at the end of the day

©fourteenth

Ἡ μοίρα μας, χυμένο μολύβι, δὲν μπορεῖ ν᾿ ἀλλάξει.
Ἔχυσαν τὸ μολύβι μέσα στὸ νερὸ κάτω ἀπ' τ᾿ ἀστέρια κι ἂς ἀνάβουν οἱ φωτιές.

Γ. Σεφέρης, Φωτιὲς τοῦ Ἅϊ-Γιάννη




ευχαριστώ Χρήστο

twig©fourteenth

χάρτης το σώμα
ποταμοί διατρέχουν
λάσπη και πόνο

makis tselentis

Συνείδηση φανέρωμα συγκίνησης περιπαίζεις τὴν ὕπαρξη

shore feathers      ©fourteenth

Συνείδηση φανέρωμα συγκίνησης

περιπαίζεις τὴν ὕπαρξη

Οἱ ἀγάπες τοῦ χρόνου

συχνάζουν τὰ τοπία σου

τρέμεις στὰ φύλλα τοῦ εἶναι

γεμίζεις τὸ σύμπαν

δὲν ξέρεις φυγὴ

ποθεῖς ταξίδια

Στὶς πλάτες σου φτερουγίζει ὁ κόσμος

φῶς σὲ λούζει ὁ ἥλιος.

Γιώργος Σαραντάρης

οἱ ψυχές

© Χρήστος Μαρκίδης, από τη σειρά Ημεροδρόμιο

©Χρήστος Μαρκίδης

H´

Μὰ τί γυρεύουν οἱ ψυχές μας ταξιδεύοντας
πάνω σὲ καταστρώματα κατελυμένων καραβιῶν
στριμωγμένες μὲ γυναῖκες κίτρινες καὶ μωρὰ ποὺ κλαῖνε
χωρὶς νὰ μποροῦν νὰ ξεχαστοῦν οὔτε μὲ τὰ χελιδονόψαρα
οὔτε μὲ τ᾿ ἄστρα ποὺ δηλώνουν στὴν ἄκρη τὰ κατάρτια.
Τριμμένες ἀπὸ τοὺς δίσκους τῶν φωνογράφων
δεμένες ἄθελα μ᾿ ἀνύπαρχτα προσκυνήματα
μουρμουρίζοντας σπασμένες σκέψεις ἀπὸ ξένες γλῶσσες.

Μὰ τί γυρεύουν οἱ ψυχές μας ταξιδεύοντας
πάνω στὰ σαπισμένα θαλάσσια ξύλα
ἀπὸ λιμάνι σὲ λιμάνι;

Γιῶργος Σεφέρης - «Μυθιστόρημα»



                  ☉

What are they after, our souls, travelling
on the decks of decayed ships
crowded in with sallow women and crying babies
unable to forget themselves either with the flying fish
or with the stars that the masts point out at their tips;
grated by gramophone records
committed to non-existent pilgrimages unwillingly
murmuring broken thoughts from foreign languages.

What are they after, our souls, travelling
on rotten brine-soaked timbers
from harbour to harbour?

George Seferis, Mythistorema

Pinetree

Καὶ θυμᾶμαι τὸν ἥλιο ποὺ γελοῦσε

Πού γελοῦσε καὶ δάκρυζε θυμᾶμαι

Γιῶργος Σαραντάρης

Pinetree, water colour

                           for Michael Longley

                           As a child, they could not keep me from wells

                           And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.

                           I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells

                           Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

                           One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.

                           I savoured the rich crash when a bucket

                           Plummeted down at the end of a rope.

                           So deep you saw no reflection in it.

                            A shallow one under a dry stone ditch

                            Fructified like any aquarium.

                            When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch

                            A white face hovered over the bottom.

                            Others had echoes, gave back your own call

                            With a clean new music in it. And one

                            Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall

                            Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

                           Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,

                           To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring

                           Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme

                           To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

                          Seamus Heaney

                          Personal Helicon

Όποιος ποτέ του δεν αγάπησε, θ' αγαπήσει, στο φως...

