- Ποίηση από τους άδοξους ποιητές των αιώνων,και όχι μόνο... - .-= Η ΨΥΧΗ =-.
Αλλάζουμε λίγο στύλ, παραμένοντας βέβαια στην ποιήση 
by Pink Floyd
Beyond the horizon of the place we lived when we were young
In a world of magnets and miracles
Our thoughts strayed constantly and without boundary
The ringing of the division bell had begun
Along the Long Road and on down the Causeway
Do they still meet there by the Cut
There was a ragged band that followed in our footsteps
Running before time took our dreams away
Leaving the myriad small creatures trying to tie us to the ground
To a life consumed by slow decay
The grass was greener
The light was brighter
With friends surrounded
The nights of wonder
Looking beyond the embers of bridges glowing behind us
To a glimpse of how green it was on the other side
Steps taken forwards but sleepwalking back again
Dragged by the force of some inner tide
At a higher altitude with flag unfurled
We reached the dizzy heights of that dreamed of world
Encumbered forever by desire and ambition
There's a hunger still unsatisfied
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Though down this road we've been so many times
The grass was greener
The light was brighter
The taste was sweeter
The nights of wonder
With friends surrounded
The dawn mist glowing
The water flowing
The endless river
Forever and ever
The voyeur is masturbator, the mirror his badge, the window his prey.
Urge to come to terms with the "Outside," by absorbing, interiorizing it. I won't come out, you must come in to me. Into my womb–garden where I peer out. Where I can construct a universe within the skull, to rival the real.
She said, "Your eyes are always black."
The pupil opens to seize the object of vision.
by Jim Morrison ..from The Lords
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not through the eye
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light
To those poor souls who dwell in night,
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
Απόσπασμα από το "Auguries of Innocence" - by William Blake
Le Revenant
Comme les anges à l'oeil fauve,
Je reviendrai dans ton alcôve
Et vers toi glisserai sans bruit
Avec les ombres de la nuit;
Et je te donnerai, ma brune,
Des baisers froids comme la lune
Et des caresses de serpent
Autour d'une fosse rampant.
Quand viendra le matin livide,
Tu trouveras ma place vide,
Où jusqu'au soir il fera froid.
Comme d'autres par la tendresse,
Sur ta vie et sur ta jeunesse,
Moi, je veux régner par l'effroi.
.
.
.
.
.
Like angels with wild beast's eyes
I shall return to your bedroom
And silently glide toward you
With the shadows of the night;
And, dark beauty, I shall give you
Kisses cold as the moon
And the caresses of a snake
That crawls around a grave.
When the livid morning comes,
You'll find my place empty,
And it will be cold there till night.
I wish to hold sway over
Your life and youth by fear,
As others do by tenderness.
Sensation
On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass :
In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.
I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing :
But endless love will mount in my soul ;
And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy,
Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman.
Ophelie
I
On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily ;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.
For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.
For more than a thousand years her sweet madness
Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.
The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath
Her great veils rising and falling with the waters ;
The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,
The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.
The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her ;
At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,
Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings ;
- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.
II
O pale Ophelia ! beautiful as snow !
Yes child, you died, carried off by a river !
- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway
That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.
It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,
Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind ;
It was your heart listening to the song of Nature
In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights ;
It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,
That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft ;
It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman
Who one April morning sate mute at your knees !
Heaven ! Love ! Freedom ! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl !
You melted to him as snow does to a fire ;
Your great visions strangled your words
- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye !
III
- And the poet says that by starlight
You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked
And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils
White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.
Poems. May 15, 1870.
Dance of the Hanged Men
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.
Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune !
And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms :
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.
Hurray ! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone !
You can cut capers on such a long stage !
Hop ! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing !
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles !
Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out !
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin ;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat :
The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin :
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.
Hurrah ! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball !
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests :
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...
Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae :
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here !
Oh ! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse :
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,
Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones !
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.
A Dream for Winter
In the winter, we shall travel in a little pink railway carriage
With blue cushions.
We shall be comfortable. A nest of mad kisses lies in wait
In each soft corner.
You will close your eyes, so as not to see, through the glass,
The evening shadows pulling faces.
