Passport

They did not recognize me in the shadows
That suck away my color in this Passport
And to them my wound was an exhibit
For a tourist Who loves to collect photographs
They did not recognize me,

Ah . . . Don't leave
The palm of my hand without the sun
Because the trees recognize me
All the songs of the rain recognize me
Dont' leave me pale like the moon!

The Happiness

There's a happiness, a joy

in one soul, that's been

buried alive in everyone

and forgotten.

It isn't your barroom joke

or tender, intimate humor

or affections of friendliness

or big, bright pun.

Δυο άνθρωποι

 
Αν είδες ποτέ στη μέση του δρόμου
δυο ανθρώπους να τους πηγαίνουν με χειροπέδες
δεν αποκλείεται ο ένας να είμουν εγώ
που με ξαναστέλναν εξορία.
Και κείνο το πρωί είχα και σένα
τόσα όνειρα
για τη δουλειά που θα ‘βρισκα,
για έναν περίπατο στα φώτα και την άσφαλτο,
για λίγο ήλιο...
Και κείνος
που ξαφνικά τα σίδερα τον δέσαν στο κορμί μου
είχε και κείνος χαραγμένα τα όνειρά του
στο αυστηρό του πρόσωπο.

Bei Nacht

Nachts, wenn das Meer mich wiegt

Und bleicher Sternenglanz

Auf seinen weiten Wellen liegt,

Dann löse ich mich ganz

Von allem Tun und aller Liebe los

Und stehe still und atme bloß

Allein, allein vom Meer gewiegt,

Das still und kalt mit tausend Lichtern liegt.

Dann muß ich meiner Freunde denken

Und meinen Blick in ihre Blicke senken,

Und frage jeden still allein:

"Bist du noch mein?

Ist dir mein Leid ein Leid, mein Tod ein Tod?

Fühlst du von meiner Liebe, meiner Not

Nur einen Hauch, nur einen Widerhall?"

The Suicide's Defense

 
(Of all the stupidities wherewith the law-making power has signaled its own incapacity for dealing with the disorders of society, none appears so utterly stupid as the law which punishes an attempted suicide. To the question "What have you to say in your defense?" I conceive the poor wretch might reply as follows.)

To say in my defense? Defense of what?
Defense to whom? And why defense at all?
Have I wronged any? Let that one accuse!
Some priest there mutters I "have outraged God"!
Let God then try me, and let none dare judge
Himself as fit to put Heaven's ermine on!
Again I say, let the wronged one accuse.
Aye, silence! There is none to answer me.
And whom could I, a homeless, friendless tramp,
To whom all doors are shut, all hearts are locked,
All hands withheld— whom could I wrong, indeed
By taking that which benefited none

The Gardener

(66)

A wandering madman was seeking
the touchstone, with matted locks,
tawny and dust-laden, and body worn
to a shadow, his lips tight-pressed,
like the shut-up doors of his heart,
his burning eyes like the lamp of a
glow-worm seeking its mate.

Before him the endless ocean
roared.
The garrulous waves ceaselessly
talked of hidden treasures, mocking
the ignorance that knew not their
meaning.

Subject to change

                              A reflection on my students

They are so beautiful, and so very young

they seem almost to glitter with perfection,

these creatures that I briefly move among.

I never get to stay with them for long,

but even so, I view them with affection:

they are so beautiful, and so very young.

Poised or clumsy, placid or high-strung,

they're expert in the art of introspection,

these creatures that I briefly move among—

Ἁπλοὶ στίχοι

Ἕνα σπίτι γιὰ νὰ γεννηθεῖς
ἕνα δέντρο γιὰ ν᾿ ἀνασάνεις
ἕνας στίχος γιὰ νὰ κρυφτεῖς
ἕνας κόσμος γιὰ νὰ πεθάνεις

Τάσος Λειβαδίτης

The Third One

The three of them sat before the window looking at the sea.
One talked about the sea. The second listened. The third
neither spoke nor listened; he was deep in the sea; he floated.
Behind the window panes, his movements were slow, clear
in the thin pale blue. He was exploring a sunken ship.
He rang the dead bell for the watch; fine bubbles
rose bursting with a soft sound – suddenly,
‘Did he drown?’ asked one; the other said: ‘He drowned.’ The
  third one
looked at them helpless from the bottom of the sea, the way one
  looks at drowned people.

