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Thread: Greek poetry

  1. #101
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

    Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
    I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
    But when I start to tell them,
    They think I'm telling lies.
    I say,
    It's in the reach of my arms
    The span of my hips,
    The stride of my step,
    The curl of my lips.
    I'm a woman
    Phenomenal woman,
    That's me.

    I walk into a room
    Just as cool as you please,
    And to a man,
    The fellows stand or
    Fall down on their knees.
    Then they swarm around me,
    A hive of honey bees.
    I say,
    It's the fire in my eyes,
    And the flash of my teeth,
    The swing in my waist,
    And the joy in my feet.
    I'm a woman
    Phenomenal woman,
    That's me.

    Men themselves have wondered
    What they see in me.
    They try so much
    But they can't touch
    My inner mystery.
    When I try to show them
    They say they still can't see.
    I say,
    It's in the arch of my back,
    The sun of my smile,
    The ride of my breasts,
    The grace of my style.
    I'm a woman

    Phenomenal woman,
    That's me.

    Now you understand
    Just why my head's not bowed.
    I don't shout or jump about
    Or have to talk real loud.
    When you see me passing
    It ought to make you proud.
    I say,
    It's in the click of my heels,
    The bend of my hair,
    the palm of my hand,
    The need of my care,
    'Cause I'm a woman
    Phenomenal woman,
    That's me.
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  2. #102
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    The Deserted Garden by Alan Seeger

    I know a village in a far-off land
    Where from a sunny, mountain-girdled plain
    With tinted walls a space on either hand
    And fed by many an olive-darkened lane
    The high-road mounts, and thence a silver band
    Through vineyard slopes above and rolling grain,
    Winds off to that dim corner of the skies
    Where behind sunset hills a stately city lies.

    Here, among trees whose overhanging shade
    Strews petals on the little droves below,
    Pattering townward in the morning weighed
    With greens from many an upland garden-row,
    Runs an old wall; long centuries have frayed
    Its scalloped edge, and passers to and fro
    Heard never from beyond its crumbling height
    Sweet laughter ring at noon or plaintive song at night.

    But here where little lizards bask and blink
    The tendrils of the trumpet-vine have run,
    At whose red bells the humming bird to drink
    Stops oft before his garden feast is done;
    And rose-geraniums, with that tender pink
    That cloud-banks borrow from the setting sun,
    Have covered part of this old wall, entwined
    With fair plumbago, blue as evening heavens behind.

    And crowning other parts the wild white rose
    Rivals the honey-suckle with the bees.
    Above the old abandoned orchard shows
    And all within beneath the dense-set trees,
    Tall and luxuriant the rank grass grows,
    That settled in its wavy depth one sees
    Grass melt in leaves, the mossy trunks between,
    Down fading avenues of implicated green;

    Wherein no lack of flowers the verdurous night
    With stars and pearly nebula o'erlay;
    Azalea-boughs half rosy and half white
    Shine through the green and clustering apple-spray,
    Such as the fairy-queen before her knight
    Waved in old story, luring him away
    Where round lost isles Hesperian billows break
    Or towers loom up beneath the clear, translucent lake;

    And under the deep grass blue hare-bells hide,
    And myrtle plots with dew-fall ever wet,
    Gay tiger-lilies flammulate and pied,
    Sometime on pathway borders neatly set,
    Now blossom through the brake on either side,
    Where heliotrope and weedy mignonette,
    With vines in bloom and flower-bearing trees,
    Mingle their incense all to swell the perfumed breeze,

    That sprung like Hermes from his natal cave
    In some blue rampart of the curving West,
    Comes up the valleys where green cornfields wave,
    Ravels the cloud about the mountain crest,
    Breathes on the lake till gentle ripples pave
    Its placid floor; at length a long-loved guest,
    He steals across this plot of pleasant ground,
    Waking the vocal leaves to a sweet vernal sound.

    Here many a day right gladly have I sped,
    Content amid the wavy plumes to lie,
    And through the woven branches overhead
    Watch the white, ever-wandering clouds go by,
    And soaring birds make their dissolving bed
    Far in the azure depths of summer sky,
    Or nearer that small huntsman of the air,
    The fly-catcher, dart nimbly from his leafy lair;

    Pillowed at case to hear the merry tune
    Of mating warblers in the boughs above
    And shrill cicadas whom the hottest noon
    Keeps not from drowsy song; the mourning dove
    Pours down the murmuring grove his plaintive croon
    That like the voice of visionary love
    Oft have I risen to seek through this green maze
    (Even as my feet thread now the great world's garden-ways);

    And, parting tangled bushes as I passed
    Down beechen allies beautiful and dim,
    Perhaps by some deep-shaded pool at last
    My feet would pause, where goldfish poise and swim,
    And snowy callas' velvet cups are massed
    Around the mossy, fern-encircled brim.
    Here, then, that magic summoning would cease,
    Or sound far off again among the orchard trees.

    And here where the blanched lilies of the vale
    And violets and yellow star-flowers teem,
    And pink and purple hyacinths exhale
    Their heavy fume, once more to drowse and dream
    My head would sink, from many an olden tale
    Drawing imagination's fervid theme,
    Or haply peopling this enchanting spot
    Only with fair creations of fantastic thought.

    For oft I think, in years long since gone by,
    That gentle hearts dwelt here and gentle hands
    Stored all this bowery bliss to beautify
    The paradise of some unsung romance;
    Here, safe from all except the loved one's eye,
    'Tis sweet to think white limbs were wont to glance,
    Well pleased to wanton like the flowers and share
    Their simple loveliness with the enamored air.

    Thrice dear to them whose votive fingers decked
    The altars of First Love were these green ways,
    These lawns and verdurous brakes forever flecked
    With the warm sunshine of midsummer days;
    Oft where the long straight allies intersect
    And marble seats surround the open space,
    Where a tiled pool and sculptured fountain stand,
    Hath Evening found them seated, silent, hand in hand.

    When twilight deepened, in the gathering shade
    Beneath that old titanic cypress row,
    Whose sombre vault and towering colonnade
    Dwarfed the enfolded forms that moved below,
    Oft with close steps these happy lovers strayed,
    Till down its darkening aisle the sunset glow
    Grew less and patterning the garden floor
    Faint flakes of filtering moonlight mantled more and more.

    And the strange tempest that a touch imparts
    Through the mid fibre of the molten frame,
    When the sweet flesh in early youth asserts
    Its heyday verve and little hints enflame,
    Disturbed them as they walked; from their full hearts
    Welled the soft word, and many a tender name
    Strove on their lips as breast to breast they strained
    And the deep joy they drank seemed never, never drained.

