"Bright Star" by John Keats

Bright star, would i were steadfast as thou art -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.

"RHAPSODY ON A WINDY NIGHT" by T.S.Eliot

WELVE o'clock.

Along the reaches of the street

Held in a lunar synthesis,

Whispering lunar incantations

Dissolve the floors of memory

And all its clear relations,

Its divisions and precisions,

Every street lamp that I pass

Beats like a fatalistic drum,

And through the spaces of the dark

Midnight shakes the memory

As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

 

Half-past one,

The street lamp sputtered,

The street lamp muttered,

The street lamp said, "Regard that woman

Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door

Which opens on her like a grin.

You see the border of her dress

Is torn and stained with sand,

And you see the corner of her eye

Twists like a crooked pin."

 

The memory throws up high and dry

A crowd of twisted things;

A twisted branch upon the beach

Eaten smooth, and polished

As if the world gave up

The secret of its skeleton,

Stiff and white.

A broken spring in a factory yard,

Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left

Hard and curled and ready to snap.

 

Half-past two,

The street lamp said,

"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,

Slips out its tongue

And devours a morsel of rancid butter."

So the hand of a child, automatic,

Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.

I could see nothing behind that child's eye.

I have seen eyes in the street

Trying to peer through lighted shutters,

And a crab one afternoon in a pool,

An old crab with barnacles on his back,

Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

 

Half-past three,

The lamp sputtered,

The lamp muttered in the dark.

 

The lamp hummed:

"Regard the moon,

La lune ne garde aucune rancune,

She winks a feeble eye,

She smiles into corners.

She smoothes the hair of the grass.

The moon has lost her memory.

A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,

Her hand twists a paper rose,

That smells of dust and old Cologne,

She is alone

With all the old nocturnal smells

That cross and cross across her brain."

The reminiscence comes

Of sunless dry geraniums

And dust in crevices,

Smells of chestnuts in the streets,

And female smells in shuttered rooms,

And cigarettes in corridors

And cocktail smells in bars."

 

The lamp said,

"Four o'clock,

Here is the number on the door.

Memory!

You have the key,

The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,

Mount.

The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,

Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

 

The last twist of the knife.

Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/e/rhapsody_on_a_windy_night.html#Ov02YS0pKgEVzsCZ.99

Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.

The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

" “I LIVED THE BELOVED NAME...” by Odysseus Elytis

I lived the beloved name
In the shade of the aged olive tree
In the roaring of the lifelong sea

Those who stoned me live no longer
With their stones I built a fountain
To its brink green girls come
Their lips descend from the dawn
Their hair unwinds far into the future

Swallows come, infants of the wind
They drink, they fly, so that life goes on
The threat of the dream becomes a dream
Pain rounds the good cape
No voice is lost in the breast of the sky

O deathless sea, tell what you are whispering
I reach your morning mouth early
On the peak where your love appears
I see the will of the night spilling stars
The will of the day nipping the earth’s shoots

I saw a thousand wild lilies on the meadows of life
A thousand children in the true wind
Beautiful strong children who breathe out kindness
And know how to gaze at the deep horizons
When music raises the islands

I carved the beloved name
In the shade of the aged olive tree
In the roaring of the lifelong sea.

"Spleen" Τ.Μπωντλαιρ

Είμαι σαν κάποιο βασιλιά σε μια σκοτεινή χώρα,

πλούσιον, αλλά χωρίς ισχύ, νέον, αλλά από τώρα

γέρο, που τους παιδαγωγούς φεύγει, περιφρονεί,

και την ανία του να διώξει ματαιοπονεί

μ’ όσες μπαλάντες απαγγέλει ο γελωτοποιός του.

Τίποτε δε φαιδρύνει πια το μέτωπο του αρρώστου,

ούτε οι κυρίες ημίγυμνες, που είν’ έτοιμες να πουν,

αν το θελήσει, πως πολύ πολύ τον αγαπούν,

ούτε η αγέλη των σκυλιών, οι ιέρακες, το κυνήγι,

ούτε ο λαός. Προστρέχοντας, η πόρτα όταν ανοίγει.

Γίνεται μνήμα το βαρύ κρεβάτι του, κι αυτός,

χωρίς ένα χαμόγελο, σέρνεται σκελετός.

Χρυσάφι κι αν του φτιάχνουν οι σοφοί, δε θα μπορέσουν

το σαπισμένο τού είναι του στοιχείο ν’ αφαιρέσουν,

και με τα αιμάτινα λουτρά, τέχνη ρωμαϊκή,

ιδιοτροπία των ισχυρών τότε γεροντική,

να δώσουνε θερμότητα σ' αυτό το πτώμα που έχει

μόνο της Λήθης το νερό στις φλέβες του και τρέχει.