Yiannis Ritsos


(Picture: Sadko in the Underwater Kingdom, Ilya Repin)

Ἕνα μαχαίρι

Ἀπάνω μου ἔχω πάντοτε στὴ ζώνη μου σφιγμένο
ἕνα μικρὸ ἀφρικανικὸν ἀτσάλινο μαχαίρι
-ὅπως αὐτὰ ποὺ συνηθοῦν καὶ παίζουν οἱ Ἀραπάδες-
ποὺ ἀπὸ ἕναν γέρο ἔμπορο τ᾿ ἀγόρασα στ᾿ Ἀλγέρι.

Θυμᾶμαι, ὡς τώρα νἀ ῾τανε, τὸν γέρο παλαιοπώλη,
ὅπου ἐμοίαζε μὲ μίαν παλιὰ ἐλαιογραφία τοῦ Γκόγια,
ὀρθὸν πλάι σὲ μακριὰ σπαθιὰ καὶ σὲ στολὲς σχισμένες,
νὰ λέει μὲ μία βραχνὴ φωνὴ τὰ παρακάτου λόγια.

El Silencio

 

Oye, hijo mío, el silencio. 
Es un silencio ondulado,
un silencio,
donde resbalan valles y ecos
y que inclina las frentes
hacia el suelo.

Federico García Lorca

On living

I

Living is no laughing matter:

               you must live with great seriousness

                               like a squirrel, for example--

   I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,

                               I mean living must be your whole occupation.

Living is no laughing matter:

               you must take it seriously,

               so much so and to such a degree

   that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,

                                            your back to the wall,

   or else in a laboratory

               in your white coat and safety glasses,

               you can die for people--

   even for people whose faces you've never seen,

   even though you know living

               is the most real, the most beautiful thing.

Without You

My Pillow gazes upon me at night

Empty as a gravestone;
I never thought it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Not to lie down asleep in your hair.

I lie alone in a silent house,
The hanging lamp darkened,
And gently stretch out my hands
To gather in yours,
And softly press my warm mouth

An address of a ''traitor''

Your honor, I have stated in this court that I am opposed to the form of our present government; that I am opposed to the social system in which we live; that I believe in the change of both but by perfectly peaceable and orderly means...

I am thinking this morning of the men in the mills and factories; I am thinking of the women who, for a paltry wage, are compelled to work out their lives; of the little children who, in this system, are robbed of their childhood, and in their early, tender years, are seized in the remorseless grasp of Mammon, and forced into the industrial dungeons, there to feed the machines while they themselves are being starved body and soul...

Ich glaub nicht an den Himmel

Ich glaub nicht an den Himmel,
Wovon das Pfäfflein spricht;
Ich glaub nur an dein Auge,
Das ist mein Himmelslicht.

Ich glaub nicht an den Herrgott,
Wovon das Pfäfflein spricht;
Ich glaub nur an dein Herze,
'nen andern Gott hab ich nicht.

Ich glaub nicht an den Bösen,
An Höll und Höllenschmerz;
Ich glaub nur an dein Auge,
Und an dein böses Herz.

Heinrich Heine

A sad state of freedom

You waste the attention of your eyes,
the glittering labour of your hands,
and knead the dough enough for dozens of loaves
of which you'll taste not a morsel;
you are free to slave for others--
you are free to make the rich richer.

The moment you're born
they plant around you
mills that grind lies
lies to last you a lifetime.
You keep thinking in your great freedom
a finger on your temple
free to have a free conscience.