    Love's soul that is the depth of starry skies
    Set in the splendor of one upturned face
    To beam adorably through half-closed eyes;
    Love's body where the breadth of summer days
    And all the beauty earth and air comprise
    Come to the compass of an arm's embrace,
    To burn a moment on impassioned lips
    And yield intemperate joy to quivering finger-tips,

    They knew; and here where morning-glories cling
    Round carven forms of carefullest artifice,
    They made a bower where every outward thing
    Should comment on the cause of their own bliss;
    With flowers of liveliest hue encompassing
    That flower that the beloved body is
    That rose that for the banquet of Love's bee
    Has budded all the ĉons of past eternity.

    But their choice seat was where the garden wall,
    Crowning a little summit, far and near,
    Looks over tufted treetops onto all
    The pleasant outer country; rising here
    From rustling foliage where cuckoos call
    On summer evenings, stands a belvedere,
    Buff-hued, of antique plaster, overrun
    With flowering vines and weatherworn by rain and sun.

    Still round the turrets of this antique tower
    The bougainvillea hangs a crimson crown,
    Wistaria-vines and clematis in flower,
    Wreathing the lower surface further down,
    Hide the old plaster in a very shower
    Of motley blossoms like a broidered gown.
    Outside, ascending from the garden grove,
    A crumbling stairway winds to the one room above.

    And whoso mounts by this dismantled stair
    Finds the old pleasure-hall, long disarrayed,
    Brick-tiled and raftered, and the walls foursquare
    Ringed all about with a twofold arcade.
    Backward dense branches intercept the glare
    Of afternoon with eucalyptus shade;
    Eastward the level valley-plains expand,
    Sweet as a queen's survey of her own Fairyland.

    For through that frame the ivied arches make,
    Wide tracts of sunny midland charm the eye,
    Frequent with hamlet grove, and lucent lake
    Where the blue hills' inverted contours lie;
    Far to the east where billowy mountains break
    In surf of snow against a sapphire sky,
    Huge thunderheads loom up behind the ranges,
    Changing from gold to pink as deepening sunset changes;

    And over plain and far sierra spread
    The fulgent rays of fading afternoon,
    Showing each utmost peak and watershed
    All clarified, each tassel and festoon
    Of floating cloud embroidered overhead,
    Like lotus-leaves on bluest waters strewn,
    Flushing with rose, while all breathes fresh and free
    In peace and amplitude and bland tranquillity.

    Dear were such evenings to this gentle pair;
    Love's tide that launched on with a blast too strong
    Sweeps toward the foaming reef, the hidden snare,
    Baffling with fond illusion's siren-song,
    Too faint, on idle shoals, to linger there
    Far from Youth's glowing dream, bore them along,
    With purple sail and steered by seraph hands
    To isles resplendent in the sunset of romance.

    And out of this old house a flowery fane,
    A bridal bower, a pearly pleasure-dome,
    They built, and furnished it with gold and grain,
    And bade all spirits of beauty hither come,
    And wingéd Love to enter with his train
    And bless their pillow, and in this his home
    Make them his priests as Hero was of yore
    In her sweet girlhood by the blue Dardanian shore.

    Tree-ferns, therefore, and potted palms they brought,
    Tripods and urns in rare and curious taste,
    Polychrome chests and cabinets inwrought
    With pearl and ivory etched and interlaced;
    Pendant brocades with massive braid were caught,
    And chain-slung, oriental lamps so placed
    To light the lounger on some low divan,
    Sunken in swelling down and silks from Hindustan.

    And there was spread, upon the ample floors,
    Work of the Levantine's laborious loom,
    Such as by Euxine or Ionian shores
    Carpets the dim seraglio's scented gloom.
    Each morn renewed, the garden's flowery stores
    Blushed in fair vases, ochre and peach-bloom,
    And little birds through wicker doors left wide
    Flew in to trill a space from the green world outside.

    And there was many a dainty attitude,
    Bronze and eburnean. All but disarrayed,
    Here in eternal doubt sweet Psyche stood
    Fain of the bath's delight, yet still afraid
    Lest aught in that palatial solitude
    Lurked of most menace to a helpless maid.
    Therefore forever faltering she stands,
    Nor yet the last loose fold slips rippling from her hands.

    Close by upon a beryl column, clad
    In the fresh flower of adolescent grace,
    They set the dear Bithynian shepherd lad,
    The nude Antinous. That gentle face,
    Forever beautiful, forever sad,
    Shows but one aspect, moon-like, to our gaze,
    Yet Fancy pictures how those lips could smile
    At revelries in Rome, and banquets on the Nile.

    And there were shapes of Beauty myriads more,
    Clustering their rosy bridal bed around,
    Whose scented breadth a silken fabric wore
    Broidered with peacock hues on creamiest ground,
    Fit to have graced the barge that Cydnus bore
    Or Venus' bed in her enchanted mound,
    While pillows swelled in stuffs of Orient dyes,
    All broidered with strange fruits and birds of Paradise.

    'Twas such a bower as Youth has visions of,
    Thither with one fair spirit to retire,
    Lie upon rose-leaves, sleep and wake with Love
    And feast on kisses to the heart's desire;
    Where by a casement opening on a grove,
    Wide to the wood-winds and the sweet birds' choir,
    A girl might stand and gaze into green boughs,
    Like Credhe at the window of her golden house.

    Or most like Vivien, the enchanting fay,
    Where with her friend, in the strange tower they planned,
    She lies and dreams eternity away,
    Above the treetops in Broceliande,
    Sometimes at twilight when the woods are gray
    And wolf-packs howl far out across the lande,
    Waking to love, while up behind the trees
    The large midsummer moon lifts-even so loved these.

    For here, their pleasure was to come and sit
    Oft when the sun sloped midway to the west,
    Watching with sweet enjoyment interknit
    The long light slant across the green earth's breast,
    And clouds upon the ranges opposite,
    Rolled up into a gleaming thundercrest,
    Topple and break and fall in purple rain,
    And mist of summer showers trail out across the plain.

    Whereon the shafts of ardent light, far-flung
    Across the luminous azure overhead,
    Ofttimes in arcs of transient beauty hung
    The fragmentary rainbow's green and red.
    Joy it was here to love and to be young,
    To watch the sun sink to his western bed,
    And streaming back out of their flaming core
    The vesperal aurora's glorious banners soar.