Those snarling monsters, a population
Of black devils and black wolves.
Then you'll feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a crazy spider,
Will run round your neck...
And you'll say to me : "Find it !" bending your head
- And we'll take a long time to find that creature
- Which travels a lot...
"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"
Edited by - gretel on 26/02/2006 13:52:29
"ΚΙ ΕΓΩ ΚΑΙ ΟΛΟΙ"
Σκεπάζουν με σάρκα τα κόκκαλα,
βάζουν μέσα κανένα μυαλό,
καμμιά ψυχή, κάπου κάπου,
κι έτσι οι γυναίκες πετάνε
τα βάζα στους τοίχους,
κι οι άντρες πίνουν
σαν τρελοί,
κι όλοι ψάχνουν
αυτόν τον έναν που τους αναλογεί
και κανείς δεν τον βρίσκει,
μα συνεχίζουν
να ψάχνουν
σκαρφαλώνοντας από κρεβάτι
σε κρεβάτι.
Δεν υπάρχει
ελπίδα:
κολλήσαμε όλοι μας
στην ίδια μοίρα.
Γεμίζουν οι χωματερές,
γεμίζουν οι μάντρες.
Γεμίζουν τα τρελάδικα, γεμίζουν τα νοσοκομεία,
τα νεκροταφεία.
Τίποτα άλλο, όμως, δε
γεμίζει.
Τσαρλς Μπουκόφσκι
Και τι δεν κάνατε για να με θάψετε...
Όμως ξεχάσατε πως ήμουν σπόρος!
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.
Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune !
And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms :
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.
Hurray ! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone !
You can cut capers on such a long stage !
Hop ! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing !
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles !
Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out !
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin ;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat :
The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin :
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.
Hurrah ! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball !
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests :
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...
Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae :
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here !
Oh ! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse :
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,
Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones !
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.
In anticipation of my resurrection...
Edited by - Dying_Incubus on 26/02/2006 12:38:31
"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"
Διάβασα το ποίημα και μετά διάβασα άλλα θέματα.
Όταν γύρισα να γράψω ξεχάστηκα και παρέθεσα το συγκεκριμένο ποίημα του Ρεμπώ που μου αρέσει πολύ!
Παραθέτω ένα άλλο που μου αρέσει επίσης από τον ίδιο:
Arthur Rimbaud - The stolen heart
My poor heart dribbles at the stern
My heart covered with caporal
They squirt upon it jets of soup
My poor heart dribbles at the stern
Under the gibes of the whole crew
Which burst out in a single laugh,
My poor heart dribbles at the stern
My heart covered with caporal.
Ithypallic, erkish, lewd,
Their gibes have corrupted it.
In the wheelhouse you can see graffiti
Ithypallic, erkish, lewd.
O abracadantic waves
Take my heart that it may be cleansed !
Ithypallic, erkish, lewd,
Their gibes have corrupted it.
When they have finished chewing their quids
What shall we do, o cheated heart ?
It will be bacchic hiccups then
When they have finished chewing their quids
I shall have stomach heavings then
I can swallow down my heart :
When they have finished chewing their quids
What shall we do, o cheated heart ?
In anticipation of my resurrection...
ωστόσο σας ευχαριστώ για τα όμορφα ποιηματάκια σας.
θα επανέλθω σε λίγες μέρες.
τα λέμε!
I'm really sorry...
quote:
θα επανέλθω σε λίγες μέρες.
επανηλθα λιγουλακι διαφορετικος...
για να δουμε τι εχουμε...
Μπωντλέρ...
"Ο θάνατος των εραστών"
Κρεβάτια θα'χουμε άνθινα,γεμάτα αιθέρια μύρα,
ντιβάνια ολοβελούδινα σαν μνήματα βαθιά,
στις εταζέρες λουλούδια παράξενα τριγύρα,
που άνοιξαν μονάχα για μας σε μέρη μαγικά.
Και ποια την άλλη να υπερβεί στην ύστατη φωτιά τους,
οι δυο καρδιές μας-σαν τρανές λαμπάδες δυό-μαζί
θα διπλοκαθρεφτίσουμε το διπλοφώτισμά τους
στα πνεύματά μας που'ναι δυο καθρέφτες αδερφοί.
