Wheat Ears

Futility

We suddenly felt the flesh that carried our pain and

our dreams were foreign to us since He had died: our God

and inappropriate it was not to consider

the undertaker’s tears. We had none, God was too old

we thought and finally, we understood the angel

who advised us to show compassion, who advocated

morality had also died, and we had to rely on the birds

to recommence our sentimental love and understand

our neighbor who started his day brandishing a pistol

in his hand, his eyes fixated on us as though saying

you better not… a sentence that contradicted the meaning

of our Sunday dinner and in vain we insisted on lighting

our oil lamps.

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Ithaca Series, Poem # 682

ON THE DEATH OF A DAY OLD CHILD

All dead, day old children will welcome you.

The wind will sing my lullabies to you,

when the sun falls where the saddest grass grows.

You are the beginning when light is wise.

God will guard to the end of days your day,

In the land of manna, Eden of bread.

With ray and shade you will play pranks all day.

Autumn will teem with the brown of your eyes,

With my grief will forever weep the dew.

Menke Katz, Lithuania-USA (1906-1991)

ΓΙΑ ΤΟ ΘΑΝΑΤΟ ΤΟΥ ΜΙΑΣ ΜΕΡΑΣ ΜΩΡΟΥ

Όλοι νεκροί, μωρά μιας μέρας θα σας καλοσωρίσουν

ο αγέρας θα τραγουδήσει νανουρίσματα

όταν θα πέσει ο ήλιος και το γρασίδι θα ψηλώσει

είστε στην αρχή όταν το φως είναι σοφό

ο Θεός θα σας προστατεύει ως το τέλος των ημερών σας

στη χώρα του μάννα, Παράδεισο τροφής.

Θα παίξετε με τους ίσκιους και το φως όλη μέρα

το φθινόπωρο θα ταιριάξει στο χρώμα των ματιών σας

κι η πίκρα μου θα θρηνεί για πάντα με τη χλόη

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

Excerpt LXI

The same share of voice and silence. A boy goes by

with two wooden pails overflowing with milk, light blue

               milk. The foliage

of trees has warmed up along the avenue — full

of fragrance like the underside dresses of women

we have nothing but this unconvinced toughness for

               women’s legs

ascent, descend, he said, slavery, freedom, detachment,

dream; dream before and after, the original, the

               in between, the extreme.

The cat grooms itself in the sunshine

the dog stares at the upper window patiently

a band of light on the vacant house

the gloves of the retired boxer on the bed

two big glass bowls

where the goldfish with the green bellies gather

the white basin with the red fabric of the widow

            in the terrace

the seafloor water is darker at dawn under the

            sweet surface

they all have a casual excuse.

We too, we too.

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Twelve Narratives of the Gypsy

Oh, my black mule you didn’t

get any of your father’s noble

fate with the dashing body

and from my mother, I didn’t

accept the scornful serenity,

you said to me, I’m not the slave

of a slave. I know it well, oh,

my black mule, you are you

you selected two of your

mother’s and your father’s fate

and you chose your destiny

and if you aren’t as graceful

as the waves nor the bravest

and if you aren’t a stooped slave

and a tired maid who awaits

and endures, beauty has turned

you into a thoughtful being and

if you never said no, you did

because of your stubbornness

not from a peaceful submission.

You’re always strong-willed

always first always the same

in rivers and thickets and

on the road and in the noisy

harbors as your steady step

deserves a light, graceful wing.

And if I urge you to descend into

the Tartarus of earth you’ll

always obey and I won’t even

feel the trembling of your legs.

And if I wake up longing for

a skyward voyage inside of me

I’ll ascend to the stars with you

while your steady steps will

guide me up to that height and

I’ll see you as the winged horse

of the magician or the leading

black guerrilla, unbending

barren and stubborn mule.

You and I, both of us, one Fate.

And if I stirred the leaders’

armoury with my hands and

I fluttered the soldier’s banner

and my uncontrolled hair

as if I was again commencing

a new battle, as if again

I was ready for long wars

and lance competitions

and wherever I passed along

domed forests of high-joined

chestnut trees and hugging

poplars I pushed my mule

gracefully riding on her back

I was the mule-rider who

touched the domed forests

raising my arms and then

going forward or coming back

I always carried leaves and

fresh branches in my hands

and wherever a river stopped

my steps, I disregarded its

powerful current, mule-rider

who I was, I started crossing

in a fastened path that lasted

only while I was passing; and I

was a river passer, a mule rider

an engraving on the rock

mule and man, the same flesh

different from the stone, which

assumed a soul and departed

if I was lost in the deep thought

of struggle, pain, and yearning

in my mind the one emperor

having a crown on his head

the crown of the universe.

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Constantine Cavafy – Poems

IONIAN

Although we broke their statutes,

and drove them out of their temples,

the gods did not die out at all because of that.

Oh, land of Ionia, it is you they still love,

it is you their souls still remember.

When dawn comes on you on an August morning

the vigor of their lives goes through your atmosphere.

And at times the ethereal figure of a youth,

obscure, with quick steps

passes over your hills.

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Μιχάλης Τιβέριος για Αμφίπολη

Τρελές ιστορίες από την Αρχαία Ελλάδα

Θοδωρής Βοριάς, Εν ώρα υπηρεσίας

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

THE GATE

Excerpt LVII

It is difficult, of course, to talk of things while they

            occur, old men

waited to read what they had seen with their own

eyes in tomorrow’s newspapers; they didn’t know

which version was the most accurate. I waited to

find them inverted inside of me; the others were in

a hurry because of me. I thought they were right.

I had spread the wet sackcloth over three chairs,

            one on top of the other,

so the clay statue was visibly ready. I had placed

the metal measuring tape, the trowel, the gobbet

            on the floor.

The clay, he kept on saying, the clay, the clay.

He kneed it with his fists trying to mould statues

and real bread to feed the hungry.

Clay is my material, he said, clay isn’t eaten; so

            alone.

Θοδωρής Βοριάς, Άλλοι τα λένε κύματα