I know we’re living through all the dark we can afford.
I’ll match your inward quiet, breath for breath.
Thank goodness, then, for this moment’s light
What else do we have but words and their absences
and you, holding the night at bay
– a hint of frown,
those focussed hands, that open book.
to bind and unfasten the knotwork of the heart;
to remind us how mutual and alone we are, how tiny
and significant? Whatever it is you are reading now
my love, read on. Our lives depend on it.
Νὰ βρεῖς μίαν ἄλλη θάλασσα μίαν ἄλλη ἁπαλοσύνη
Νὰ πιάσεις ἀπὸ τὰ λουριὰ τοῦ Ἀχιλλέα τ᾿ ἄλογα
Ἀντὶ νὰ κάθεσαι βουβὴ τὸν ποταμὸ νὰ μαλώνεις
Τὸν ποταμὸ νὰ λιθοβολεῖς…
– Νίκος Γκάτσος – Ἀμοργός
Της δόξας λάμπει γαλανό το φως στη χώρα
γελούν οι κάμποι, τραγουδούνε τα νερά
γιγάντων ίσκιοι ηρωικοί ξυπνήστε τώρα
στου λυτρωμού τη χρονογύριστη χαρά.
Το σάλπισμα μας πιο τρανό ας αντηχήσει
κι απ’ το γλυκό της Άγιας Λαύρας ορθρινό
πλατιά ‘ναι η γη μας και το χώμα όπου κι ανθίσει
μια λευτεριά μοσχοβολάει ώς τον ουρανό.
Κι όλα τα χέρια ας υψωθούν αντρειωμένα
που ‘χουν τα σίδερα συντρίψει τα βαριά
να στήσουν τρόπαια λαμπρά στο εικοσιένα
να θρονιαστεί η Ελληνοπούλα η λευτεριά.
Στέλιος Σπεράντσας
8:15 a.m. on August 6, 1945,
a very clear morning.
The mother preparing her baby’s milk,
the old man watering his potted plants,
the old woman offering flowers at her Buddhist altar,
the young boy eating breakfast,
the father starting work at his company,
the thousands walking to work on the street,
all died.
Not knowing an atomic bomb would be dropped,
they lived as usual.
Suddenly, a flash.
“Ah ~
Just as they saw it,
people in houses were shoved over and smashed.
People walking on streets were blown away.
People were burned-faces, arms, legs-all over.
People were killed, all over
the city of Hiroshima
by a single bomb.
Those who died.
A hundred? No. A thousand? No. Ten thousand?
No, many, many more than that.
More people than we can count
died, speechless,
knowing nothing.
Others suffered terrible burns,
horrific injuries.
Some were thrown so hard
their stomachs ripped open,
their spines broke.
Whole bodies filled with glass shards.
Clothes disappeared,
burned and tattered.
Fires came right after the explosion.
Hiroshima engulfed in flames.
Everyone fleeing, not knowing where
they were or where to go.
Everyone barefoot,
crying tears of anger and grief,
hair sticking up, looking like Ashura,
they ran on broken glass, smashed roofs
along a long, wide road of fire.
Blood flowed.
Burned skin peeled and dangled.
Whirlwinds of fire raged here and there.
Hundreds, thousands of fire balls
30-centimeters across
whirled right at us.
It was hard to breathe in the flames,
hard to see in the smoke.
What will become of us?
Those who survived, injured and burned,
shouted, “Help! Help!” at the top of their lungs.
One woman walking on the road
died and then
her fingers burned,
a blue flame shortening them like candles,
a gray liquid trickling down her palms
and dripping to the ground.
Whose fingers were those?
More than 50 years later,
I remember that blue flame,
and my heart nearly bursts
with sorrow.
by Akiko Takakura, surviror of the bomb
oh my love,
my fair sweet love.
how i miss your tender kisses,
each one reminding me of a reason i love you.
i look in your eyes,
and see the diamonds of your soul sparkle.
is it really i that shines the light over them,
i feel so fortunate to have found such beauty.
for the journey has been long and fruitless,
till now my love.
for when i feel your breath upon my neck,
my heart beats like a humming birds wings,
for without you i would be,
like a bee without a flower,
a lark without a song,
so say youll be back soon my love,
and our love forever strong.
– Christopher Murphy
Ποτέ δε θα πειράξω
τα ζώα τα καημένα·
μην τάχα σαν εμένα,
κι εκείνα δεν πονούν;
Θα τα χαϊδεύω πάντα,
προστάτης τους θα γίνω.
Ποτέ δεν θα τ’ αφήνω
στους δρόμους να πεινούν.
Aν δεν μιλούν κι εκείνα
κι ο λόγος αν τους λείπει,
μήπως δεν νιώθουν λύπη,
δεν νιώθουν και χαρά;
Μήπως καρδιά δεν έχουν,
στα στήθη τους κρυμμένη,
που τη χαρά προσμένει
κι αγάπη λαχταρά;
Aκόμα κι όταν βλέπω
πως τα παιδεύουν άλλοι,
εγώ θα τρέχω πάλι
με θάρρος σταθερό,
θα προσπαθώ με χάδια
τον πόνο τους να γιάνω,
κι ό,τι μπορώ θα κάνω
να τα παρηγορώ.
Ιωάννης Πολέμης (από το βιβλίο: Πρώτα βήματα, Σύλλογος προς Διάδοσιν Ωφελίμων Bιβλίων, 1904)
Διαβάτη, στάσου προσοχή:
δω χάμω κείτονται νεκροί
που δεν επρόδωσαν ποτέ,
ποτέ δεν είπαν ψέματα,
τύραννο δεν προσκύνησαν.
Διαβάτη, στάσου προσοχή
και μ’ άξιο νου μελέτα τους,
τι αν χαίρεσαι τ’ ωραίο φως
κι αν όλο θάρρος περπατάς
κι αν σ’ αγαπάνε κι αγαπάς
κι ό,τι καλό ‘χεις στη ζωή
στο χάρισαν τούτ’ οι νεκροί!
Διαβάτη στάσου προσοχή
και μ’ άξιο νου μελέτα τους!
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
outsidetheegg.wordpress.com 