FNORD

Fnord?

Fnord is evaporated herbal tea without the herbs.

Fnord is that funny feeling you get when you reach for the
Snickers bar and come back holding a slurpee.

Fnord is the 43 1/3rd state, next to Wyoming.
Fnord is this really, really tall mountain.
Fnord is the reason boxes of condoms carry twelve instead of ten.

Fnord is the blue stripes in the road that never get painted.
Fnord is place where those socks vanish off to in the laundry.
Fnord is an arcade game like Pacman without the little dots.
Fnord is a little pufflike cloud you see at 5pm.

Fnord is the tool the dentist uses on unruly patients.
Fnord is the blank paper that cassette labels are printed on.
Fnord is where the buses hide at night.
Fnord is the empty pages at the end of the book.

Fnord is the screw that falls from the car for no reason.
Fnord is why Burger King uses paper instead of foam.
Fnord is the little green pebble in your shoe.
Fnord is the orange print in the yellow pages.


Fnord is a pickle without the bumps. Fnord is why ducks eat trees.
Fnord is toast without bread. Fnord is a venetian blind without the slats.


Fnord is the lint in the navel of the mites that eat
the lint in the navel of the mites that eat
the lint in Fnord's navel.

Fnord is an apostrophe on drugs.
Fnord is the bucket where they keep the unused serifs for H*lvetica.
Fnord is the gunk that sticks to the inside of your car's fenders.
Fnord is the source of all the zero bits in your computer.

Fnord is the echo of silence.
Fnord is the parsley on the plate of life.
Fnord is the sales tax on happiness.
Fnord is the preposition at the end of sixpence.

Fnord is the feeling in your brain when you hold your breath too long.
Fnord is the reason latent homosexuals stay latent.

Fnord is the donut hole.
Fnord is the whole donut.

Fnord is an annoying series of email messages.
Fnord is the color only blind people can see.

Fnord is the serial number on a box of
cereal.

Fnord is the Universe with decreasing entropy.
Fnord is a naked woman with herpes simplex 428.
Fnord is the yin without yang.
Fnord is a pyrotumescent retrograde onyx obelisk.

Fnord is why lisp has so many parentheses.
Fnord is the the four-leaf clover with a missing leaf.

Fnord is double-jointed and has a cubic spline.
Fnord never sleeps.
Fnord is the "een" in baleen whale.

Fnord is neither a particle nor a wave.

Fnord is the space in between the pixels on your screen.

Fnord is the guy that writes the Infiniti ads.
Fnord is the nut in peanut butter and jelly.
Fnord is an antebellum flagellum fella.

Fnord is a sentient vacuum cleaner.

Fnord is the smallest number greater than zero.
Fnord lives in the empty space above a decimal point.


Fnord is the odd-colored scale on a dragon's back.
Fnord is the redundant coin slot on arcade games.
Fnord was last seen in Omaha, Nebraska.

Fnord is the founding father of the phrase "founding father".
Fnord is the last bit of sand you can't get out of your shoe.
Fnord is Jesus's speech advisor.
Fnord keeps a spare eyebrow in his pocket.
Fnord invented the green hubcap.
Fnord is why doctors ask you to cough.

Fnord is the "ooo" in varooom of race cars.
Fnord uses two bathtubs at once.



I cannot escape them
No matter how I try
They wait for me everywhere
I cannot pass them by.

Driving down the street
I see "Jesus Is Lord"
And then immediately after
I hear the word "FNORD!"

Innocuous sayings and parables
And on the evening news
I hear the word "FNORD!"
And suddenly I'm confused

I sit alone in my room
And I'm feeling rather bored
I turn on the tube and guess what
I hear the word "FNORD!"

"Don't see the fnords and they won't eat you"
That's what I've heard the wisemen say
But I can't get away from those beasties
There's just no fucking way.


I believe I found these on alt.discordia

buxton@uiuc.edu

Ποιήματα - Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης

Όσο μπορείς

Κι αν δεν μπορείς να κάμεις την ζωή σου όπως την θέλεις,
τούτο προσπάθησε τουλάχιστον
όσο μπορείς: μην την εξευτελίζεις
μες στην πολλή συνάφεια του κόσμου,
μες στες πολλές κινήσεις κι ομιλίες.
Μην την εξευτελίζεις πιαίνοντάς την,
γυρίζοντας συχνά κ' εκθέτοντάς την,
στων σχέσεων και των συναναστροφών
την καθημερινήν ανοησία,
ως που να γίνει σα μιά ξένη φορτική.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1913)

Τείχη

Χωρίς περίσκεψιν, χωρίς λύπην, χωρίς αιδώ
μεγάλα κ' υψηλά τριγύρω μου έκτισαν τείχη.

Και κάθομαι και απελπίζομαι τώρα εδώ.
Άλλο δεν σκέπτομαι: τον νουν μου τρώγει αυτή η τύχη·

διότι πράγματα πολλά έξω να κάμω είχον.
Α όταν έκτιζαν τα τείχη πώς να μην προσέξω.

Αλλά δεν άκουσα ποτέ κρότον κτιστών ή ήχον.
Ανεπαισθήτως μ' έκλεισαν από τον κόσμον έξω.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1896)

Διακοπή

Το έργον των θεών διακόπτομεν εμείς,
τα βιαστικά κι άπειρα όντα της στιγμής.
Στης Ελευσίνος και στης Φθίας τα παλάτια
η Δήμητρα κ' η Θέτις αρχινούν έργα καλά
μες σε μεγάλες φλόγες και βαθύν καπνόν. Αλλά
πάντοτε ορμά η Μετάνειρα από τα δωμάτια
του βασιλέως, ξέπλεγη και τρομαγμένη,
και πάντοτε ο Πηλεύς φοβάται κ' επεμβαίνει.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1901)

Τα παράθυρα

Σ' αυτές τες σκοτεινές κάμαρες, που περνώ
μέρες βαρυές, επάνω κάτω τριγυρνώ
για νάβρω τα παράθυρα. - Οταν ανοίξει
ένα παράθυρο θάναι παρηγορία. -
Μα τα παράθυρα δεν βρίσκονται, ή δεν μπορώ
να τάβρω. Και καλλίτερα ίσως να μην τα βρω.
Ίσως το φως θάναι μια νέα τυραννία.
Ποιός ξέρει τι καινούργια πράγματα θα δείξει.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1903)

Περιμένοντας τους Βαρβάρους

-Τι περιμένουμε στην αγορά συναθροισμένοι;
Είναι οι βάρβαροι να φθάσουν σήμερα.

-Γιατί μέσα στην Σύγκλητο μιά τέτοια απραξία;
Τι κάθοντ' οι Συγκλητικοί και δεν νομοθετούνε;

-Γιατί οι βάρβαροι θα φθάσουν σήμερα.
Τι νόμους πια θα κάμουν οι Συγκλητικοί;
Οι βάρβαροι σαν έλθουν θα νομοθετήσουν.

-Γιατί ο αυτοκράτωρ μας τόσο πρωί σηκώθη,
και κάθεται στης πόλεως την πιο μεγάλη πύλη
στον θρόνο επάνω, επίσημος, φορώντας την κορώνα;

-Γιατί οι βάρβαροι θα φθάσουν σήμερα.
Κι ο αυτοκράτωρ περιμένει να δεχθεί
τον αρχηγό τους. Μάλιστα ετοίμασε
για να τον δώσει μια περγαμηνή. Εκεί
τον έγραψε τίτλους πολλούς κι ονόματα.

