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

greece

©fourteenth

Χῶρες τοῦ ἥλιου καὶ δὲν μπορεῖτε ν᾿ ἀντικρίσετε τὸν ἥλιο.

Χῶρες τοῦ ἀνθρώπου καὶ δὲν μπορεῖτε ν᾿ ἀντικρίσετε τὸν ἄνθρωπο.

Γ. Σεφέρης

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

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Γιώργος Σεφέρης