Comments & Greek artists: Merry Christmas...

MERRY CHRISTMAS

The Twelve Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me
a partridge in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Four calling birds,
three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Five golden ring, four calling birds,
three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Six geese a-laying, five golden ring, four calling birds,
three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Seven swan a-swimming,
six geese a-laying, five golden ring, four calling birds,
three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Eight sheep a-milking, seven swan a-swimming,
six geese a-laying, five golden ring, four calling birds,
three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Nine drummers drumming, eight sheep a-milking, seven swan a-swimming,
six geese a-laying, five golden ring, four calling birds,
three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Ten ladies dancing,
nine drummers drumming, eight sheep a-milking, seven swan a-swimming,
six geese a-laying, five golden ring, four calling birds,
three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Eleven lords a-leaping, ten ladies dancing,
nine drummers drumming, eight sheep a-milking, seven swan a-swimming,
six geese a-laying, five golden ring, four calling birds,
three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Twelve fiddlers fiddling, eleven lords a-leaping, ten ladies dancing,
nine drummers drumming, eight sheep a-milking, seven swan a-swimming,
six geese a-laying, five golden ring, four calling birds,
three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

Comments & Greek artists, modern Greek artists: The Night is in my Interest...

the night is in my interest.
First of all, it reduces ambition; moreover,
it corrects thoughts; then,
it collects the grief and makes it more bearable...

Nikos Karouzos

Suspension

In the sky, possibilities
are naught but thrilling.
As I was hanging in the air
holding on to a pure white cloud
on a mythic screen of the imagination,
I observed the quotations
of the elements of my blood
and heard a dazzling musical act
practically non-human
on the left of the geographical map
at the point at which Mt. Terror lies
always wreathed in lightning
and blinding storms.
I went up there once.
There I first heard the song
that said: we belong to water.
And on the other side Ecclesiastes shined.
For some time now I’ve known that the blood
contains all the mystery
which is given through signs
to the human mind, and complete discontinuity.
The circulation perhaps?
queried the brilliant pathologist.
And suddenly
Leonardo came to mind
who knew what exquisite information derives from the body.


Nikos Karouzos (1926-1990)

The Night is in my Interest

Indeed the night is in my interest.
First of all, it reduces ambition; moreover,
it corrects thoughts; then,
it collects the grief and makes it more bearable;
it dissects the silence with respect; in the gardens
it stresses smell,
but above all, night envelops.

Comments & Greek artists, Greek painters: O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb...

Poetry & Greek artists, contemporary Greek painters


Yannis Stavrou, Attica Landscape, oil on canvas

Percy Shelley

A Lament

O World! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more -Oh, never more!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more -Oh, never more!

Comments & Greek artists, Greek painting: My verses, children of my blood...

Greek poetry & Greek painting, Greek artists

Kostas Karyotakis
Wounded Gods
My Verses

My verses, children of my blood.
They speak, but I supply the words
like fragments of my heart,
I offer them like tears from my eyes. They go with bitter smiles
when I recount so much of life.
I girdle them with sun and day and sun
for when I'm overtaken by the night. They fix the limits of the sky and earth.
And yet my sons still wonder what is missing
always bored, worn down,
the only mother they have known is Grief. I pour out the laughter of the sweetest tune,
the aimless passion of the flute;
to them I am an unsuspecting king
who's lost his people's love. They waste away, they fade away, yet
never cease their quiet lamentation.
Pass by, Mortal, with averted gaze;
Lethe, carry me in your boat to bathe.

Comments & Greek artists, Greek painting: there where we now remain unsubstantial, bending...

Greek poets & Greek artists, modern Greek painters

or perhaps no, nothing is left but the weight
the nostalgia for the weight of a living existence
there where we now remain unsubstantial, bending
like the branches of a terrible willow-tree...

Giorgos Seferis

The King of Asine

All morning long we looked around the citadel*

starting from the shaded side, there where the sea,
green and without luster—breast of a slain peacock—
received us like time without an opening in it.
Veins of rock dropped down from high above,
twisted vines, naked, many-branched, coming alive
at the water’s touch, while the eye following them
struggled to escape the tiresome rocking,
losing strength continually.

On the sunny side a long empty beach
and the light striking diamonds on the huge walls.
No living thing, the wild doves gone
and the king of Asine, whom we’ve been trying to find for
two years now,
unknown , forgotten by all, even by Homer,
only one word in the Iliad and that uncertain,
thrown here like the gold burial mask.
You touched it, remember its sound? Hollow in the light
like a dry jar in dug earth:
the same sound that our oars make in the sea.
The king of Asine a void under the mask
everywhere with us everywhere with us, under a name:
“Αsίνην te... Αsίνην te...”
and his children statues
and his desires the fluttering of birds, and the wind
in the gaps between his thoughts, and his ships
anchored in a vanished port:
under the mask a void.

Behind the large eyes the curved lips the curls
carved in relief on the gold cover of our existence
a dark spot that you see traveling like a fish
in the dawn calm of the sea:
a void everywhere with us.
And the bird that flew away last winter
with a broken wing:
abode of life,
and the young woman who left to play
with the dogteeth of summer
and the soul that sought the lower world squeaking
and the country like a large plane-leaf swept along by the
torrent of the sun
with the ancient monuments and the contemporary sorrow.

And the poet lingers, looking at the stones, and asks himself
does there really exist
among these ruined lines, edges, points, hollows, and curves
does there really exist
here where one meets the path of rain, wind, and ruin
does there exist the movement of the face, shape of the
tenderness
of those who’ve shrunk so strangely in our lives,
those who remained the shadow of waves and thoughts with
the sea’s boundlessness
or perhaps no, nothing is left but the weight
the nostalgia for the weight of a living existence
there where we now remain unsubstantial, bending
like the branches of a terrible willow-tree heaped in
permanent despair
while the yellow current slowly carries down rushes up-
rooted in the mud
image of a form that the sentence to everlasting bitterness
has turned to stone:
the poet a void.

Shieldbearer, the sun climbed warring,
and from the depths of the cave a startled bat
hit the light as an arrow hits a shield:
“Αsίνην te...Αsίνην te...” Would that it were the king
of Asine
we’ve been searching for so carefully on this acropolis
sometimes touching with our fingers his touch upon
the stones.

Asine, summer ´38—Athens. Jan. ´40