-Γιατί οι δυό μας ύπατοι κ' οι πραίτορες εβγήκαν
σήμερα με τες κόκκινες, τες κεντημένες τόγες·
γιατί βραχιόλια φόρεσαν με τόσους αμεθύστους,
και δαχτυλίδια με λαμπρά γυαλιστερά σμαράγδια·
γιατί να πιάσουν σήμερα πολύτιμα μπαστούνια
μ' ασήμια και μαλάματα έκτακτα σκαλισμένα;

Γιατί οι βάρβαροι θα φθάσουν σήμερα·
και τέτοια πράγματα θαμπόνουν τους βαρβάρους.

-Γιατί κ' οι άξιοι ρήτορες δεν έρχονται σαν πάντα
να βγάλουνε τους λόγους τους, να πούνε τα δικά τους;

Γιατί οι βάρβαροι θα φθάσουν σήμερα·
κι αυτοί βαριούντ' ευφράδειες και δημηγορίες.

-Γιατί ν' αρχίσει μονομιάς αυτή η ανησυχία
κ' η σύγχυσις. (Τα πρόσωπα τι σοβαρά που έγιναν).
Γιατί αδειάζουν γρήγορα οι δρόμοι κ' οι πλατέες,
κι όλοι γυρνούν στα σπίτια τους πολύ συλλογισμένοι;

Γιατί ενύχτωσε κ' οι βάρβαροι δεν ήλθαν.
Και μερικοί έφθασαν απ' τα σύνορα,
και είπανε πως βάρβαροι πια δεν υπάρχουν.

Και τώρα τι θα γένουμε χωρίς βαρβάρους.
Οι άνθρωποι αυτοί ήσαν μιά κάποια λύσις.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1904)

Μονοτονία

Την μιά μονότονην ημέραν άλλη
μονότονη, απαράλλακτη ακολουθεί. Θα γίνουν
τα ίδια πράγματα, θα ξαναγίνουν πάλι -
οι όμοιες στιγμές μας βρίσκουνε και μας αφίνουν.

Μήνας περνά και φέρνει άλλον μήνα.
Αυτά που έρχονται κανείς εύκολα τα εικάζει·
είναι τα χθεσινά τα βαρετά εκείνα.
Και καταντά το αύριο πια σαν αύριο να μη μοιάζει.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1908)

Η πόλις

Είπες· «Θα πάγω σ' άλλη γη, θα πάγω σ' άλλη θάλασσα.
Μια πόλις άλλη θα βρεθεί καλλίτερη απ' 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.
Οπου το μάτι μου γυρίσω, όπου κι αν δω
ερείπια μαύρα της ζωής μου βλέπω εδώ,
που τόσα χρόνια πέρασα και ρήμαξα και χάλασα.»
Καινούργιους 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.
Ετσι που τη ζωή σου ρήμαξες εδώ
στην κώχη τούτη την μικρή, σ' όλην την γη την χάλασες.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1910)

Τελειωμένα

Μέσα στον φόβο και στες υποψίες,
με ταραγμένο νου και τρομαγμένα μάτια,
λυώνουμε και σχεδιάζουμε το πως να κάμουμε
για ν' αποφύγουμε τον βέβαιο
τον κίνδυνο που έτσι φρικτά μας απειλεί.
Κι όμως λανθάνουμε, δεν είν' αυτός στον δρόμο·
ψεύτικα ήσαν τα μηνύματα
(ή δεν τ' ακούσαμε, ή δεν τα νοιώσαμε καλά).
Άλλη καταστροφή, που δεν την φανταζόμεθαν,
εξαφνική, ραγδαία πέφτει επάνω μας,
και ανέτοιμους -πού πιά καιρός- μας συνεπαίρνει.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1911)

Ιθάκη

Σα βγεις στον πηγαιμό για την Ιθάκη,
να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος,
γεμάτος περιπέτειες, γεμάτος γνώσεις.
Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας,
τον θυμωμένο Ποσειδώνα μη φοβάσαι,
τέτοια στον δρόμο σου ποτέ σου δεν θα βρεις,
αν μεν' η σκέψις σου υψηλή, αν εκλεκτή
συγκίνησις το πνεύμα και το σώμα σου αγγίζει.
Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας,
τον άγριο Ποσειδώνα δεν θα συναντήσεις,
αν δεν τους κουβανείς μες στην ψυχή σου,
αν η ψυχή σου δεν τους στήνει εμπρός σου.

Να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος.
Πολλά τα καλοκαιρινά πρωϊά να είναι
που με τι ευχαρίστησι, με τι χαρά
θα μπαίνεις σε λιμένας πρωτοειδωμένους,
να σταματήσεις σ' εμπορεία Φοινικικά,
και τες καλές πραγμάτειες ν' αποκτήσεις,
σεντέφια και κοράλλια, κεχριμπάρια κ' έβενους,
και ηδονικά μυρωδικά κάθε λογής,
όσο μπορείς πιο άφθονα ηδονικά μυρωδικά,
σε πόλεις Αιγυπτιακές πολλές να πας,
να μάθεις και να μάθεις απ' τους σπουδασμένους.

Πάντα στον νου σου νάχεις την Ιθάκη.
Το φθάσιμον εκεί ειν' ο προορισμός σου.
Αλλά μη βιάζεις το ταξείδι διόλου.
Καλλίτερα χρόνια πολλά να διαρκέσει
και γέρος πια ν' αράξεις στο νησί,
πλούσιος με όσα κέρδισες στο δρόμο,
μη προσδοκώντας πλούτη να σε δώσει η Ιθάκη.

Η Ιθάκη σ'έδωσε τ' ωραίο ταξείδι.
Χωρίς αυτήν δεν θάβγαινες στον δρόμο.
Άλλα δεν έχει να σε δώσει πια.

Κι αν πτωχική την βρεις, η Ιθάκη δε σε γέλασε.
Έτσι σοφός που έγινες, με τόση πείρα,
ήδη θα το κατάλαβες οι Ιθάκες τι σημαίνουν.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1911)

Κατά τες συνταγές αρχαίων Ελληνοσύρων μάγων

«Ποιό απόσταγμα να βρίσκεται από βότανα
γητεύματος», είπ' ένας αισθητής,
«ποιό απόσταγμα κατά τες συνταγές
αρχαίων Ελληνοσύρων μάγων καμωμένο
που για μια μέρα (αν περισσότερο
δεν φθάν' η δύναμίς του), ή και για λίγην ώρα
τα είκοσι τρία μου χρόνια να με φέρει
ξανά· τον φίλον μου στα είκοσι δυο του χρόνια
να με φέρει ξανά -- την εμορφιά του, την αγάπη του.

»Ποιό απόσταγμα να βρίσκεται κατά τες συνταγές
αρχαίων Ελληνοσύρων μάγων καμωμένο
που, σύμφωνα με την αναδρομήν,
και την μικρή μας κάμαρη να επαναφέρει.»

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1931)

For an English translation of these poems see here.