Γιώργος Σεφέρης

                   

          

              Between going and staying the day wavers,
              in love with its own transparency.
              The circular afternoon is now a bay
              where the world in stillness rocks.

              All is visible and all elusive,
              all is near and can't be touched.
              Paper, book, pencil, glass,
              rest in the shade of their names.

              Time throbbing in my temples repeats
              the same unchanging syllable of blood.
              The light turns the indifferent wall
              into a ghostly theater of reflections.

              I find myself in the middle of an eye,
              watching myself in its blank stare.

              The moment scatters. Motionless,
              I stay and go: I am a pause.

              Octavio Paz

Agora, Athens by Ben Hein

                             

                          “And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.”

    
               
                            William Wordsworth

 
                          from I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

Ben van den Bussche

              
              Interval of Joy


              We were happy all that morning

              God how happy.
              First the stones the leaves and the flowers shone

              and then the sun

              a huge sun all thorns but so very high in the heavens.


              A Nymph was gathering our cares and hanging them on the trees

              a forest of Judas trees.

              Cupids and satyrs were singing and playing
              and rosy limbs could be glimpsed amid black laurel

              the flesh of young children.


              We were happy all that morning;
              the abyss was a closed well

              in which the tender foot of a young faun stamped

              do you remember its laughter: how happy we were!


              And then clouds rain and the damp earth;

              you stopped laughing when you reclined in the hut,
              and opened your large eyes and gazed

              on the archangel wielding a fiery sword
 

              "We cannot explain it," you said, "We cannot explain it,
              "
We find people impossible to understand

              however much they may play with colors

              they are all black".


              George Seferis
              translated by Kimon Friar

              Διάλειμμα Χαρᾶς

              Πεντέλη, ἄνοιξη

              Εἴμασταν χαρούμενοι ὅλοι ἐκεῖνο τὸ πρωὶ

              θεέ μου πόσο χαρούμενοι.

              Πρῶτα γυάλιζαν οἱ πέτρες τὰ φύλλα τὰ λουλούδια

              ἔπειτα ὁ ἥλιος

              ἕνας μεγάλος ἥλιος ὅλο ἀγκάθια μὰ τόσο ψηλὰ στὸν οὐρανό.

              Μιὰ νύμφη μάζευε τὶς ἔνοιές μας καὶ τὶς κρεμνοῦσε στὰ δέντρα

              ἕνα δάσος ἀπὸ δέντρα τοῦ Ἰούδα.

              Ἐρωτιδεῖς καὶ σάτυροι παῖζαν καὶ τραγουδοῦσαν

              κι ἔβλεπες ρόδινα μέλη μέσα στὶς μαῦρες δάφνες

              σάρκες μικρῶν παιδιῶν.

              Εἴμασταν χαρούμενοι ὅλο τὸ πρωΐ

              ἡ ἄβυσσο κλειστὸ πηγάδι

              ὅπου χτυποῦσε τὸ τρυφερὸ πόδι ἑνὸς ἀνήλικου φαύνου

              θυμᾶσαι τὸ γέλιο του: πόσο χαρούμενοι!

              Ἔπειτα σύννεφα βροχὴ καὶ τὸ νοτισμένο χῶμα

              ἔπαψες νὰ γελᾶς σὰν ἔγειρες μέσα στὴν καλύβα

              κι ἄνοιξες τὰ μεγάλα σου τὰ μάτια κοιτάζοντας

              τὸν ἀρχάγγελο νὰ γυμνάζεται μὲ μία πύρινη ρομφαία-

              «Ἀνεξήγητο» εἶπες «ἀνεξήγητο

              δὲν καταλαβαίνω τοὺς ἀνθρώπους

              ὅσο καὶ νὰ παίζουν μὲ τὰ χρώματα

              εἶναι ὅλοι τους μαῦροι».

              Γίωργος Σεφέρης

                           H δύναμή σου πέλαγο κι η θέλησή μου βράχος...

                           Διονύσιος Σολωμός



                          Your strength an ocean and my will a rock...

                           Dionysios Solomos