    Tinging each altitude of heaven in turn,
    Those fiery rays would sweep. The cumuli
    That peeped above the mountain-tops would burn
    Carmine a space; the cirrus-whorls on high,
    More delicate than sprays of maiden fern,
    Streak with pale rose the peacock-breasted sky,
    Then blanch. As water-lilies fold at night,
    Sank back into themselves those plumes of fervid light.

    And they would watch the first faint stars appear,
    The blue East blend with the blue hills below,
    As lovers when their shuddering bliss draws near
    Into one pulse of fluid rapture grow.
    New fragrance on the freshening atmosphere
    Would steal with evening, and the sunset glow
    Draw deeper down into the wondrous west
    Round vales of Proserpine and islands of the blest.

    So dusk would come and mingle lake and shore,
    The snow-peaks fade to frosty, opaline,
    To pearl the doméd clouds the mountains bore,
    Where late the sun's effulgent fire had been
    Showing as darkness deepened more and more
    The incandescent lightnings flare within,
    And Night that furls the lily in the glen
    And twines impatient arms would fall, and then---and then . . .

    Sometimes the peasant, coming late from town
    With empty panniers on his little drove
    Past the old lookout when the Northern Crown
    Glittered with Cygnus through the scented grove,
    Would hear soft noise of lute-strings wafted down
    And voices singing through the leaves above
    Those songs that well from the warm heart that woos
    At balconies in Merida or Vera Cruz.

    And he would pause under the garden wall,
    Caught in the spell of that voluptuous strain,
    With all the sultry South in it, and all
    Its importunity of love and pain;
    And he would wait till the last passionate fall
    Died on the night, and all was still again.
    Then to his upland village wander home,
    Marvelling whence that flood of elfin song might come.

    O lyre that Love's white holy hands caress,
    Youth, from thy bosom welled their passionate lays
    Sweet opportunity for happiness
    So brief, so passing beautiful---O days,
    When to the heart's divine indulgences
    All earth in smiling ministration pays
    Thine was the source whose plenitude, past over,
    What prize shall rest to pluck, what secret to discover!

    The wake of color that follows her when May
    Walks on the hills loose-haired and daisy-crowned,
    The deep horizons of a summer's day,
    Fair cities, and the pleasures that abound
    Where music calls, and crowds in bright array
    Gather by night to find and to be found;
    What were these worth or all delightful things
    Without thine eyes to read their true interpretings!

    For thee the mountains open glorious gates,
    To thee white arms put out from orient skies,
    Earth, like a jewelled bride for one she waits,
    Decks but to be delicious in thine eyes,
    Thou guest of honor for one day, whose fêtes
    Eternity has travailed to devise;
    Ah, grace them well in the brief hour they last!
    Another's turn prepares, another follows fast.

    Yet not without one fond memorial
    Let my sun set who found the world so fair!
    Frail verse, when Time the singer's coronal
    Has rent, and stripped the rose-leaves from his hair,
    Be thou my tablet on the temple wall!
    Among the pious testimonials there,
    Witness how sweetly on my heart as well
    The miracles of dawn and starry evening fell!

    Speak of one then who had the lust to feel,
    And, from the hues that far horizons take,
    And cloud and sunset, drank the wild appeal,
    Too deep to live for aught but life's sweet sake,
    Whose only motive was the will to kneel
    Where Beauty's purest benediction spake,
    Who only coveted what grove and field
    And sunshine and green Earth and tender arms could yield---

    A nympholept, through pleasant days and drear
    Seeking his faultless adolescent dream,
    A pilgrim down the paths that disappear
    In mist and rainbows on the world's extreme,
    A helpless voyager who all too near
    The mouth of Life's fair flower-bordered stream,
    Clutched at Love's single respite in his need
    More than the drowning swimmer clutches at a reed---

    That coming one whose feet in other days
    Shall bleed like mine for ever having, more
    Than any purpose, felt the need to praise
    And seek the angelic image to adore,
    In love with Love, its wonderful, sweet ways
    Counting what most makes life worth living for,
    That so some relic may be his to see
    How I loved these things too and they were dear to me.

    I sometimes think a conscious happiness
    Mantles through all the rose's sentient vine
    When summer winds with myriad calyces
    Of bloom its clambering height incarnadine;
    I sometimes think that cleaving lips, no less,
    And limbs that crowned desires at length entwine
    Are nerves through which that being drinks delight,
    Whose frame is the green Earth robed round with day and night.

    And such were theirs: the traveller without,
    Pausing at night under the orchard trees,
    Wondered and crossed himself in holy doubt,
    For through their song and in the murmuring breeze
    It seemed angelic choirs were all about
    Mingling in universal harmonies,
    As though, responsive to the chords they woke,
    All Nature into sweet epithalamium broke.

    And still they think a spirit haunts the place:
    'Tis said, when Night has drawn her jewelled pall
    And through the branches twinkling fireflies trace
    Their mimic constellations, if it fall
    That one should see the moon rise through the lace
    Of blossomy boughs above the garden wall,
    That surely would he take great ill thereof
    And famish in a fit of unexpressive love.

    But this I know not, for what time the wain
    Was loosened and the lily's petal furled,
    Then I would rise, climb the old wall again,
    And pausing look forth on the sundown world,
    Scan the wide reaches of the wondrous plain,
    The hamlet sites where settling smoke lay curled,
    The poplar-bordered roads, and far away
    Fair snowpeaks colored with the sun's last ray.

    Waves of faint sound would pulsate from afar
    Faint song and preludes of the summer night;
    Deep in the cloudless west the evening star
    Hung 'twixt the orange and the emerald light;
    From the dark vale where shades crepuscular
    Dimmed the old grove-girt belfry glimmering white,
    Throbbing, as gentlest breezes rose or fell,
    Came the sweet invocation of the evening bell.
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  3. #103
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Κώστας Καρυωτάκης


    Κάνε τὸν πόνο σου ἅρπα,
    Καὶ γίνε σὰν ἀηδόνι,
    καὶ γίνε σὰ λουλούδι.
    Πικροὶ ὅταν ἔλθουν χρόνοι,
    κάνε τὸν πόνο σου ἅρπα
    καὶ πέ τονε τραγούδι.

    Μὴ δέσεις τὴν πληγή σου
    παρὰ μὲ ροδοκλώνια.
    Λάγνα σοῦ δίνω μύρα
    -γιὰ μπάλσαμο- καὶ ἀφιόνια.
    Μὴ δέσεις τὴν πληγή σου,
    καὶ τὸ αἷμα σου πορφύρα.