Greek Poetry - Constantine Cavafy (1863 - 1933)

Here's a short biographical note by the poet himself:

I am from Constantinople by descent, but I was born in Alexandria -- at a house on Seriph Street; I left very young, and spent much of my childhood in England. Subsequently I visited this country as an adult, but for a short period of time. I have also lived in France. During my adolescence I lived over two years in Constantinople. It has been many years since I last visited Greece.

My last employment was as a clerk at a government office under the Ministry of Public Works of Egypt. I know English, French, and a little Italian.


AS MUCH AS YOU CAN
And if you can't shape your life the way you want,
at least try as much as you can
not to degrade it
by too much contact with the world,
by too much activity and talk.

Try not to degrade it by dragging it along,
taking it around and exposing it so often
to the daily silliness
of social events and parties,
until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.

C. Cavafy, 1913
Translation by E. Keeley and P. Sherrard

WALLS
Without consideration, without pity, without shame
they have built great and high walls around me.

And now I sit here and despair.
I think of nothing else: this fate gnaws at my mind;

for I had many things to do outside.
Ah why did I not pay attention when they were building the walls.

But I never heard any noise or sound of builders.
Imperceptibly they shut me from the outside world.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1896)


INTERRUPTION
We interrupt the work of the gods,
hasty and inexperienced beings of the moment.
In the palaces of Eleusis and Phthia
Demeter and Thetis start good works
amid high flames and dense smoke. But
always Metaneira rushes from the king's
chambers, disheveled and scared,
and always Peleus is fearful and interferes.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1901)


THE WINDOWS
In these darkened rooms, where I spend
oppresive days, I pace to and fro
to find the windows. -- When a window
opens, it will be a consolation. --
But the windows cannot be found, or I cannot
find them. And maybe it is best that I do not find them.
Maybe the light will be a new tyranny.
Who knows what new things it will reveal.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1903)


WAITING FOR THE BARBARIANS
What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

The barbarians are to arrive today.

Why such inaction in the Senate?
Why do the Senators sit and pass no laws?

Because the barbarians are to arrive today.
What laws can the Senators pass any more?
When the barbarians come they will make the laws.

Why did our emperor wake up so early,
and sits at the greatest gate of the city,
on the throne, solemn, wearing the crown?

Because the barbarians are to arrive today.
And the emperor waits to receive
their chief. Indeed he has prepared
to give him a scroll. Therein he inscribed
many titles and names of honor.

Why have our two consuls and the praetors come out
today in their red, embroidered togas;
why do they wear amethyst-studded bracelets,
and rings with brilliant, glittering emeralds;
why are they carrying costly canes today,
wonderfully carved with silver and gold?

Because the barbarians are to arrive today,
and such things dazzle the barbarians.

Why don't the worthy orators come as always
to make their speeches, to have their say?

Because the barbarians are to arrive today;
and they get bored with eloquence and orations.

Why all of a sudden this unrest
and confusion. (How solemn the faces have become).
Why are the streets and squares clearing quickly,
and all return to their homes, so deep in thought?

Because night is here but the barbarians have not come.
And some people arrived from the borders,
and said that there are no longer any barbarians.

And now what shall become of us without any barbarians?
Those people were some kind of solution.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1904)

MONOTONY
One monotonous day is followed
by another monotonous, identical day. The same
things will happen, they will happen again --
the same moments find us and leave us.

A month passes and ushers in another month.
One easily guesses the coming events;
they are the boring ones of yesterday.
And the morrow ends up not resembling a morrow anymore.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1908)


THE CITY
You said, "I will go to another land, I will go to another sea.
Another city will be found, better than this.
Every effort of mine is condemned by fate;
and my heart is -- like a corpse -- buried.
How long in this wasteland will my mind remain.
Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look
I see the black ruins of my life here,
where I spent so many years, and ruined and wasted."

New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas.
The city will follow you. You will roam the same
streets. And you will age in the same neighborhoods;
in these same houses you will grow gray.
Always you will arrive in this city. To another land -- do not hope --
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you have ruined your life here
in this little corner, you have destroyed it in the whole world.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1910)


FINALITIES
Amid fear and suspicions,
with agitated mind and frightened eyes,
we melt and plan how to act
to avoid the certain
danger that so horribly threatens us.
And yet we err, this was not in our paths;
the messages were false
(or we did not hear, or fully understand them).
Another catastrophe, one we never imagined,
sudden, precipitous, falls upon us,
and unprepared -- there is no more time -- carries us off.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)


ITHACA
When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)


ACCORDING TO THE FORMULAS OF ANCIENT GRECOSYRIAN MAGI
"What distillate can be discovered from herbs
of a witching brew," said an aesthete,
"what distillate prepared according
to the formulas of ancient Grecosyrian magi
which for a day (if no longer
its potency can last), or even for a short time
can bring my twenty three years to me
again; can bring my friend of twenty two
to me again -- his beauty, his love.

"What distillate prepared according
to the formulas of ancient Grecosyrian magi
which, in bringing back these things,
can also bring back our little room."

Constantine P. Cavafy (1931)

Ποιήματα - Νίκος Καββαδίας

ΕΝΑ ΜΑΧΑΙΡΙ

Απάνω μου έχω πάντοτε στη ζώνη μου σφιγμένο
ένα μικρό αφρικάνικον ατσάλινο μαχαίρι
-- όπως αυτά που συνηθούν και παίζουν οι Αραπάδες --
που από ένα γέρον έμπορο τ' αγόρασα στ' Αλγέρι.

Θυμάμαι, ως τώρα νά 'τανε, το γέρο παλαιοπώλη,
όπου έμοιαζε με μιάν παλιάν ελαιογραφία του Γκόγια,
ορθόν πλάι σε μακριά σπαθιά και σε στολές σχισμένες,
να λέει με μιά βραχνή φωνή τα παρακάτου λόγια :

"Ετούτο το μαχαίρι εδώ που θέλεις ν' αγοράσεις
με ιστορίες αλλόκοτες ο θρύλος το 'χει ζώσει,
κι όλοι το ξέρουν πως αυτοί που κάποια φορά το 'χαν,
καθένας κάποιον άνθρωπο δικό του έχει σκοτώσει.

Ο δον Μπαζίλιο σκότωσε μ' αυτό την Δόνα Τζούλια,
την όμορφη γυναίκα του, γιατί τον απατούσε.
Ο Κόντε Αντόνιο, μιά βραδιά, το δύστυχο αδερφό του
με το μαχαίρι τούτο εδώ κρυφά δολοφονούσε.

Ενας Αράπης τη μικρή ερωμένη του από ζήλεια
και κάποιος ναύτης Ιταλός ένα Γραικό λοστρόμο.
Χέρι σε χέρι ξέπεσε και στα δικά μου χέρια.
Πολλά έχουν δει τα μάτια μου, μ' αυτό μου φέρνει τρόμο.

Σκύψε και δες το, μι' άγκυρα κι ένα οικόσημο έχει,
είν' αλαφρή, για πιάσε το, δεν πάει ούτε ένα κουάρτο,
μα εγώ θα σε συμβούλευα κάτι άλλο ν' αγοράσεις."
-- Πόσο έχει; -- Μόνο φράγκα εφτά. Αφού το θέλεις, πάρ' το.

Ενα στιλέτο έχω μικρό στη ζώνη μου σφιγμένο,
που ιδιοτροπία μ' έκανε και τό 'καμα δικό μου·
κι αφού κανένα δε μισώ στο κόσμο να σκοτώσω,
φοβάμαι μη καμιά φορά το στρέψω στον εαυτό μου ...