Και μια βραδιά ολογάλανη,ρόδινη,μυστική,
θεν'ανταλλάξουμε άξαφνα την ίδια αναλαμπή,
σαν ένα μακροθρήνημα που φέρνει ο χωρισμός.
Κι αργότερα,ένας Άγγελος θα'ρθεί το φως να χύσει
-τις πόρτες μισανοίγοντας,πιστός και χαρωπός-
στους δυο καθρέφτες τους θαμπούς,στις φλόγες που'χαν σβήσει.
then you better turn away
Μπωντλέρ...
"Οι λιτανείες του Σατανά"
Ω Συ,ο πιο όμορφος και ο πιο σοφός απ'τους Αγγέλους,
θεέ που η μοίρα σε πρόδωσε και δεν σου ψέλνουν ύμνους,
ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!
Της εξορίας ω Πρίγκιπα,που σ'αδίκησαν κι όμως,
και νικημένος πιο ισχυρός ορθώνεσαι,Συ,αιώνια,
ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!
Συ,που όλα τα γρικάς,τρανέ ρήγα του κάτου κόσμου
και γιατρευτή πονετικέ κάθε αγωνίας του ανθρώπου,
ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!
Συ,που και στους πανάθλιους και στους λεπρούς ακόμα
μαθαίνεις με τον έρωτα το τι η Παράδεισο είναι,
ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!
Ω Συ,που από το θάνατο-παλιά,τρανή σου αγάπη-
γέννησες την Ελπίδα-μια τρελή χαριτωμένη,
ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!
Συ,που ησυχάζεις τη ματιά του κάθε προγραμμένου,
που ολόκληρο ντροπιάζει λαό γύρω απ΄την καρμανιόλα,
ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!
Εσυ,που ξέρεις που,βαθιά στη γη,στα έγκατά της,
έκρυψε ο θεός ζηλόφθονα τ'ατίμητα πετράδια,
ω Σατανά,τη μαύρη μου κακομοιριά λυπήσου!
.............................
then you better turn away
Εάν μιλώ την γλώσσα των ανθρώπων και των αγγέλων,
αλλά δεν έχω αγάπην,έγινα χαλκός που δίνει ήχους ή κύμβαλον
που βγάζει κρότους.Και εαν έχω χάρισμα προφητείας και
γνωρίζω όλα τα μυστήρια και όλη την γνώσιν,και εαν έχω
όλην την πίστιν,ώστε να μεταθέτω βουνά,αλλά δεν έχω αγάπην,
δεν είμαι τίποτε.Και εαν μοιράσω σε ελεημοσύνες όλην μου
την περιουσίαν,και εαν παραδώσω το σώμα μου δια να καή,
αλλά δεν έχω αγάπην,καμμιάν ωφέλειαν δεν έχω.Η αγάπη
είναι μακρόθυμη,είναι γεμάτο από ευμένειαν,η αγάπη δεν
είναι ζυλότυπη,η αγάπη δεν καυχάται,δεν είναι υπερήφανη,
δεν κάνει ασχημίες,δεν ζητεί το συμφέρον της,δεν ερεθίζεται,
δεν λογαριάζει το κακόν,δεν χαίρει δια το κακόν,αλλά συγχαίρει
εις την αλήθειαν,όλα τα ανέχεται,όλα τα πιστεύει,ελπίζει
για το κάθε τι,υπομένει το κάθε τι.Η αγάπη ποτέ δεν θα
παύσει να υπάρχη.Εαν είναι προφητείαι,θα καταργηθούν.
Εαν είναι γλώσσαι,θα παύσουν.Εαν είναι γνώσις,θα καταργηθή.
Διότι μερικήν γνώσιν έχομεν και μερικήν προφητείαν.Αλλά
όταν έλθην το τέλειον,τότε το μερικόν θα καταργηθή.
then you better turn away
ΑΡΘΟΥΡΟΣ ΡΕΜΠΩ
Σε ποταμούς ακύμαντους αγάλια κατεβαίνοντας
Ένιωσα ξάφνου, από ώρα, δίχως ρυμουλκους στους κάλους.