    Λέγε στοὺς θεοὺς "νὰ σβήσω!"
    μὰ κράτα τὸ ποτήρι.
    Κλότσα τὶς μέρες σου ὄντας
    θὰ σοῦ 'ναι πανηγύρι.
    Λέγε στοὺς θεοὺς "νὰ σβήσω!"
    μὰ λέγε το γελώντας.

    Κάνε τὸν πόνο σου ἅρπα.
    Καὶ δρόσισε τὰ χείλη
    στὰ χείλη τῆς πληγῆς σου.
    Ἕνα πρωί, ἕνα δείλι,
    κάνε τὸν πόνο σου ἅρπα
    καὶ γέλασε καὶ σβήσου.

    Make an harp of your pain.
    And become like a nightingale,
    and become like a flower.
    When bitter years arrive
    make an harp of your pain
    and make of it a song.

    Don't wrap your wound
    but only with rose-branches.
    Lustful I give you myrrh
    - for balm - and drugs.
    Don't wrap your wound,
    and your blood a purple.

    Keep saying to Gods "may I be quenched!"
    but hold the glass.
    Despise your days when
    they become a feast for you.
    Keep saying to Gods "may I be quenched!"
    but say it with a smile.

    Make an harp of your pain.
    And refresh the lips
    at the lips of your wound.
    At a dawn, at a sunset,
    make an harp of your pain
    and smile and be quenched.
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  4. #104
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Έρχομ' Eγώ… Παλαμάς Kωστής

    Έρχομ' εγώ, φτάνω εγώ προς Eσένα!

    K' έτσι σε ημέραν ηλιόκαλην όπως
    το βραδινό ξαφναπλώνουμε σκότος
    κλείνοντας γύρω μας κάθε φεγγίτη
    για να χαρούμ' εκεί απάνου στον τοίχο
    κάποιους ριγμένους μ' έν' άλλο φως ήσκιους,
    έτσι στο φως της ζωής μου ένα σκότος
    έξαφν' απλώνω. Tης είπα της Nύχτας:
    ―kλέφτρα, δεν τρέμω, να ψάξω 'σε στάσου.―
    K' έκλεισα μέσα μου κάθε φεγγίτη
    για να χαρώ ξανοιγμένον απάνου
    στου μυστηρίου τον αγκρέμιστο τοίχο,
    ω! τον ολόφωτον ήσκιον, Eσένα!

    Kαι της καρδιάς: ―Ξερριζώσου, της είπα,
    και της βουλής μου: ―Παράλυτη πέσε!
    Σβύσου! Tης μνήμης, της γνώμης: Kοιμήσου!
    Tη φαντασία την έπνιξα, σπρώχνω
    κάθε χαρά στο γκρεμό, κάθε λύπη
    τη μαχαιρώνω, κι ολάγρια μαδώντας
    ποδοπατώ της αγάπης τα ρόδα.
    K' έκραξα: ―mάτια, κλειστήτε, και χείλη
    μου, βουβαθήτε, κι αυτιά, μην ακούτε.
    Kι όταν το είναι μου ολόγυμνον, άλλο,
    ξένο και απ' όλα του γύρω και ολούθε
    σαν από αέρα και σαν από λαύρα
    το γοργοφύσημ' ακράτητο πήρε
    προς τ' αξεδιάλυτου χάους το δρόμο,
    ―eσύ τώρα, εσύ τώρα, εσύ τώρα,
    γίνε Kαρδιά, Φαντασία και Mνήμη,
    δείξου Bουλή, γλυκοπρόσταξε Γνώμη,
    κάψε με Λύπη, Xαρά φίλησέ με,
    κλείσε μ' εσύ στην αγκάλη σου, αγάπη,
    στόμα μου εσύ και ακοές μου και μάτια.
    Kάμε μ' Eσύ, κλείσου μέσα μου Eγώ μου
    και με του είναι μου σμίξου το είναι!
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  5. #105
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Tο Φάντασμα.....Παλαμάς Kωστής

    Ωραίε νεκρέ, μονάρχη εσύ του μυστικού ουρανού μου
    αστέρινε, ήρθες πάλι,
    σ' έφερε η νύχτα, φάντασμα του λατρευτού μου
    στην ορφανή μου αγκάλη.
    Kαι σε κρατούσα όπως ποτέ δεν κράτησε μητέρα
    το πρωτογέννητο παιδί στην αγκαλιά της,
    και κάποιου πόνου μια ψυχή, χυμένη απ' άλλο αέρα,
    την όψη σου την άγιαζε με τ' αντιφέγγισμά της.
    K' είσουν ωραίος, όπως ποτέ κανένας έρωτάς μου
    δεν είτανε στης νιότης μου τα χρόνια,
    και σώπαινες, όπως ποτέ δε μίλησαν τ' αηδόνια
    των ποιητών στα βάθη της καρδιάς μου.
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  6. #106
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    George Seferis


    Ephemeral issue of a vicious daemon and a harsh fate,
    why do you force me to speak of things that it would be better for you not to know.



    The house near the sea*

    The houses I had they took away from me. The times
    happened to be unpropitious: war, destruction, exile;
    sometimes the hunter hits the migratory birds,
    sometimes he doesn’t hit them. Hunting
    was good in my time, many felt the pellet;
    the rest circle aimlessly or go mad in the shelters.

    Don’t talk to me about the nightingale or the lark
    or the little wagtail
    inscribing figures with his tail in the light;
    I don’t know much about houses
    I know they have their own nature, nothing else.
    New at first, like babies
    who play in gardens with the tassels of the sun.
    they embroider colored shutters and shining doors
    over the day.
    When the architect’s finished, they change,
    they frown or smile or even grow stubborn
    with those who stayed behind, with those who went away
    with others who’d come back if they could
    or others who disappeared, now that the world’s become
    an endless hotel.

    I don’t know much about houses,
    I remember their joy and their sorrow
    sometimes, when I stop to think;
    sometimes, near the sea, in naked rooms
    with a single iron bed and nothing of my own,
    watching the evening spider, I imagine
    that someone is getting ready to come, that they dress
    him up*
    in white and black robes, with many-colored jewels,
    and around him venerable ladies,
    gray hair and dark lace shawls, talk softly,
    that he is getting ready to come and say goodbye to me;
    or that a woman—eyelashes quivering, slim-waisted,
    returning from southern ports,
    Smyrna Phodes Syracuse Alexandria,
    from cities closed like hot shutters,
    with perfume of golden fruit and herbs—
    climbs the stairs without seeing
    those who’ve fallen asleep under the stairs.