ΠΟΥΣΙ

Επεσε το πούσι αποβραδίς
-- το καραβοφάναρο χαμένο --
κ' έφτασες χωρίς να σε προσμένω
μές στην τιμονιέρα να με δείς.

Κάτασπρα φοράς κ' έχεις βραχεί,
πλέκω σαλαμάστρα τα μαλλιά σου.
Κάτου στα νερά του Port Pegassu
βρέχει πάντα τέτοιαν εποχή.

Μας παραμονεύει ο θερμαστής
με τα δυό του πόδια στις καδένες.
Μην κοιτάς ποτέ σου τις αντένες
με την τρικυμία· θα ζαλιστείς.

Βλαστημά ο λοστρόμος τον καιρό
κ' είν' αλάργα τόσο η Τοκοπίλλα.
Από να φοβάμαι και να καρτερώ
κάλλιο περισκόπιο και τορπίλλα.

Φύγε! Εσέ σου πρέπει στέρεα γη.
Ηρθες να με δεις κι όμως δε μ' είδες
έχω απ' τα μεσάνυχτα πνιγεί
χίλια μίλια πέρ' απ' τις Εβρίδες.

ΣΤΑΥΡΟΣ ΤΟΥ ΝΟΤΟΥ

Εβραζε το κύμα του γαρμπή.
Ημαστε σκυφτοί κ' οι δυό στο χάρτη·
γύρισες και μού 'πες πως το Μάρτη
σ' άλλους παραλλήλους θα 'χεις μπει.

Κούλικο στο στήθος σου τατού,
που όσο κι' αν το καις δε λέει να σβήσει.
Είπαν πως την είχες αγαπήσει
σε μια κρίση μαύρου πυρετού.

Βάρδια πλάι σε κάβο φαλακρό
κι ο Σταυρός του Νότου με τα στράλια.
Κομπολόι κρατάς από κοράλλια
κι άκοπο μασάς καφέ πικρό.

Το Αλφα του Κενταύρου μιά νυχτιά
με το παλλινώριο πήρα κάτου.
Μου 'πες με φωνή ετοιμοθανάτου:
Να φοβάσαι τ' άστρα του Νοτιά.

Αλλοτε απ' τον ίδιον ουρανό
έπαιρνες, τρείς μήνες στην αράδα,
με του καπετάνιου τη μιγάδα,
μάθημα πορείας νυχτερινό.

Σ' ένα μαγαζί του Nossi Be
πήρες το μαχαίρι, δυό σελλίνια,
μέρα μεσημέρι απά στη λίνια
ξάστραψε σα φάρου αναλαμπή.

Κάτου στις αχτές της Αφρικής
πάνε χρόνια τώρα που κοιμάσαι.
Τα φανάρια πια δεν τα θυμάσαι
και τ' ωραίο γλυκό της Κυριακής.


KURO SIWO

Πρώτο ταξίδι έτυχε ναύλος για το Νότο,
δύσκολες βάρδιες, κακός ύπνος και μαλάρια.
Είναι παράξενα της Ιντιας τα φανάρια
και δεν τα βλέπεις, καθώς λένε, με το πρώτο.

Περ' απ' τη γέφυρα του Αδάμ, στη Νότιο Κίνα,
χιλιάδες παραλάβαινες τσουβάλια σόγια.
Μα ούτε στιγμή δεν ελησμόνησες τα λόγια
που σού 'πανε μια κούφιαν ώρα στην Αθήνα.

Στα νύχια μπαίνει το κατράμι και τ' ανάβει,
χρόνια στα ρούχα το ψαρόλαδο μυρίζει,
κι ο λόγος της μεσ' στο μυαλό σου να σφυρίζει,
"ο μπούσουλας είναι που στρέφει ή το καράβι;"

Νωρίς μπατάρισε ο καιρός κ' έχει χαλάσει.
Σκατζάρισες, μα σε κρατά λύπη μεγάλη.
Απόψε ψόφησαν οι δυό μου παπαγάλοι
κι ο πίθηκος πού 'χα με κούραση γυμνάσει.

Η λαμαρίνα!.. η λαμαρίνα όλα τα σβήνει!
Μας έσφιξε το Kuro Siwo σα μιά ζώνη
κ' εσύ κοιτάς ακόμη πάνω απ' το τιμόνι,
πως παίζει ο μπούσουλας καρτίνι με καρτίνι.

MAL DU DEPART

Θα μείνω πάντα ιδανικός κι ανάξιος εραστής
των μακρυσμένων ταξιδιών και των γαλάζιων πόντων,
και θα πεθάνω μια βραδιά, σαν όλες τις βραδιές,
χωρίς να σχίσω τη θολή γραμμή των οριζόντων.

Για το Μαδράς, τη Σιγγαπούρ, τ' Αλγέρι και το Σφαξ
θ' αναχωρούν σαν πάντοτε περήφανα τα πλοία,
κι εγώ, σκυφτός σ' ένα γραφείο με χάρτες ναυτικούς,
θα κάνω αθροίσεις σε χοντρά λογιστικά βιβλία.

Θα πάψω πιά για μακρινά ταξίδια να μιλώ,
οι φίλοι θα νομίζουνε πως τα 'χω πιά ξεχάσει,
κι η μάνα μου, χαρούμενη, θα λέει σ' όποιον ρωτά :
"Ηταν μιά λόξα νεανική, μα τώρα έχει περάσει . . . "

Μα ο εαυτός μου μιά βραδιάν εμπρός μου θα υψωθεί
και λόγο, ως ένας δικαστής στυγνός, θα μου ζητήσει,
κι αυτό το ανάξιο χέρι μου που τρέμει θα οπλιστεί,
θα σημαδέψει, κι άφοβα το φταίστη θα χτυπήσει.

Κι εγώ, που τόσο επόθησα μια μέρα να ταφώ
σε κάποια θάλασσα βαθιά στις μακρινές Ινδίες,
θα 'χω ένα θάνατο κοινό και θλιβερό πολύ
και μιά κηδεία σαν των πολλών ανθρώπων τις κηδείες.

A BORD DE L "ASPASIA"

Ταξίδευες κυνηγημένη από τη μοίρα σου
για την κατάλευκη μα πένθιμη Ελβετία,
πάντα στο deck, σε μιά σαιζ-λογκ πεσμένη, κάτωχρη
απ' τη γνωστή και θλιβερώτατην αιτία.

Πάντοτε ανήσυχα οι δικοί σου σε τριγύριζαν,
μα εσύ κοιτάζοντας τα μάκρη αδιαφορούσες.
Σ' ότι σούλεγαν πικρογέλαγες, γιατί ένοιωθες
πως γιά τη χώρα του θανάτου οδοιπορούσες.

Κάποια βαρδυά, που από το Στρόμπολι περνούσαμε,
είπες σε κάποιον γελαστή, σε τόνο αστείου :
"Πώς μοιάζει τ' άρρωστο κορμί μου, καθώς καίγεται,
με την κορφή τη φλεγομένη του ηφαιστείου!"

Υστερα σ' είδα στη Μαρσίλια σαν εχάθηκες
μέσα στο θόρυβο χωρίς να στρέψεις πίσω.
Κ' εγώ, που μόνο την υγρήν έκταση αγάπησα,
λέω : πως εσένα θα μπορούσα ν' αγαπήσω.