Η πύλη των λεόντων

Τα λιοντάρια είχαν χαθεί από χρόνια
ούτε ένα δεν βρισκόταν σ’όλη την Ελλάδα
ή μάλλον ένα μοναχικό, κυνηγημένο
κάπου είχε κρυφτεί στην Πελοπόννησο
χωρίς ν’απειλεί πια κανέναν
ώσπου το σκότωσε κι αυτό ο Ηρακλής.
Ωστόσο η θύμηση των λιονταριών
ποτέ δεν έπαψε να τρομάζει
τρόμαζε η εικόνα τους σε θυρεούς και ασπίδες
τρόμαζε το ομοίωμά τους στα μνημεία των μαχών
τρόμαζε η ανάγλυφη μορφή τους
στο πέτρινο υπέρθυρο της πύλης.
Τρομάζει πάντα το βαρύ μας παρελθόν
τρομάζει η αφήγηση όσων έχουν συμβεί
καθώς τη χαράζει η γραφή στο υπέρθυρο
της πύλης που καθημερινά διαβαίνουμε.

Τίτος Πατρίκιος

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

I Am

I am! The ages on the ages roll:
And what I am, I was, and I shall be:
by slow growth filling higher Destiny,
And Widening, ever, to the widening Goal.
I am the Stone that slept; down deep in me
That old, old sleep has left its centurine trace;
I am the plant that dreamed; and lo! still see
That dream-life dwelling on the Human Face.
I slept, I dreamed, I wakened: I am Man!
The hut grows Palaces; the depths breed light;
Still on! Forms pass; but Form yields kinglier
Might!
The singer, dying where his song began,
In Me yet lives; and yet again shall he
Unseal the lips of greater songs To Be;
For mine the thousand tongues of Immortality.

Voltairine de Cleyre

 

(Picture: Alone, Edmund Dulac)

Water

   











The water understands

   Civilization well;

   It wets my foot, but prettily,

   It chills my life, but wittily,

   It is not disconcerted,

   It is not broken-hearted:

   Well used, it decketh joy,

   Adorneth, doubleth joy:

   Ill used, it will destroy,

   In perfect time and measure

   With a face of golden pleasure

   Elegantly destroy.

   Ralph Waldo Emerson

   (Picture: Between the waves, Ivan Aivazovsky) 

Fata Morgana

                                                  Στὴ Θεανὼ Σουνᾶ

Θὰ μεταλάβω μὲ νερὸ θαλασσινὸ
στάλα τὴ στάλα συναγμένο ἀπ᾿ τὸ κορμί σου
σὲ τάσι ἀρχαῖο, μπακιρένιο ἀλγερινό,
ποὺ κοινωνοῦσαν πειρατὲς πρὶν πολεμήσουν.

Στρείδι ὠκεάνιο ἀρραβωνίζεται τὸ φῶς.
Γεύση ἀπὸ φλούδι τοῦ ροδιοῦ, στυφὸ κυδώνι
κι ὁ ἄρρητος τόνος, πιὸ πικρὸς καὶ πιὸ στυφός,
ποὺ ἐναποθέτανε στὰ βάζα οἱ Καρχηδόνιοι.

Ὁ ἄνθρωπος μὲ τὸ γαρύφαλο

Σήμερα τὸ στρατόπεδο σωπαίνει.
Σήμερα ὁ ἥλιος τρέμει ἀγκιστρωμένος στὴ σιωπὴ
ὅπως τρέμει τὸ σακάκι τοῦ σκοτωμένου στὸ συρματόπλεγμα.
Σήμερα ὁ κόσμος εἶναι λυπημένος.
Ξεκρέμασαν μία μεγάλη καμπάνα καὶ τὴν ἀκούμπησαν στὴ γῆ.
Μὲς στὸ χαλκό της καρδιοχτυπᾶ ἡ εἰρήνη.
Σιωπή. Ἀκοῦστε τούτη τὴν καμπάνα.
Σιωπή. Οἱ λαοὶ περνοῦν σηκώνοντας στοὺς ὤμους τους
τὸ μέγα φέρετρο τοῦ Μπελογιάννη.