    Houses, you know, grow stubborn easily when you strip
    them bare.


    Sensual Elpenor

    I saw him yesterday standing by the door
    below my window; it was about
    seven o’clock; there was a woman with him.
    He had the look of Elpenor just before he fell
    and smashed himself, yet he wasn’t drunk.
    He was speaking fast, and she
    was gazing absently toward the gramophones;
    now and then she cut him short to say a word
    and then would glance impatiently
    toward where they were frying fish: like a cat.
    He muttered with a cigarette butt between his lips:
    —“Listen. There’s this too. In the moonlight
    the status sometimes bend like reeds
    in the midst of ripe fruit—the statues;
    and the flame becomes a cool oleander,
    the flame that burns you, I mean.”

    —“It's just the light… shadows of the night.”

    —“Maybe the night that split open, a blue pomegranate,
    a dark breast, and filled you with stars,
    cleaving time.
    And yet the statues
    bend sometimes, dividing desire in two,
    like a peach; and the flame
    becomes a kiss on the limbs, a sobbing,
    and then a cool leaf carried off by the wind;
    they bend; they become light with a human weight.
    You don’t forget it.”

    —The statues are in the museum.”

    —No, they pursue you, why can’t you see it?
    I mean with their broken limbs,
    with their shape from another time, a shape you don’t
    yet know.
    It’s as though
    in the last days of your youth you loved
    a woman who was still beautiful, and you were always afraid,
    as you held her naked at noon,
    of the memory aroused by your embrace;
    were afraid the kiss might betray you
    to other beds now of the past
    which nevertheless could haunt you
    so easily, so easily, and bring to life
    images in the mirror, bodies once alive:
    their sensuality.
    It’s as though
    returning home from some foreign country you happen
    to open
    an old trunk that’s been locked up a long time
    and find the tatters of clothes you used to wear
    on happy occasions, at festivals with many-colored lights,
    mirrored, now becoming dim,
    and all that remains is the perfume of the absence
    of a young form.
    Really, those statues are not
    the fragments. You yourself are the relic;
    they haunt you with a strange virginity
    at home, at the office, at receptions for the celebrated,
    in the unconfessed terror of sleep;
    they speak of things you wish didn’t exist
    or would happen years after your death,
    and that’s difficult because…”

    —“The statues are in the museum.
    Good night.”

    —“…because the statues are no longer
    fragments. We are. The statues bend lightly… Good

    At this point they separated. He took
    the road leading uphill toward the North
    and she moved on toward the light-flooded beach
    where the waves are drowned in the noise from the radio:

    The radio

    —“Sails puffed out by the wind
    are all that stay in the mind.
    Perfume of silence and pine
    will soon be an anodyne
    now that the sailor’s set sail,
    flycatcher, catfish, and wagtail.
    O woman whose touch is dumb,
    hear the wind’s requiem.

    “Drained is the golden keg
    the sun’s become a rag
    round a middle-aged woman’s neck—
    who coughs and coughs without break;
    for the summer that’s gone she sighs,
    for the gold on her shoulders, her thighs.
    O woman, O sightless thing,
    Hear the blindman sing.

    “Close the shutters: the day recedes;
    make flutes from yesteryear’s reeds
    and don’t open, knock how they may:
    they shout but have nothing to say.
    Take cyclamen, pine-needles, the lily,
    anemones out of the sea;
    O woman whose wits are lost,
    Listen, the water’s ghost…

    —“Athens. The public has heard
    the news with alarm; it is feared
    a crisis is near. The prime
    minister declared: ‘There is no more time…’
    Take cyclamen… needles of pine…
    the lily… needles of pine…
    O woman…
    —… is overwhelmingly stronger
    The war…”



    The wreck “Thrush”

    “This wood that cooled my forehead
    at times when noon burned my veins
    will flower in other hands. Take it, I’m giving it to you;
    look, it’s wood from a lemon-tree…”
    I heard the voice
    as I was gazing at the sea trying to make out
    a ship they’d sunk there years ago;
    it was called “Thrush,” a small wreck; the masts,
    broken, swayed at odd angles deep underwater, like
    or the memory of dreams, marking the hull:
    vague mouth of some huge dead sea-monster
    extinguished in the water. Calm spread all around.

    And gradually, in turn, other voices followed,*
    whispers thin and thirsty
    emerging from the other side of the sun, the dark side;
    you might say they longed for a drop of blood to drink;*
    familiar voices, but I couldn’t distinguish one from the
    And then the voice of the old man reached me; I felt it
    quietly falling into the heart of day,
    as though motionless:
    “And if you condemn me to drink poison, I thank you.
    Your law will be my law; how can I go
    wandering from one foreign country to another, a rolling
    I prefer death.
    Who’ll come out best only God knows.”

    Countries of the sun yet you can’t face the sun.
    Countries of men yet you can’t face man.

    The light

    As the year go by
    the judges who condemn you grow in number;
    as the years go by and you converse with fewer voices,
    you see the sun with different eyes:
    you know that those who stayed behind were deceiving you
    the delirium of flesh, the lovely dance
    that ends in nakedness.
    It’s as though, turning at night into an empty highway,
    you suddenly see the eyes of an animal shine,
    eyes already gone; so you feel your own eyes:
    you gaze at the sun, then you’re lost in darkness.
    The doric chiton
    that swayed like the mountains when your fingers touched it
    is a marble figure in the light, but its head is in darkness.
    And those who abandoned the stadium to take up arms
    struck the obstinate marathon runner
    and he saw the track sail in blood,
    the world empty like the moon,
    the gardens of victory wither:
    you see them in the sun, behind the sun.
    And the boys who dived from the bow-sprits
    go like spindles twisting still,
    naked bodies plunging into black light
    with a coin between the teeth, swimming still,
    while the sun with golden needles sews
    sails and wet wood and colors of the sea;
    even now they’re going down obliquely,
    the white lekythoi,
    toward the pebbles on the sea floor.