For an English translation of these poems see here.

Ποιήματα - Κατερίνα Γώγου

Εκείνο που φοβάμαι πιο πολύ
είναι μη γίνω "ποιητής"
Μην κλειστό στο δωμάτιο
ν' αγναντεύω τη θάλασσα
κι απολησμονήσω.
Μην κλείσουνε τα ράμματα στις φλέβες μου
κι από θολές αναμνήσεις και ειδήσεις της ΕΡΤ
μαυρίζω χαρτιά και πλασάρω απόψεις.
Μη με αποδεχτεί η ράτσα που μας έλειωσε
για να με χρησιμοποιήσει.
Μη γίνουνε τα ουρλιαχτά μου μουρμούρισμα
για να κοιμίζω τους δικούς μου.
Μη μάθω μέτρο και τεχνική
και κλειστώ μέσα σε αυτά
για να με τραγουδήσουν.
Μην πάρω κιάλια για να φέρω πιο κοντά
τις δολιοφθορές που δεν θα παίρνω μέρος
μη με πιάσουν στην κούραση
παπάδες και ακαδημαϊκοί
και πουστέψω
Έχουν όλους τους τρόπους αυτοί
και την καθημερινότητα που συνηθίζεις
σκυλιά μας έχουν κάνει
να ντρεπόμαστε για την αργία
περήφανοι για την ανεργία
Έτσι είναι.
Μας περιμένουν στη γωνία
καλοί ψυχίατροι και κακοί αστυνόμοι.
Ο Μάρξ...
τον φοβάμαι
το μυαλό μου τον δρασκελάει και αυτόν
αυτοί οι αλήτες φταίνε
δεν μπορώ γαμώτο να τελειώσω αυτό το γραφτό
μπορεί...ε;...μίαν άλλη μέρα...


25 ΜΑΪΟΥ

Ένα πρωί θ' ανοίξω την πόρτα
και θα βγω στους δρόμους
όπως και χτες.
Και δεν θα συλλογιέμαι παρά
ένα κομμάτι από τον πατέρα
κι ένα κομμάτι από τη θάλασσα
-αυτά που μ' άφησαν-
και την πόλη. Την πόλη που τη σάπισαν.
Και τους φίλους μας που χάθηκαν.
Ένα πρωί θα ανοίξω την πόρτα
ίσα ολόισα στη φωτιά
και θα μπω όπως και χτες
φωνάζοντας "φασίστες!!"
στήνοντας οδοφράγματα και πετώντας πέτρες
μ' ένα κόκκινο λάβαρο
ψηλά να γυαλίζει στον ήλιο.
Θ' ανοίξω την πόρτα
και είναι -όχι πως φοβάμαι-
μα να, θέλω να σου πω, πως δεν πρόλαβα
και πως εσύ πρέπει να μάθεις
να μην κατεβαίνεις στο δρόμο
χωρίς όπλα όπως εγώ
- γιατί εγώ δεν πρόλαβα-
γιατί τότε θα χαθείς όπως και εγώ
"έτσι" "αόριστα"
σπασμένη σε κομματάκια
από θάλασσα, χρόνια παιδικά
και κόκκινα λάβαρα.
Ένα πρωί θ' ανοίξω την πόρτα
και θα χαθώ
με τ΄όνειρο της επανάστασης
μες την απέραντη μοναξιά
των δρόμων που θα καίγονται,
μες την απέραντη μοναξιά
των χάρτινων οδοφραγμάτων
με το χαρακτηρισμό -μην τους πιστέψεις!-
Προβοκάτορας.

For an English translation of these poems see here.

Ποιήματα - Ζακ Πρεβέρ

Μετάφραση ΔΕΣΠΟΙΝΑ ΚΑΠΟΔΙΣΤΡΙΑ

ΠΡΩΙΝΟ ΓΕΥΜΑ

Έβαλε τον καφέ
Στο φλιτζάνι
Έβαλε το γάλα
Στο φλιτζάνι με τον καφέ
Έβαλε τη ζάχαρη
Στον καφέ με το γάλα
Με το κουταλάκι
Γύρισε
Ήπιε τον καφέ με το γάλα
Και ξανάφησε το φλιτζάνι
Χωρίς να μου μιλήσει
Άναψε
Ένα τσιγάρο
Έκανε δαχτυλίδια
Με τον καπνό
Έβαλε τις στάχτες
Στο τασάκι
Χωρίς να μου μιλήσει
Χωρίς να με κοιτάξει
Σηκώθηκε
Έβαλε
Το καπέλο του στο κεφάλι του
Έβαλε
Το αδιάβροχό του
Γιατί έβρεχε
Κι έφυγε
Μέσα στη βροχή
Χωρίς μια κουβέντα
Χωρίς να με κοιτάξει
Και ’γω πήρα
Το κεφάλι μου μέσα στα χέρια
Κι έκλαψα.

ΟΙΚΟΓΕΝΕΙΑΚΟ

Η μητέρα πλέκει
Ο γιος πολεμά
Το βρίσκει πολύ φυσικό η μητέρα
Και ο πατέρας τι κάνει ο πατέρας;
Κάνει επιχειρήσεις
Η γυναίκα του πλέκει
Ο γιος του πολεμά
Αυτός επιχειρήσεις
Το βρίσκει πολύ φυσικό ο πατέρας
Και ο γιος και ο γιος
Τι βρίσκει ο γιος;
Δε βρίσκει τίποτα απολύτως τίποτα ο γιος
Ο γιος η μητέρα του πλέκει ο πατέρας του επιχειρήσεις αυτός πόλεμο
Όταν θα έχει τελειώσει ο πόλεμος
Θα κάνει επιχειρήσεις με τον πατέρα του
Ο πόλεμος συνεχίζεται η μητέρα συνεχίζει πλέκει
Ο πατέρας συνεχίζει κάνει επιχειρήσεις
Ο γιος σκοτώθηκε δε συνεχίζει πια
Ο πατέρας και η μητέρα πηγαίνουν στο νεκροταφείο
Το βρίσκουν πολύ φυσικό ο πατέρας και η μητέρα
Η ζωή συνεχίζεται η ζωή με το πλεκτό τον πόλεμο τις επιχειρήσεις
Οι επιχειρήσεις ο πόλεμος το πλεκτό ο πόλεμος
Οι επιχειρήσεις οι επιχειρήσεις και οι επιχειρήσεις
Η ζωή με το νεκροταφείο.

ΓΙΑ ΣΕΝΑ ΑΓΑΠΗ ΜΟΥ

Πήγα στην αγορά με τα πουλιά
Κι αγόρασα πουλιά
Για σένα
αγάπη μου
Πήγα στην αγορά με τα λουλούδια
Κι αγόρασα λουλούδια
Για σένα
αγάπη μου
Πήγα στην αγορά με τα σιδερικά
Κι αγόρασα αλυσίδες
Βαριές αλυσίδες
Για σένα
αγάπη μου
Και μετά πήγα στην αγορά με τους σκλάβους
Και σ’ έψαξα
Αλλά δε σε βρήκα
αγάπη μου

ΠΡΩΤΗ ΜΕΡΑ

Λευκά σεντόνια μέσα σε μια ντουλάπα
Κόκκινα σεντόνια πάνω σ’ ένα κρεβάτι
Ένα παιδί μέσα στη μάνα του
Η μάνα του μέσα στις ωδίνες
Ο πατέρας μέσα στο διάδρομο
Ο διάδρομος μέσα στο σπίτι
Το σπίτι μέσα στην πόλη
Η πόλη μέσα στη νύχτα
Ο θάνατος μέσα σε μια κραυγή
Και το παιδί μέσα στη ζωή.