Κατ΄Ινδιάνοι αλλόφρονες, γυμνούς τους κατατόξευαν
σε ξόανα καρφωμένους παρδαλά και σε πασσάλους.
Έτσι, κι ανέγνοιο πια για πλήρωμα, ή γεννήματα
Φλαμανδικά και πανικά αγγλικά για να φορτώνω,
Όπως η φασαρία με τους ρυμουλκούς μου τέλειωσε,
Καταβουλή μου οι Ποταμοί μ΄αφήκαν να ξαμώνω.
Να πώς, παιδί ανυπάκουο λες, μες στ¨αλλο καταχείμωνο
Στων πλημμυρίδων το φρικτόν εδόθηκα το σάλο.
Θαρρω πως τέτοιο σμίξιμο οι βράχοι οι ακροτελεύτιοι
Σε θρίαμβο εγκελαδικό δεν είδαν πιο μεγάλο.
Η θύελλα τις πλαγινές ευλόγησεν αγρύπνιες μου.
Δέκα νυχτιές, φελλό, μ΄έπαιξε ο κύμας, που από κάμψεις
Κι από πνιγμούς του ΄γραψε η μοίρα να ρολάρει πίσωθε,
Χωρίς των φάρων τις κουτές να επιθυμήσω εκλάμψεις.
Πράσινο ενότισε νερό το στέρνο μου το ελάτινο
Γλυκό σαν μήλο - λαίμαργα παιδί που το δαγκώνει.
Και μ΄έπλυνεν η θάλασσα από κρασιά κι εδέσματα
Με τόση ορμή που δίχως άγκυρα μ΄αφησε και τιμόνι.
Κι αχ, από τότε λούζομαι στην ποίηση την νερένια, που
Απόσταγμα αστεριών, ασημογαλακτίζει, όπως το χάος
Ρουφώντας το λαδί, συμβαίνει, ωχρό ναυάγιο κι έκθαμβο,
Ένας πνιγμένος σκεφτικός ν΄αργοκυλά και πράος.
Κι όπου το μπλάβο αλλάζει στο ηλιοφώς αιφνίδια
Κι οίστροι κοχλάζουν και ρυθμοί, πάθη αβυσσαία,
Ύπουλος έρωτας –φωτιά που κρυφοκαίει επίβουλη
Πλιο απ΄τ ΄αψέντι φθαρτική κι απ΄των κρουστών τον ήχο ακραία.
Ξέρω ουρανούς απώτατους εγώ, που αστραποκαίγονται,
Τυφώνες, ρέματα, το βράδυ, κι αχ! Την αμφιλύκη
-έναν από ξαπολυμένες περιστέρες θρίαμβο-
κι ό,τι που ως ήττα εγέλασε το Νου, έγραψε ο νους μου νίκη.
Είδ΄από φρίκη μυστική τον ήλιο, λες κατάστικτο
Κρυστάλλους μωβ, μακρότατους, το φως του να γλυκαίνει
Κι είδα το κύμα, πάντα υποκριτή πανάρχαιου δράματος,
Τα νουφαρένια ρίγη του καμπύλες να μακραίνει.
Την πράσινη κι έκθαμβα χιονισμένη νύχταν έδεσα
-του ονείρου- τ΄αργό φιλί που ανέβαινε στα πόντια μάτια,
το γλαυκωχρό των ωδικών φωσφόρων ξύπνημα και των
αν απαγόρευτων κι ανείπωτων χυμών τα μονοπάτια.
Mήνες με καταχτύπησαν στις ξέρες –σ΄απαυτη έφοδο-
Τα κύματα που υστερικοί κι ηλίθιοι χυμούσαν ταύροι
Δεν πρόσπεσα στη Μαριάμ –τάχα πως στ΄άγια πέλματα
Υποταγή, του πόντου που άσθμαινε, το ρύγχος θα ΄βρει.
Σ΄ανείκαστες Φλωρίδες ηύρε η πλώρη μου, που αρμόνιζαν ανθούς
Με ουράνια τόξα –στους ορίζοντες που ετέντωναν
Σαν χαλινοί στα γαλανά κοπάδια των κυμάτων.