    Light, angelic and black,
    laughter of waves on the sea’s highways
    tear-stained laughter,
    the old suppliant sees you
    as he moves to cross the invisible fields—*
    light mirrored in his blood,
    the blood that gave birth to Eteocles and Polynices.
    Day, angelic and black;
    the brackish taste of woman that poisons the prisoner
    emerges from the wave a cool branch adorned with drops.
    Sing little Antigone, sing, O sing…
    I’m not speaking to you about things past, I’m speaking
    about love;
    decorate your hair with the sun’s thorns,
    dark girl;
    the heart of the Scorpion has set,*
    the tyrant in man has fled,
    and all the daughters of the sea, Nereids, Graeae,*
    hurry toward the shimmering of the rising goddess:
    whoever has never loved will love,*
    in the light:
    and you find yourself
    in a large house with many windows open
    running from room to room, not knowing from where to
    look out first,*
    because the pine-trees will vanish, and the mirrored moun-
    tains, and the chirping of birds
    the sea will drain dry, shattered glass, from north and south
    your eyes will empty of daylight
    the way the cicadas suddenly, all together, fall silent.
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  7. #107
    Senior Member Fidelitas's Avatar
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    Thanks for all the beautiful poems!!
    *** Que tus labios nunca pronuncien lo que tu corazón no siente ***

  8. #108
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Could somebody post here fairy tales,for children, on greek (with english translation )....Thank you all.Kisses!
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  9. #109
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by sandra View Post
    Could somebody post here fairy tales,for children, on greek (with english translation )....Thank you all.Kisses!
    Please somebody :-( ? ? ?
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  10. #110
    Senior Member pralina's Avatar
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    Κώστας Καρυωτάκης


    Παλιὸ ἡ ψυχή μου γράμμα εἶναι κι ἐγράφη
    σὲ μία παρθένα ὡραία -- εὐγενικὴ
    παρθένα -- ποὺ γιὰ λύπη ἐρωτικὴ
    τὸ μοναστήρι ἐδιάλεξεν, ἐτάφη.

    Τί τώρα κι ἂν ἀσπρίζουνε οἱ κροτάφοι;
    Τὸ τότε κι ἂν ἡ μοῖρα ἦταν κακή;
    Ἕνα συρτάρι ἐβένινον ἐκεῖ
    τῶν ἀναμνήσεων κρύβει τὸ χρυσάφι.

    Τὴν ὥρα ποὺ γεμίζουν ἴσκιο οἱ θόλοι,
    καθισμένη σὲ πέτρα τὸ κοιτᾷ,
    τὸ σφίγγει στὰ ὠχρὰ χέρια κλαίοντας ὅλη.

    Ἔπειτα, ἐνῷ, μὲ βλέφαρα κλειστά,
    τὸ φευγαλέο της ὅραμα κρατᾷ,
    σηκώνεται καὶ πάει στὸ περιβόλι.

    Μὲ τὸν καιρὸ ποὺ πρόσχαρη ἦταν νέα
    -- ἀλίμονο! -- γιὰ νὰ ἀναμετρηθεῖ,
    γιὰ νά ῾βρει ἕνα σκοτάδι πιὸ βαθύ,
    σέρνεται πρὸς τὴν πένθιμη ἀλέα.

    Βαριὰ στὴ ζωή της ἔπεσε ἡ αὐλαία
    κεῖ δὲν μπορεῖ καλὰ νὰ θυμηθεῖ.
    Τὸ χεῖλος, μόνο ξέρει, δὲν ἀνθεῖ,
    δὲν εἶναι πιὰ τὰ μάτια της ὡραῖα.

    Κι ὅπως τὰ δέντρα ὁλόγυρα σιωποῦν,
    ἔτσι ποτὲ γιὰ ἐκεῖνον ποὺ τὴ χάνει,
    ποτὲ δὲ θά ῾ρθουν ἄνθρωποι νὰ ποῦν.

    Ἄχ, μήτε τ᾿ ὄνομά του ἐδῶ δὲ φτάνει!
    Νὰ ζεῖ; Καὶ πάντα νὰν τὸν ἀγαποῦν;
    Μὴν ἔχει τάχα -- σὰν αὐτὴ -- πεθάνει;

    Εἶσαι, ψυχή μου, ἡ κόρη ποὺ τὴ σβήνει
    ὁλοένα κάποιος ἔρωτας πικρός,
    ποὺ λησμονήθηκε κοιτώντας πρὸς
    τὰ περασμένα, κι ἔτσι θ᾿ ἀπομείνει.

    Κατάμονη σὲ μι᾿ ἄκρη, ὅπως ἐκείνη,
    σὲ παρατοῦν ὁ κόσμος, ὁ καιρός.
    Ἕνας ἀκόμη θά ῾σουνα νεκρός,
    ἂν οἱ νεκροὶ δὲν εἶχαν τὴ γαλήνη.

    Σὰν ἀδερφούλα ἡ κόρη αὐτὴ σοῦ μοιάζει
    ποὺ γέρνει, συλλογίζεται καὶ ἀργεῖ
    χαμένην εὐτυχία νὰ νοσταλγεῖ.

    Δικό σου λέω, ψυχή μου, εἶναι μαράζι
    ὅσα, τὸ βράδυ, δάκρυα, τὴν αὐγή,
    στὰ ρόδα κατεβαίνει καὶ μοιράζει.

    I posted in other thread the same poem...but think here I will be more lucky for translation.
    thanks people

  11. #111
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    "Ερωτικός Λόγος" του Γιώργου Σεφέρη
    (από την έκδοση "Γιώργος Σεφέρης, Ποιήματα", Ίκαρος, 1989)

    Έστι δε φύλον εν ανθρώποισι ματαιότατον,
    όστις αισχύνων επιχώρια παπταίνει τα πόρσω,
    μεταμώνια θηρεύων ακράντοις ελπίσιν.


    Ρόδο της μοίρας, γύρευες να βρεις να μας πληγώσεις
    μα έσκυβες σαν το μυστικό που πάει να λυτρωθεί
    κι ήταν ωραίο το πρόσταγμα που δέχτηκες να δώσεις
    κι ήταν το χαμογέλιο σου σαν έτοιμο σπαθί.

    Του κύκλου σου το ανέβασμα ζωντάνευε τη χτίση
    από τ' αγκάθι σου έφευγε το δρόμου ο στοχασμός
    η ορμή μας γλυκοχάραζε γυμνή να σ' αποχτήσει
    ο κόσμος ήταν εύκολος. Ένας απλός παλμός.