Αφιέρωμα στον Πρεβέρ.

For an English translation of these poems and more, see here.

Greek Poetry - Nikos Kavvadias (1910-1975)

I often joke that I am Nikos Kavvadias' reincarnation (he died the night before I was born, not far from the hospital where I was born). I was very young when I heard his poetry in this record and to this day it is my favorite Greek record. It was like I had been there and had felt what he was describing. The endless nights at sea and the pressing need to travel...

Nikos Kavvadias was born in 1910 in a small town in Manchuria near Harbin, by Greek parents from Cefallonia. When he was very young, his family returned to Greece.

They lived in Cefallonia for a few years and later from 1921 to 1932 in Pireas, where Nikos Kavvadias finished elementary school and then the Gymnasium. He wrote his first poems as a pupil at the elementary school. In 1929, he started working as a clerk in a shipping office and a few months later he went on board a freighter as a sailor. Over the next few years he continued to travel on the freighters, returning home wretched and penniless, only to take off again shortly after. This went on until he decided to get a diploma as a wireless operator.

At first he wanted to become a captain, but he had already lost too many years wandering around and the wireless operator's diploma was the quicket way out. He got it in 1939 -- but World War II started, he became a soldier and fought in Albania, and, throughout the German Occupation he lived in Athens, landed.

He embarked again in 1944 and travelled continuously, as a wireless operator, all over the world, until November 1974 -- three months before the fatal stroke he suffered on February 10, 1975.

Vardia, his only novel, was published for the first time in 1954. His collection of poems Marabou was published in 1933, Pousi in 1947, and Traverso in 1975. His short stories Li and Of the War/On my Horse were published in 1987. "Li" was produced as a film in 1995 with the title "Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea".


A DAGGER
(Ena Machairi)

I always carry tightly under my belt
a small african steel dagger
-- like those that blacks are used to playing with --
that I bought from an old merchant in Algiers.

I remember, as if it were now, the old shopkeeper,
who looked like an old oil painting by Goya,
standing next to long swords and tattered uniforms,
saying in a hoarse voice the following words :

"This here dagger that you want to buy
legend has surrounded with eery stories,
and everyone knows that those who owned it at some time,
each has murdered one close to him.

Don Basilio murdered Donna Julia with it,
his beautiful wife, because she was unfaithful.
Conte Antonio, one night, his wretched brother
was slyly murdering with this here dagger.

A black his young lover out of jealousy
and some Italian sailor a Greek boatswain.
From hand to hand it passed and into mine.
Many things my eyes have seen, but this one makes me quiver.

Come close and look at it, it has an anchor and a crest,
it's light, why take it, it's not even a quarter,
but I would advise you to buy something else."
-- How much? -- Seven francs only. As long as you want it, take it.

A small dagger I have tightly in my belt,
that a whim made me make it my own;
and because I hate no one in the world to kill,
I am afraid lest some day I turn it against myself ...


FOG
(Pousi)

The fog fell with the evening
-- the lightship lost --
and you arrived unexpected
in the pilot-house to see me.

You are wearing all white and you're wet,
I'm plaiting your hair into ropes.
Down in the waters of Port Pegassu
It always rains this season.

The stoker is watching us
with both feet in the chains.
Never look at the antennas
in a storm; you'll get dizzy.

The boatswain curses the weather
and Tokopilla is so far away.
Rather than fearing and waiting
better at the periscope and the torpedo.

Go! You deserve firm land.
You came to see me and yet see me you didn't
I have since midnight drowned
a thousand miles beyond the Hebrides.



SOUTHERN CROSS
(Stavros Tou Notou)

In the nor-wester the waves boiled;
we were both bent over the map.
You turned and told me how in March
you'd be in other latitudes.

A Chinese tatoo drawn on your chest;
however you burn it, it won't come off.
They said that you had loved her once
in a sudden fit of blackest fever.

Keeping watch by a barren cape
and the Southern Cross behind the braces.
You're holding coral worry-beads
and chewing bitter coffee beans.

I took a line on Alpha Centaurus
with the azimuth compass one night at sea.
You told me in a deathly voice:
"Beware of the stars of Southern skies".

Another time from that same sky
you took lessosn for three whole months
with the captain's mulatto girl
in how to navigate at night.

In some shopin Nosy Be
you bought the knife - two shillings it cost -
right on the equator, exactly at noon;
it glittered like a lighthouse beam.

Down on the shores of Africa
for some years now you've been asleep.
You don't remember the lighthouse now
or the delicious Sunday sweet.


KURO SIWO

That first trip - a southern freight, by chance -
no sleep, malaria, difficult watches.
Strangely deceptive, the lights of the Indies -
they say you don't see them at a first glance.

Beyond Adam's bridge, you took on freight
in South China - soya, sacks by the thousand,
and couldn't get out of your mind for a second
what they'd told you in Athens one wasted night.

The tar gets under your nails, and burns;
the fish-oil stinks on your clothes for years,
and her words keep ringing still in your ears:
"Is it the ship or the compass that turns?"

You altered course when the weather turned,
but the sea bore a grudge and exacted its cost.
Tonight my two caged parrots were lost,
and the ape I'd had such trouble to train.

The ship! - it wipes out all our chances.
The Kuro Siwo crushed us under its heel,
but you're still watching, over the wheel,
how, point by point, the compass dances.


MAL DU DEPART

Always the perfect, unworthy lover
of the endless voyage and azure ocean,
I shall die one evening, like any other,
without having crossed the dim horizon.

For Madras, Singapore, Algeria, Sfax,
the proud ships will still be setting sail,
but I shall bend over a chart-covered desk
and look in the ledger, and make out a bill.

I'll give up talking about long journeys,
My friends will think I've forgotten at last;
my mother will be delighted: she'll say
"A young man's fancy, but now it's passed."

But one night my soul will rise up before me,
and ask, like some grim executioner, "Why?"
This unworthy trembling hand will take arms
and fearlessly strike where the blame must lie.

And I, who longed to be buried one day
in some deep sea of the distant Indies
shall come to a dull and common death;
shall go to a grave like the graves of so many.


A BORD DE L'"ASPASIA"

Hunted by fate, you travelled towards
Switzerland, the pure-white but grieving;
always oon deck, in a chaise-longue, skin yellow
foor that dreadful but all too well-known reason.

Your people uneasily fussed around you;
indifferent, you gazed out to sea. All they said
raised only a bitter laugh, for you knew
your journey would lead to the land of the dead.

One evening, as we were passing Stromboli,
you turned to someone, laughing, to speak:
"How my sick body, here, as it burns,
is like that volcano's flaming peak!"

Later I saw you in Marseilles,
lost, without looking back, as you left.
And I, who loved only the watery waste -
you were someone I could have loved.