Είδα πελώριες κόφες έλη που έβραζαν και δέσμιο,
Στα βούρλα, έναν πελώριο Λεβιάθαν να σαπίζουν,
Σε τέλειαν άπνοια νεροποντές, σε βάραθρα
Τοπία χαμένα να κυλούν και να καταρρακτίζουν.
Μαργάρινα νερά καμένους ουρανούς, φθίνοντες
Ήλιους, ξεβράσματα απεχθή σ΄ακρόγιαλα χαώδη,
Κι από ραιβά κλαριά γιγάντια φίδια να γκρεμίζονται
Λωβά από κοριούς αφανισμένα και δυσώδη.
Σε μάτια παιδικά πως θάδειχνα χρυσόψαρα
ψάρια ωδικά ή πετούμενα -που αυτό το πλάτος γέμει.
Τ΄άμυαλα ρίσκα μου ανθένιοι αφροί λικνίσανε
-αριά, φτερά οι άρρητοι μου εκόλλησαν άνεμοι,
Κι άλλοτε πάλι, η θάλασσα, ξεπνοημένος μάρτυρας
σε πόλους και σε ζώνες, πράυνε λυγμικά σάλο και δίνη
ανθοί σκιών μ΄έγλειφαν τρυφερά, ωχρές διαφάνειες
ζωής - κι ως θήλυ εγώ στα γόνατα είχ΄απαλύνει.
Στεριά καυγάδες οπού λίκνιζα κιτρινομάτικων
πουλιών κρωγμούς και κόπρο, αρμένιζα σπολλάτη
μπρουμτισμένων ναυαγών, που ανάμεσα γλιστρούσαν
στα σάπια ξάρτια μου στερνό γυρεύοντας κρεββάτι.
Κάτω απ΄ορμίσκων φιόρδ πλοκαμωτά λοιπόν, ναυάγια
που εχάθη σ΄άφτερο, παντέρμο αιθέρα κι αντίκρυ μου,
ζητώντας με, της Χάνσας τα καράβια δε θα βγαίνανε
να βρούν τ΄ολομέθυστο με πόντο αψύ σκαρί μου,
Ελεύθερο, σε αχλύ από μωβ, τέτοιο αλκοόλ αχνίζοντας,
λογχίζοντας των ουρανών που ανάβανε τον τοίχο,
βλέννες γαλάζιες σκεπαστό, μούσκλα από ήλιο -άνοστες
γλυκές, ποιηταί, για το ρηχό κι ελάσσονά σας στίχο-
εγώ, που πλέοντας στολισμένο γιορτινά, ιππόκαμποι
τεφροί, σανίδα που ετρελλάθηκε, μ΄ακολουθούσαν
και οι χαώδεις θόλοι εγκρέμιζαν -χοάνες διάπυρες-
απ΄των Ιούλιων τους ραβδισμούς που τους χτυπούσαν,
εγώ, που συγκλονιζόμουν σαν μ΄έφθαναν -απόηχος-
οι οργασμοί των Βεεμώθ, των Μαελστρόμ οι ρόχθοι
κι ύφανα αιώνιος το αχανές ταξιδευτής, ΝΙΚΗΘΗΚΑ:
την ευτελή γυρεύω σιγουριά σε μια ευρωπαίαν όχθη...
Είδ΄αστρικά αρχιπέλαγα, νησιά ουρανών παράφορων
μ΄ολάνοιχτη για ναυτικούς μι΄ανέγγιχτη πορεία:
Ω σφρίγος της επαύριον, σμήνος πουλιών ολόχρυσων
εδώ είν΄ο ζόφος -κι εσύ οκνείς που παίρνω σε εξορία;
Βέβαια επόνεσα πολύ, κι είν΄η αυγή αφόρητη
φαρμάκι ο ήλιος και στυγνή, καταστυγνή η σελήνη.
Ξάστερε νου που ενάρκωσεν έρως φτηνός φιλόψυχος,
στρέξε λοιπόν την πρωτινή, την αβυσσαία σαγήνη.