Γιάννης Ρίτσος

Suicide of a Moderate Dictator

This is a day when truths will out, perhaps;
leak from the dangling telephone earphones
sapping the festooned switchboards' strength;
fall from the windows, blow from off the sills,
—the vague, slight unremarkable contents
of emptying ash-trays; rub off on our fingers
like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers,
crocking the way the unfocused photographs
of crooked faces do that soil our coats,
our tropical-weight coats, like slapped-at moths

The bat

By day the bat is cousin to the mouse.
He likes the attic of an aging house.

His fingers make a hat about his head.
His pulse beat is so slow we think him dead.

He loops in crazy figures half the night
Among the trees that face the corner light.

But when he brushes up against a screen,
We are afraid of what our eyes have seen:

For something is amiss or out of place
When mice with wings can wear a human face.

Theodore Roethke


(Picture: Flying fox, Vincent van Gogh)

Some Advice To Those Who Will Serve Time In Prison

 













If instead of being hanged by the neck
          you're thrown inside
          for not giving up hope
in the world, your country, your people,
          if you do ten or fifteen years
          apart from the time you have left,
you won't say,
              "Better I had swung from the end of a rope
                                              like a flag" --
You'll put your foot down and live.
It may not be a pleasure exactly,
but it's your solemn duty
           to live one more day
                         to spite the enemy.
Part of you may live alone inside,
             like a tone at the bottom of a well.

Corriente

El que camina
se enturbia.

El agua corriente
no ve las estrellas.

El que camina
se olvida.

Y el que se para
sueña.

Federico García Lorca

Η πόλις

Είπες· «Θα πάγω σ’ άλλη γη, θα πάγω σ’ άλλη θάλασσα.

Μια πόλις άλλη θα βρεθεί καλλίτερη από αυτή.
Κάθε προσπάθεια μου μια καταδίκη είναι γραφτή·
κ’ είν’ η καρδιά μου — σαν νεκρός — θαμένη.
Ο νους μου ως πότε μες στον μαρασμόν αυτόν θα μένει.
Όπου το μάτι μου γυρίσω, όπου κι αν δω
ερείπια μαύρα της ζωής μου βλέπω εδώ,
που τόσα χρόνια πέρασα και ρήμαξα και χάλασα.»

Καινούριους τόπους δεν θα βρεις, δεν θάβρεις άλλες θάλασσες.
Η πόλις θα σε ακολουθεί. Στους δρόμους θα γυρνάς
τους ίδιους. Και στες γειτονιές τες ίδιες θα γερνάς·
και μες στα ίδια σπίτια αυτά θ’ ασπρίζεις.
Πάντα στην πόλι αυτή θα φθάνεις. Για τα αλλού — μη ελπίζεις—
δεν έχει πλοίο για σε, δεν έχει οδό.
Έτσι που τη ζωή σου ρήμαξες εδώ
στην κώχη τούτη την μικρή, σ’ όλην την γη την χάλασες.

Written-in-Red

(To Our Living Dead in Mexico's Struggle)

Written in red their protest stands,
For the gods of the World to see;
On the dooming wall their bodiless hands
have blazoned "Upharsin," and flaring brands
Illumine the message: "Seize the lands!
Open the prisons and make men free!"
Flame out the living words of the dead
Written-in-red.

Gods of the World! Their mouths are dumb!
Your guns have spoken and they are dust.
But the shrouded Living, whose hearts were numb,
have felt the beat of a wakening drum
Within them sounding-the Dead men's tongue—
Calling: "Smite off the ancient rust!"
Have beheld "Resurrexit," the word of the Dead,
Written-in-red.