Info from: www.smiley.cy.net/tsymeo/poetry-c.htm

Greek Poetry - Katerina Gogou (1940-1993)

This is another poet I read A LOT as a teenager (always in Greek). Even though she was also a actress in comedies, her poetry is really dark and her performance in this movie and record is actually haunting...
I managed to find this English translation of some of her poems and wanted to share them this Christmas Eve:

A poem by Katerina Gogou

What I fear most
is becoming "a poet"...
Locking myself in the room
gazing at the sea
and forgetting...
I fear that the stitches over my veins might heal
and, instead of having blur memories about TV news,
I take to scribbling papers and selling "my views"...
I fear that those who stepped over us might accept me
so that they can use me.
I fear that my screams might become a murmur
so that to serve putting my people to sleep.
I fear that I might learn to use meter and rhythm
and thus I will be trapped within them
longing for my verses to become popular songs.
I fear that I might buy binoculars in order to bring closer
the sabotage actions in which I won't be participating.
I fear getting tired - an easy prey for priests and academics -
and so turn into a "sissy"...
They have their ways ...
They can utilize the routine in which you get used to,
they have turned us into dogs:
they see to us being ashamed for not working...
they see to us being proud for being unemployed...
That's how it is.
Keen psychiatrists and lousy policemen
are waiting for us in the corner.
Marx...
I am afraid of him...
My mind walks past him as well...
Those bastards...they are to blame...
I cannot -fuck it- even finish this writing...
Maybe...eh?...maybe some other day...

Translated by G.Chalkiadakis.

Katerina Gogou: "May 25th"

One morning I will open the door
and I will go out in the streets
as I did yesterday.
And I won't be thinking about anything other than
just one piece of the father
and one piece of the sea
-those two pieces they didn't deprive me of-
and the city. The city which they transformed into a rotting corpse.
And our friends that are no more.
One morning I will open the door
straight into the fire
and I will enter as I did yesterday
shouting "fascists!!"
constructing barricades and throwing rocks
with a red banner
held high, shining in the sunbeams.
I will open the door
and it's time to tell you
-not that I am afraid-
but, see, I want to tell you that I didn't make it in time
and that you have to learn
not to be going out in the streets without weapons as I did
-because I didn't make it in time-
because then you will disappear as I disappeared
"like that" "in the void"
cracked into little pieces made
of sea, childhood years
and red banners.
One morning I will open the door
and I will be gone
carrying the dream of the revolution
within the infinite loneliness
of the paper-made barricades
bearing the label -do not believe them!-
"Provocator".

Translated by G.Chalkiadakis.

White is
the aryan race,
the silence,
the white cells,
the cold,
the white medical gowns,
the death-gowns,
the heroin.

...These few words in order to restitute black.

Translated by G.Chalkiadakis.

Poetry - Jacques Prévert (1900-1977)

Jacques Prévert was a French poet and screenwriter who was born on February 4, 1900 in Neuilly-sur-Seine and died on April 11, 1977 in Omonville-la-Petite.

He grew up in Paris where he was bored by school. He often went to theater with his father, a drama critic, and acquired a love of reading from his mother. After receiving his Certificat d'études attesting to his having completed his primary education, he quit school and went to work in Le Bon Marché department store in Paris. He then was called up for military service in 1918 and after the War was sent to the Near East.

He participated actively in the surrealism movement and was a member of the rue du Château group along with Raymond Queneau and Marcel Duhamel, although Prévert was really too much of a free spirit to be a member of any group.

I remember very clearly the first time I read Prévert. I was looking through someone's books and I came upon this tiny book of his poetry translated in Greek. I was instantly hooked. I always say he is the one who introduced me to and made me love poetry. I spend a great part of my adolescence reading his poems. Here are some of them that I found online, probably here:

ALICANTE
An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet gift of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life

THIS LOVE
This love
So violent
So fragile
So tender
So hopeless
This love
As beautiful as the day
And as wretched as the weather
When the weather is wretched

This love
So real
This love
So beautiful
So happy
So joyous
And so ridiculous
Trembling with fear
Like a child in the dark
And so sure of itself
Like a tranquil man in the quiet of the night
This love
Which made others afraid
Which made them gossip
Which drained the colour from their cheeks
This love
Watched for
Because we watched for them
Snared, wounded, trampled, finished, denied, forgotten
Because we snared, wounded, trampled, finished, denied, forgot it

This love
Entire
Still so alive
Shining
This is yours
This is mine
This love
Which is always new
And which never changes
Real like a plant
Quivering like a bird
Warm and as alive as the summer
We can both
Go and come back
We can forget
And fall asleep
And wake up
To suffer old age
Fall asleep again
To dream to death
Awake
To smile and laugh
Young again
Our love endures
Obstinate as a mule
As alive as the desire
As cruel as the memory
As stupid as the regret
As tender as the memory
As cold as marble
As beautiful as the day
As delicate as an infant
It watches us
Smiling
And speaks to us
Without saying a word
And I
I listen to it
Trembling
And I cry
I cry for you
I cry for myself
And I beg you
For yourself
For me
And for all those who love
And who are loved
Yes
I cry to it
For you
For me
And for all the others
I do not know
Stay there
There where you are
There where you were before
Stay there
Don't move
Don't go away
We who are loved
We have forgotten you
Do not forget us
We had only you on this earth
Do not let us grow cold
Further and further away every day
It doesn't matter where
Give us a sign of life
In a nook in the woods
In the forest of memory
Suddenly arise
Take us by the hand
And save us

SONG
What day are we?
We are every day
My friend
We're the whole of life
My love
We love and we live
We live and we love
And we don't really know
What life is
And we don't really know
What the day is
And we don't really know
What love is


BREAKFAST
He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He poured the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He added the sugar
To the coffee and milk
He stirred it
With a teaspoon
He drank the coffee
And put back the cup
Without speaking to me
He lit a cigarette
He blew some rings
With the smoke
He flicked the ashes
Into the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
He got up
He put his hat
On his head
He put on
His raincoat
Because it was raining
He went out
Into the rain
Without a word
Without looking at me
And I
I took my head
In my hands
And I wept

FAMILY LIFE (1)
The mother knits
The son goes to the war
She finds this quite natural, the mother
And the father?
What does the father do?
He has his business
His wife knits
His son goes to the war
He has his business
He finds this quite natural, the father
And the son
And the son
What does the son find?
He finds absolutely nothing, the son
The son: his mother does her knitting,
His father has his business
And he has the war
When the war is over
He'll go into business with his father
The war continues
The mother continues knitting
The father continues with his business
The son is killed
He doesn't continue
The father and mother visit the graveyard
They find this natural
The father and the mother
Life goes on
A life of knitting, war, business
Business, war, knitting, war
Business, business, business
Life with the graveyard

FAMILY LIFE (2)
The Mum knits
The kid goes off to the war
It seems kind of normal, to the Mum
And the Dad?
What's the Dad up to?
He's got his job
His old lady's got her knitting
His kid's gone off to the war
He's got his job
It seems kind of normal, to the Dad
And the kid?
What about the kid?
What does he make of it all?
Sweet fuck all
His old woman's got her knitting
His old man's got his job
And he's got the fucking war
And when the war's over
He'll get a job
Like his old man
Anyhow the war goes on
His old woman goes on with her knitting
His old man goes on with his job
He gets his fucking brains blown out
He doesn't go on
He goes under
The Mum and Dad
Go visit the grave
Which seems kind of normal
To the Mum and Dad
And life goes on
A life of knitting, the war, the job
War, knitting, war
Job, job, job
Life in a bloody graveyard