Τί στην Ευρώπη δε σε πάει ο πόνος, μα το δείλιασμα
-Σ΄άθλια γούρνα πας ν΄αγκιστρωθείς, σαν (ως βραδιάζει)
αυτές που τα μικρά παιδάκια ρίχνουν τη βαρκούλα τους
εύθραυστη λιμπέλουλα του Μαγιού που λες πως μοιάζει...
Δεν είναι πια, με τέτοια βύθιση αρρωστιάρικη,
ω αφροί, να ξαναβγω στου σταρομπάμπακου το ναύλο,
πώς ν΄αντιβγώ στων σημαιοστολισμών την έπαρση
και πώς σε βλέμα γεφυρών ατσάλινο ή φαύλο.
Arthur Rimbaud
(Ανάπλασις στην ελληνική: Σ.Γ.Γ. Παναγιωτάτος)
"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"
Απόσπασμα από το Stanza 6: The Nails (The Reader as an Accomplice)
So you will tear at me, without ever stopping, with your teeth and nails at the same time. I will adorn and embalm my body with perfumes and garlands for this expiatory holocaust; and together we shall suffer, I from being torn, you from tearing me... my mouth fused to yours. O blond-haired child, with your eyes so gentle, will you now do what I advise you? Despite yourself, I wish you to do it, and you will set my conscience at rest." And in saying this, you will have wronged a human being and be loved by that same being: therein lies the greatest conceivable happiness. Later, you could take him to the hospital, for the crippled boy will be in no condition to earn a living. They will proclaim you a hero, and centuries from now, laurel crowns and gold medals will cover your bare feet on your ancient iconic tomb. O you, whose name I will not inscribe upon this page consecrated to the sanctity of crime, I know your forgiveness was as boundless as the universe. But look, I'm still here!
Dylan Thomas
After the Funeral
(In Memory of Anne Jones)
After the funeral, mule praises, brays,
Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tap
Tap happily of one peg in the thick
Grave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black,
The spittled eyes, the salt ponds in the sleeves,
Morning smack of the spade that wakes up sleep,
Shakes a desolate boy who slits his throat
In the dark of the coffin and sheds dry leaves,
That breaks one bone to light with a judgment clout,
After the feast of tear-stuffed time and thistles
In a room with a stuffed fox and a stale fern,
I stand, for this memorial's sake, alone
In the snivelling hours with dead, humped Ann
Whose hooded, fountain heart once fell in puddles
Round the parched worlds of Wales and drowned each sun
(Though this for her is a monstrous image blindly
Magnified out of praise; her death was a still drop;
She would not have me sinking in the holy
Flood of her heart's fame; she would lie dumb and deep
And need no druid of her broken body) .
But I, Ann's bard on a raise hearth, call all
The seas to service that her wood-tongued virtue
Babble like a bellbuoy over the hymning heads,
Bow down the walls of the ferned and foxy woods
That her love sing and swing through a brown chapel,
Bless her bent spirit with four, crossing birds,
Her flesh was meek as milk, but this skyward statue
With the wild breast and blessed and giant skull
Is carved from her in a room with a wet window
In a fiercely mourning house in a crooked year.
I know her scrubbed and sour humble hands
Lie with religion in their cramp, her threadbare
Whisper in a damp word, her wits dried hollow,
Her fist of a face died clenched on a round pain;
And sculptured Ann is seventy years of stone.
These cloud-sopped, marble hands, this monumental
Argument of the hewn voice, gesture and psalm,
Storm me forever over her grave until
The stuffed lung of the fox twitch and cry Love
And the strutting fern lay seeds on the black sill.
"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"
All That I Owe the Fellows of the Grave
All that I owe the fellows of the grave
And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates
Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask of blood,
Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots.
O all I owe is all the flesh inherits,
My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves,
My sisters tears that sing upon my head
My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop,
My fallen filled, that had the hint of death,
Heir to the telling senses that alone
Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch,
I round this heritage as rounds the sun
His winy sky, and , as the candles moon,
Cast light upon my weather. I am heir
To women who have twisted their last smile,
To children who were suckled on a plague,
To young adorers dying on a kiss.
