι η μητέρα με πίστεψε.
But it wouldn’t ask me again; it would release its fingers
a bit; I’d turn around; we were face to face. Its fresh cheek
on my cheek and I’d take all its smile and run away;
the moon would chase me around the fountain.
One night mother caught me on the spot. Who you’re
talking to? I was chasing the cat away from the goldfish,
I answered, foolish, mother said, you’ll never grow up.
At that moment the cat indeed rubbed itself on my legs.
A big goldfish jumped out of the fountain. The cat
grabbed it and hid among the roses. I yelled. I chased
the cat. (I was afraid the cat would eat one hand of
the moon) and mother believed me.
ΤΑ ΕΠΙΚΙΝΔΥΝΑ
Είπε ο Μυρτίας (Σύρος σπουδαστής
στην Αλεξάνδρεια επί βασιλείας
αυγούστου Κώνσταντος και αυγούστου Κωνσταντίου
εν μέρει εθνικός, κ’ εν μέρει χριστιανίζων)
«Δυναμωμένος με θεωρία και μελέτη
εγώ τα πάθη μου δεν τα φοβούμαι σα δειλός.
Το σώμα μου στες ηδονές θα δώσω
στες απολαύσεις τες ονειρεμένες
στες τολμηρότερες ερωτικές επιθυμίες
στες λάγνες του αίματός μου ορμές, χωρίς
κανέναν φόβο, γιατί όταν θέλω—
και θάχω θέλησι, δυναμωμένος
ως θάμαι μέ θεωρία καί μελέτη—
στες κρίσιμες στιγμές θα ξαναβρίσκω
τό πνεύμα μου, σαν πριν, ασκητικό.»
DANGEROUS THINGS
Said Myrtias (a Syrian student
in Alexandria, during the reign
of Augustus Constans and Augustus Constantios,
partly pagan, partly Christian);
“Strengthened by theory and by study
I shall not fear my passions like a coward.
I shall give my body to carnal delights,
to the pleasures we dream about,
to the most daring erotic desires,
to the lascivious urges of my blood, without
any fear, because, whenever I choose,
and have the will, strengthened
as I shall be by theory and by study—
at the critical moment I shall find
my spirit, as it was before, ascetic.”
Majestic
You step in it and dream
of majesty and lofty deeds
and you
paint its inside walls red
and the outside in whitewash
to reflect translucent auras
your musings, ice crystals
you invite friend to share
wisdom, maturity, faith
as the whole world
fits in it while you stick out
since
she embraced the ferryman
on her way across the water
you call it your house though
it is everyone else’s
Ψώνια
Η ξανθιά κοπέλα στο ταμείο με κοίταξε καχύποπτα
και περίμενε να πληρώσω το λογαριασμό. Την τελευταία
φορά που εξομολογήθηκες πόσο σου ζήτησε ο παπάς,
αναρωτήθηκα κι αφήνοντας τις δυο σακούλες με τα ψώνια
άρχισα νευρικά τις τσέπες μου να ψάχνω ενώ ο γέρος
πίσω μου γέλασε μια μπόχα κρασιού ανακατεμένη με
καλοσύνη που η ματιά της ξανθιάς με είχε κιόλας
αναλύσει και μ’ είχε βρει πτωχό. Κι εγώ συνέχισα
το ψάξιμο λέγοντας στον γέρο πίσω μου,
‘κάθε φορά το ίδιο μου συμβαίνει’, τόσο απλό χαμόγελο
κι απλή η δυσωδία αλκοόλ κι η καλωσύνη και καν
δεν ήξερα ο άνθρωπος πίσω μου πως ήτανε κωφάλαλος
όμοια με τη συννεφιασμένη μέρα.
~Μου αρέσουν όλοι όσοι περιφρονούν τα πάντα, γιατί αυτοί
λατρεύουν και ποθούν το πέρασμα στην άλλη όχθη.
Shopping
The blonde female cashier looked at me suspiciously
and waited for me to pay my bill; how much
the priest charged you when you had your last
confession, I mentally questioned, while I placed
the two bags on the counter nervously searching
my pockets while the old man behind me smiled,
stench of his breath reminded me of wine mixed
with compassion and the blonde cashier had already
figured I was as poor as a door nail. While carrying on
with my search I said to the old man, ‘it happens to me
every time’, so simple, his smile, the alcohol stench,
the compassion I returned the smile no idea the man
behind me was as deaf as my somber day.
Poem by Tasos Livaditis
ΟΤΑΝ, τέλος, ήρθαν οι αγγελιοφόροι, τους βάλαμε να διηγηθούν
καταλεπτώς τα πράγματα
δε χωρούσε αμφοιβολία, όλα είχαν χαθεί. Δεν είχαμε ούτε σπίτι πια
ούτε τιμή.
Οι γυναίκες έκλαψαν, όπως πάντα, κι όπως πάντα οι άντρες
σκυμμένοι κοίταζαν το χώμα. Και μόνον ο τυφλός χαμογελούσε
καθώς το ραβδί του, σοφό, τον πήγαινε πέρα απ’ τη ματαιότητα
μες στο σκοτάδι.
WHEN finally the messengers came we asked them to narrate
the events in detail;
there was no doubt everything was lost. We had neither home
nor honor.
The women cried, as always, and as always men stooped and
gazed the earth. And only the blind man smiled as his wise
staff led him into the darkness and beyond futility.
Dawn
Nauseated with the littleness
of city non-living
the savage humdrum
mind grasping splinters
on the surface of nowhere
never sated with
the neck-down delights
all carnal pleasures
I embark on a quest for that
special conifer, the sequoia,
that special flower in the midst
of the impassable thicket
the man who sees man as man.
Many a time with tenderness
I shared a soft pillow with
a hardened, suspicious Death.
Many a time I took Him
by the hand when He felt left
behind, when He felt abandoned.
In the noise of the marketplace
I glanced at Him.
He smiled at me.
Usually.
I dared Him to a jog once
perhaps twice and
with a sardonic laugh
He declined.
With His perennial laughter
He shares with me a non-fat latte
at the neighborhood Starbucks.
Usually.
Many a time I challenged Him
and always with a short giggle
He walked away gracefully saying
Not yet
Not yet . . . I
have things for you to do
My spirit I summon from the
realms of the void
to descend in the roots
and trace a course
I dive deep past all
sunlit gates of consciousness
looking for a sign
straight sign like a blue spruce
with duty marked on
its fresh bark.
I search for a beacon
as the lyre slices the air
in pieces of silver
I dive deep past all
golden gates of my roots
I summon the humble plow and
the path I carve
on the tired face of
mother Earth
a path I design
I plow a course towards
the light of a beacon
the man who sees
things like a man.
Manolis Aligizakis 