IMMENSE AND RED
Immense and red
Above the Grand Palais
The winter sun appears
And disappears
Like it my heart will disappear
And all my blood will go
Go look for you
My love
My beauty
And find you
There where you are

THE GARDEN
Thousands and thousands of years
Would not be enough
To tell of
That small second of eternity
When you held me
When I held you
One morning
In winter's light
In Montsouris Park
In Paris
On earth
This earth
That is a star

FOR YOU MY LOVE
I went to the market, where they sell birds
and I bought some birds
for you
my love
I went to the market, where they sell flowers
and I bought some flowers
for you
my love
I went to the market, where they sell chains
and I bought some chains
heavy chains
for you
my love
And then I went to the slave market
and I looked for you
but I did not find you there
my love

FIRST DAY
White sheets in a closet
Red sheets on a bed
A child in its mother
The mother in agony
The father in the hallway
The hallway in the house
The house in the town
The town in the night
Death in a cry
And the child in life

THE WONDERS OF LIFE
In the teeth of a trap
The paw of a white fox
And on the snow, blood
The blood of the white fox
And in the snow, tracks
The tracks of the white fox
Who escaped on three legs
As the sun was setting
A rabbit between his teeth
Still alive

IT'S LIKE THAT
A sailor has left the sea
his ship has left the port
the king has left the queen
and a miser has left his gold
it's like that
A widow has left her grief
a crazy woman has left the madhouse
and your smile has left my lips
it's like that
You will leave me
you will leave me
you will leave me
you will come back to me
you will marry me
you will marry me
The knife marries the wound
the rainbow marries the rain
the smile marries the tears
the caress marries the frown
it's like that
And fire marries ice
and death marries life
and life marries love
You will marry me
you will marry me
you will marry me

HYDE PARK
Like the sea that
tumbles on the sand
here the lovers act
as seems good to them
And nobody asks
if it's for the night or
just a while
nobody talks of the
price of this room
of live green velvet
Hyde and Jeckyll Park
public Eden where one hears
night and day
whispered
"the Devil save the Dream!"

Where is home?

This was written in October 2006 and got me the second prize in an International Students Essay Contest at UW-Madison.

*********************************************************************************

I am asked this question often. So often in fact, that I should have a pretty good answer to give by now, only I don’t. Which is why I decided to write this essay, to make sense of my own experience, my life in the last nine years. This is how long I have been away from “home” - the place where I was born and raised: Greece.

My usual answer is that I am a gypsy, or a nomad of sorts. My journey has brought me to live in four different countries and cultures in the past nine years even though I spent roughly half of that time in Madison. It all started with an exchange program that took me to Vienna, Austria, where I met my husband. I decided to spend another year there as a special student before we came to Madison for Graduate School in 1999. Since 2003, I spent two years in Peru, doing fieldwork, and one year in Germany before recently returning to Madison to complete a full circle of adventure and growth.

I have experienced “culture shock” multiple times in these years. My first night in Vienna I couldn’t stop crying and wanted to go back home instantly. A few months later I went home for a week and I could not stop crying because I felt out of place; I was experiencing “reverse cultural shock” and everything around me seemed unreal. My first month in Vienna I hated everything about it. Eventually I came to know it like the back of my hand and it became my favorite place in the world. It was hard to leave it behind but there is this force inside that keeps me going. Sometimes I think that I will not rest until I have known every corner of this planet; but most importantly, until I have met people from every culture in the world.

If I think about it, the best thing about having lived in all these places is the people I had a chance to meet. People that enriched my life in many ways. They showed me the possibilities that are out there and inspired me to follow my dreams. I hope I inspired some of them too. There is something unique in sharing a bit of your self with strangers when being away from home. It makes you feel alive and connected. I have made friends in all the places I have lived; some of them feel like friends for life. It feels rather comforting to have friends in all the corners of the world.

That is not to say that the last years of my life have all been peachy. I have encountered people who were rude, aggressive or plainly threatened by me because I am different. I have experienced many misunderstandings and cultural frustrations. At first I found it hard to cope with things that I now consider “normal”. There were dozens of things I had to get used to, from the way Americans throw a party to their diet and social etiquette. In my country we feed our guests to death, here they serve crackers and cheese and you bring your own drinks. I was used to a spontaneous attitude about going out. Here we often have to make plans weeks in advance. People don’t understand my humor and they might get offended at times, even though they are too nice to say it. Where I come from we touch others a lot more and we don’t keep the vast distances from each other that Americans do. On the other hand, personal space is not respected as much. People are in your life all the time and they always have an opinion. I guess I have come to appreciate American individualism even though the social distance makes me feel lonely at times. There are countless little things that challenge my way of looking at the world, from the fact that a physician diagnosed me with depression in five minutes and immediately offered to prescribe pills, to what I view as Americans’ obsession with safety. And don’t even get me started on the size of their cars and the energy they waste!

Despite what you might conclude from the above most of my friends here are Americans. Whether it was our mutual love for poetry or rock n’ roll, we made many friends in Madison. Apparently I get along with them better than with some of my own country people who just don’t know what to make of me and my husband. My husband is Bulgarian and we speak German at home, while living in countries where other languages are being spoken. Sometimes we joke that if we have kids they are going to be pretty messed up culturally…

I couldn’t tell you the secret little ingredient that makes life sweet; all I know is that my happiest time was when I was doing fieldwork in Peru and all my possessions could fit in two suitcases. I wore the same clothes for months and had little else to call my own, and despite the cultural differences I was happy. And I am a better person for having gone through that experience. I wouldn’t be the same today had I not witnessed the dignity and the humanity of Peruvian people despite their poverty. Bottom line is I have found things that frustrated me in every place I have been, but I will not dwell on them. What is important is to focus on the things that bring us together, not the things that separate us.

After all this you must think that I am a proper citizen of the world. Not so. No matter how much I travel my roots remain the same and they are strong. I try to go home once a year to keep that contact with my roots and my kin, but that annual return turns more bizarre every year. I realize that a lot has happened in people’s lives that I have missed and they have missed what happened in mine. I nurture my friendships from afar but it is not the same as actually being in each other’s lives. Then the culture seems to change more every year I go back. The language itself for example; there is always some new slang phrase that I am not familiar with and people have to translate for me. I immediately feel like an outsider and I curse the day I left Greece. I speak the way people used to speak ten years ago and I can barely keep up with all the changes during my annual visits.

I could tell you that home is the place for which I look up the weather online everyday, but I have four places in MyUW weather module. Home might be the house I grew up in, the street where I played as a child, the tree I found refuge in. But I found refuge in many places since then. In all of them, I learned, I felt and shared. I carry a little bit of all these places inside of me, like the turtles that carry their home wherever they go. I miss them all the same. In the end, the only thing I can say for sure is that home is where my loved ones are but again I have loved ones all over the planet; people who made me more loving, open, grounded, confident and tolerant. With all its beauty and frustration, I wouldn’t change a thing in my journey of the last nine years. And I know that there is more to come.

As I watch my husband sleep, I know I am home.

OK, how about this for an answer: home is where I am right now, where I have been and where I will be.