All such disease I doctor in my blood,
And all such love's a shrub sown in the breath.
Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune
And browse upon the postures of the dead;
All night and day I eye the ragged globe
Through periscopes rightsighted from the grave;
All night and day I wander in these same
Wax clothes that wax upon the ageing ribs;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet trove,
And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
Dylan Thomas
"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"
Altarwise by owl-light in the half-way house
The gentleman lay graveward with his furies;
Abaddon in the hangnail cracked from Adam,
And, from his fork, a dog among the fairies,
The atlas-eater with a jaw for news,
Bit out the mandrake with to-morrows scream.
Then, penny-eyed, that gentlemen of wounds,
Old cock from nowheres and the heaven's egg,
With bones unbuttoned to the half-way winds,
Hatched from the windy salvage on one leg,
Scraped at my cradle in a walking word
That night of time under the Christward shelter:
I am the long world's gentlemen, he said,
And share my bed with Capricorn and Cancer.
Death is all metaphors, shape in one history;
The child that sucketh long is shooting up,
The planet-ducted pelican of circles
Weans on an artery the genders strip;
Child of the short spark in a shapeless country
Soon sets alight a long stick from the cradle;
The horizontal cross-bones of Abaddon,
You by the cavern over the black stairs,
Rung bone and blade, the verticals of Adam,
And, manned by midnight, Jacob to the stars.
Hairs of your head, then said the hollow agent,
Are but the roots of nettles and feathers
Over the groundowrks thrusting through a pavement
And hemlock-headed in the wood of weathers.
First there was the lamb on knocking knees
And three dead seasons on a climbing grave
That Adam's wether in the flock of horns,
Butt of the tree-tailed worm that mounted Eve,
Horned down with skullfoot and the skull of toes
On thunderous pavements in the garden of time;
Rip of the vaults, I took my marrow-ladle
Out of the wrinkled undertaker's van,
And, Rip Van Winkle from a timeless cradle,
Dipped me breast-deep in the descending bone;
The black ram, shuffling of the year, old winter,
Alone alive among his mutton fold,
We rung our weathering changes on the ladder,
Said the antipodes, and twice spring chimed.
What is the metre of the dictionary?
The size of genesis? the short spark's gender?
Shade without shape? the shape of the Pharaohs echo?
(My shape of age nagging the wounded whisper.)
Which sixth of wind blew out the burning gentry?
(Questions are hunchbacks to the poker marrow.)
What of a bamboo man amomg your acres?
Corset the boneyards for a crooked boy?
Button your bodice on a hump of splinters,
My camel's eyes will needle through the shroud.
Loves reflection of the mushroom features,
Still snapped by night in the bread-sided field,
Once close-up smiling in the wall of pictures,
Arc-lamped thrown back upon the cutting flood.
Dylan Thomas
"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clen bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Through they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
Dylan Thomas
"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"
On almost the incendiary eve
Of several near deaths,
When one at the great least of your best loved
And always known must leave
Lions and fires of his flying breath,
Of your immortal friends
Who'd raise the organs of the counted dust
To shoot and sing your praise,
One who called deepest down shall hold his peace
That cannot sink or cease
Endlessly to his wound
In many married London's estranging grief.
On almost the incendiary eve
When at your lips and keys,
Locking, unlocking, the murdered strangers weave,
One who is most unknown,
Your polestar neighbour, sun of another street,
Will dive up to his tears.
He'll bathe his raining blood in the male sea
Who strode for your own dead
And wind his globe out of your water thread
And load the throats of shells
with every cry since light
Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.
On almost the incendiary eve
Of deaths and entrances,
When near and strange wounded on London's waves
Have sought your single grave,
One enemy, of many, who knows well
Your heart is luminous
In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves,
Will pull the thunderbolts
To shut the sun, plunge, mount your darkened keys
And sear just riders back,
Until that one loved least
Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.
Dylan Thomas
"ΣΤΟ ΣΚΟΤΑΔΙ ΤΟ ΜΑΤΙ ΣΥΛΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΛΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑΤΙΚΟ ΦΩΣ"