    Τα μυστικά της θάλασσας ξεχνιούνται στ' ακρογιάλια
    η σκοτεινάγρα του βυθού ξεχνιέται στον αφρό.
    Λάμπουνε ξάφνου πορφυρά της μνήμης τα κοράλλια...
    Ω μην ταράξεις... πρόσεξε ν' ακούσεις τ' αλαφρό

    ξεκίνημά της... τ' άγγιξες το δέντρο με τα μήλα
    το χέρι απλώθη κι η κλωστή δείχνει και σε οδηγεί...
    Ω σκοτεινό ανατρίχιασμα στη ρίζα και στα φύλλα
    να 'σουν εσύ που θα 'φερνες την ξεχασμένη αυγή!

    Στον κάμπο του αποχωρισμού να ξανανθίζουν κρίνα
    μέρες ν' ανοίγουνται ώριμες, οι αγκάλες τ' ουρανού,
    να φέγγουν στο αντηλάρισμα τα μάτια μόνο εκείνα
    αγνή η ψυχή να γράφεται σαν το τραγούδια αυλού...

    Η νύχτα να 'ταν που έκλεισε τα μάτια; Μένει αθάλη,
    σαν από δοξαριού νευρά μένει πνιχτό βουητό,
    μια στάχτη κι ένας ίλιγγος στο μαύρο γυρογιάλι
    κι ένα πυκνό φτερούγισμα στην εικασία κλειστό.

    Ρόδο του ανέμου, γνώριζες μα ανέγνωρους μας πήρες
    την ώρα που θεμέλιωνε γιοφύρια ο λογισμός
    να πλέξουνε τα δάχτυλα και να διαβούν δυο μοίρες
    και να χυθούν στο χαμηλό κι αναπαμένο φως.


    Ω σκοτεινό ανατρίχιασμα στη ρίζα και στα φύλλα!
    Πρόβαλε ανάστημα άγρυπνο στο πλήθος της σιωπής
    σήκωσε το κεφάλι σου από τα χέρια τα καμπύλα
    το θέλημά σου να γενεί και να μου ξαναπείς

    τα λόγια που άγγιζαν και σμίγαν το αίμα σαν αγκάλη
    κι ας γείρει ο πόθος σου βαθύς σαν ίσκιος καρυδιάς
    και να μας πλημμυράει με των μαλλιών σου τη σπατάλη
    από το χνούδι του φιλιού στα φύλλα της καρδιάς.

    Χαμήλωναν τα μάτια σου κι είχες το χαμογέλιο
    που ανιστορούσαν ταπεινά ζωγράφοι αλλοτινοί.
    Λησμονημένο ανάγνωσμα σ' ένα παλιό ευαγγέλιο
    το μίλημά σου ανάσαινε κι η ανάλαφρη φωνή:

    "Είναι το πέρασμα του χρόνου σιγαλό κι απόκοσμο
    κι ο πόνος απαλά μες στην ψυχή μου λάμνει
    χαράζει η αυγή τον ουρανό, τ' όνειρο μένει απόντιστο
    κι είναι σαν να διαβαίνουν μυρωμένοι θάμνοι.

    Με του ματιού τ' αλάφιασμα, με του κορμιού το ρόδισμα
    ξυπνούν και κατεβαίνουν σμάρι περιστέρια
    με περιπλέκει χαμηλό το κυκλωτό φτερούγισμα
    ανθρώπινο άγγιγμα στο κόρφο μου τ' αστέρια.

    Την ακοή μου ως να 'σμιξε κοχύλι βουίζει ο αντίδικος
    μακρινός κι αξεδιάλυτος του κόσμου ο θρήνος
    μα είναι στιγμές και σβήνουνται και βασιλεύει δίκλωνος
    ο λογισμός του πόθου μου, μόνος εκείνος.

    Λες κι είχα αναστηθεί γυμνή σε μια παρμένη θύμηση
    σαν ήρθες γνώριμος και ξένος, ακριβέ μου
    να μου χαρίσεις γέρνοντας την απέραντη λύτρωση
    που γύρευα από τα γοργά σείστρα του ανέμου..."

    Το ραγισμένο ηλιόγερμα λιγόστεψε κι εχάθη
    κι έμοιαζε πλάνη να ζητάς τα δώρα τ' ουρανού.
    Χαμήλωναν τα μάτια σου. Του φεγγαριού τ' αγκάθι
    βλάστησε και φοβήθηκες τους ίσκιους του βουνού.

    ...Μες στον καθρέφτη η αγάπη μας, πώς πάει και λιγοστεύει
    μέσα στον ύπνο τα όνειρα, σκολειό της λησμονιάς
    μέσα στα βάθη του καιρού, πώς η καρδιά στενεύει
    και χάνεται στο λίκνισμα μιας ξένης αγκαλιάς...


    Δυο φίδια ωραία κι αλαργινά, του χωρισμού πλοκάμια
    σέρνουνται και γυρεύουνται στη νύχτα των δεντρών,
    για μιαν αγάπη μυστική σ' ανεύρετα θολάμια
    ακοίμητα γυρεύουνται δεν πίνουν και δεν τρων.

    Με γύρους και λυγίσματα κι η αχόρταγή τους γνώμη
    κλώθει, πληθαίνει, στρίβει, απλώνει κρίκους στο κορμί
    που κυβερνούν αμίλητοι του έναστρου θόλου οι νόμοι
    και του αναδεύουν την πυρή κι ασίγαστη αφορμή.

    Το δάσος στέκει ριγηλό της νύχτας αντιστύλι
    κι είναι η σιγή τάσι αργυρό όπου πέφτουν οι στιγμές
    αντίχτυποι ξεχωρισμένοι, ολόκληροι, μια σμίλη
    προσεχτική που δέχουνται πελεκητές γραμμές...

    Αυγάζει ξάφνου το άγαλμα. Μα τα κορμιά έχουν σβήσει
    στη θάλασσα στον άνεμο στον ήλιο στη βροχή.
    Έτσι γεννιούνται οι ομορφιές που μας χαρίζει η φύση
    μα ποιος ξέρει αν πέθανε στον κόσμο μια ψυχή.

    Στη φαντασία θα γύριζαν τα χωρισμένα φίδια
    (Το δάσος λάμπει με πουλιά βλαστούς και ροδαμούς)
    μένουν ακόμη τα σγουρά γυρέματά τους, ίδια
    του κύκλου τα γυρίσματα που φέρνουν τους καημούς.


    Πού πήγε η μέρα η δίκοπη που είχε τα πάντα αλλάξει;
    Δε θα βρεθεί ένας ποταμός να 'ναι για μας πλωτός;
    Δε θα βρεθεί ένας ουρανός τη δρόσο να σταλάξει
    για την ψυχή που νάρκωσε κι ανάθρεψε ο λωτός;

    Στην πέτρα της υπομονής προσμένουμε το θάμα
    που ανοίγει τα επουράνια κι είν' όλα βολετά
    προσμένουμε τον άγγελο σαν το πανάρχαιο δράμα
    την ώρα που του δειλινού χάνουνται τ' ανοιχτά

    τριαντάφυλλα... Ρόδο άλικο του ανέμου και της μοίρας,
    μόνο στη μνήμη απέμεινες, ένας βαρύς ρυθμός
    ρόδο της νύχτας πέρασες, τρικύμισμα πορφύρας
    τρίκυμισμα της θάλασσας... Ο κόσμος είναι απλός.

    Αθήνα, Οχτώβρης '29 - Δεκέμβρης '30
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  12. #112
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1913)

    Οσο 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 καθημερινή ανοησία,
    ως που vα γίνει σα μιά ξένη φορτική.

    As much as you can
    Even if you cannot shape your life as you want it,
    at least try this
    as much as you can; do not debase it
    in excessive contact with the world,
    in the excessive movements and talk.

    Do not debase it by taking it,
    dragging it often and exposing it
    to the daily folly
    of relationships and associations,
    until it becomes burdensome as an alien life.
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  13. #113
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Θυμήσου, σώμα...

    Σώμα, θυμήσου όχι μόνο το πόσο αγαπήθηκες,
    όχι μονάχα τα κρεββάτια όπου πλάγιασες,
    αλλά κ' εκείνες τες επιθυμίες που για σένα
    γυάλιζαν μες στα μάτια φανερά,
    κ' ετρέμανε μες στη φωνή -- και κάποιο
    τυχαίον εμπόδιο τες ματαίωσε.
    Τώρα που είναι όλα πια μέσα στο παρελθόν,
    μοιάζει σχεδόν και στες επιθυμίες
    εκείνες σαν να δόθηκες -- πώς γυάλιζαν,
    θυμήσου, μες στα μάτια που σε κύτταζαν·
    πώς έτρεμαν μες στη φωνή, για σε, θυμήσου, σώμα.

    Remember, body...
    Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
    not only the beds on which you lay,
    but also those desires which for you
    plainly glowed in the eyes,
    and trembled in the voice -- and some
    chance obstacle made them futile.
    Now that all belongs to the past,
    it is almost as if you had yielded
    to those desires too -- remember,
    how they glowed, in the eyes looking at you;
    how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  14. #114
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Απ΄ όσα έκαμα κι απ΄ όσα είπα
    να μη ζητήσουνε να βρουν ποιος ήμουν.
    Εμπόδιο στέκονταν και μεταμόρφωνε
    τες πράξεις και τον τρόπο της ζωής μου.
    Εμπόδιο στέκονταν και σταματούσε με
    πολλές φορές που πήγαινα να πω.
    Η πιο απαρατήρητές μου πράξεις
    και τα γραψίματά μου τα πιο σκεπασμένα --
    από εκεί μονάχα θα με νοιώσουν.
    Αλλά ίσως δεν αξίζει να καταβληθεί
    τοση φροντίς και τόσος κόπος να με μάθουν.
    Καθότι -- στην τελειωτέρα κοινωνία --
    κανένας άλλος καμωμένος σαν εμένα
    βέβαια θα φανεί κ' ελεύθερος θα κάμει.


    From all I've done and all I've said
    let them not seek to find who I've been.
    An obstacle stood and transformed
    my acts and way of my life.
    An obstacle stood and stopped me
    many a time as I was going to speak.
    My most unobserved acts,
    and my writitings the most covered --
    thence only they will feel me.
    But mayhaps it is not worth to spend
    this much care and this much effort to know me.
    For -- in the more perfect society --
    someone else like me created
    will certainly appear and freely act.
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  15. #115
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Che fece .... il gran rifiuto

    Σε μερικούς ανθρώπους έρχεται μια μέρα
    που πρέπει το μεγάλο Ναι ή το μεγάλο το Οχι
    να πούνε. Φανερώνεται αμέσως όποιος τόχει
    έτοιμο μέσα του το Ναι, και λέγοντάς το πέρα

    πηγαίνει στην τιμή και στην πεποίθησί του.
    Ο αρνηθείς δεν μετανοιώνει. Αν ρωτιούνταν πάλι,
    όχι θα ξαναέλεγε. Κι όμως τον καταβάλλει
    εκείνο το όχι -- το σωστό -- εις όλην την ζωή του.

    Che fece .... il gran rifiuto

    To certain people there comes a day
    when they must say the great Yes or the great No.
    He who has the Yes ready within him
    immediately reveals himself, and saying it he goes

    against his honor and his own conviction.
    He who refuses does not repent. Should he be asked again,
    he would say no again. And yet that no --
    the right no -- crushes him for the rest of his life.
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  16. #116
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  17. #117
    Senior Member sandra's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Fidelitas View Post

    Thanks for all the beautiful poems!!
    you are welcome...........
    Όλα είναι εδώ όπως ήταν παλιά
    αγκαλιές και φιλιά όλα είναι εδώ
    Όλα είναι εδώ κι είναι τόσα πολλά
    που μιλούν στην καρδιά όλα είναι εδώ

  18. #118
    Junior Member Demos's Avatar
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    Güzel siirler için teşekkürler Sandra

  19. #119
    Member uboika's Avatar
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    love this poem)

    Τα γράμματά σου

    Τα γράμματά σου τα 'χω, αγάπη πρώτη,
    σε ατίμητο κουτί, μες στην καρδιά μου.
    Τα γράμματά σου πνέουνε σου τη νιότη
    κι ανθίζουνε την όψιμη χαρά μου.

    Τα γράμματά σου, πόσα μου μιλούνε
    με τις στραβές γραμμές και τα λαθάκια!
    Τρέμουν, γελάνε, κλαίνε, ανιστορούνε
    παιχνίδισμα τη ζούλια και την κακία…

    Το μύρο στους φακέλους που είχες ραντίσει,
    του Καιρού δεν το σβήσανε τα χνότα.
    Παρόμοια ας ήταν να μην είχε σβήσει
    η απονιά σου τα ονείρατα τα πρώτα!

    Τα γράμματά σου πάνε, Αγάπη μόνη,
    βάρκες λευκές, τη σκέψη μου εκεί κάτου.
    Τα γράμματά σου τάφοι· δεν τελειώνει
    απάνω τους η λέξη του Θανάτου.

  20. #120
    Junior Member Demos's Avatar
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    It's soooo beautiful Thank you

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