"Δεν είν’ νεκρό..." Χάουαρντ Φίλιπς Λάβκραφτ

” Δεν είν’ νεκρό εκείνο
που αιώνια μπορεί να περιμένει.
Μα με το διάβα των παράξενων αιώνων
ως κι ο θάνατος μπορεί να πεθαίνει ”

"Tamerlane" by E.A.POE

Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme-
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in-
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope- that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope- Oh God! I can-
Its fount is holier- more divine-
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again-
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness- a knell.

I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won usurpingly-
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar- this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.

On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven- that dew- it fell
(Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy,
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!- was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!

The rain came down upon my head
Unshelter'd- and the heavy wind
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rush-
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires- with the captive's prayer-
The hum of suitors- and the tone
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp'd a tyranny which men
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,
My innate nature- be it so:
But father, there liv'd one who, then,
Then- in my boyhood- when their fire
Burn'd with a still intenser glow,
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E'en then who knew this iron heart
In woman's weakness had a part.

I have no words- alas!- to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Are- shadows on th' unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters- with their meaning- melt
To fantasies- with none.

O, she was worthy of all love!
Love- as in infancy was mine-
'Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense- then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and upright-
Pure- as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age- and love- together,
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather-
And when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven- but in her eyes.

Young Love's first lesson is- the heart:
For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears-
There was no need to speak the rest-
No need to quiet any fears
Of her- who ask'd no reason why,
But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone-
I had no being- but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth- the air- the sea-
Its joy- its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure- the ideal,
Dim vanities of dreams by night-

And dimmer nothings which were real-
(Shadows- and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image, and- a name- a name!
Two separate- yet most intimate things.

I was ambitious- have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I mark'd a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmur'd at such lowly lot-
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapour of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute- the hour- the day- oppress
My mind with double loveliness.

We walk'd together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look'd down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills-
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,
And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically- in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelessly-
A mingled feeling with my own-
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,
And donn'd a visionary crown-
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me-
But that, among the rabble- men,
Lion ambition is chained down-
And crouches to a keeper's hand-
Not so in deserts where the grand-
The wild- the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling- her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throne-
And who her sovereign? Timour- he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diadem'd outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birth-
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly-
And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.

What tho' the moon- the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one-
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown-
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty- which is all.

I reach'd my home- my home no more
For all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known-
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart- a deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe-
I know- for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity-
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path-
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun- no tiniest fly-
The lightning of his eagle eye-
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?

"Αὐτὸ τὸ ἀστέρι εἶναι γιὰ ὅλους μας" Τασος Λειβαδιτης

Θά ῾θελᾳ νὰ φωνάξω τ᾿ ὄνομά σου, ἀγάπη, μ᾿ ὅλη μου τὴν δύναμη.
Νὰ τ᾿ ἀκούσουν οἱ χτίστες ἀπ᾿ τὶς σκαλωσιὲς καὶ νὰ φιλιοῦνται μὲ τὸν ἥλιο
νὰ τὸ μάθουν στὰ καράβια οἱ θερμαστὲς καὶ ν᾿ ἀνασάνουν ὅλα τὰ τριαντάφυλλα
νὰ τ᾿ ἀκούσει ἡ ἄνοιξη καὶ νά ῾ρχεται πιὸ γρήγορα
νὰ τὸ μάθουν τὰ παιδιὰ γιὰ νὰ μὴν φοβοῦνται τὸ σκοτάδι,
νὰ τὸ λένε τὰ καλάμια στὶς ἀκροποταμιές, τὰ τρυγόνια πάνω στοὺς φράχτες
νὰ τ᾿ ἀκούσουν οἱ πρωτεύουσες τοῦ κόσμου καὶ νὰ τὸ ξαναποῦνε μ ὅλες τὶς καμπάνες τους
νὰ τὸ κουβεντιάζουνε τὰ βράδια οἱ πλύστρες χαϊδεύοντας τὰ πρησμένα χέρια τους.
Νὰ τὸ φωνάξω τόσο δυνατὰ
ποὺ νὰ μὴν ξανακοιμηθεῖ κανένα ὄνειρο στὸν κόσμο
καμιὰ ἐλπίδα πιὰ νὰ μὴν πεθάνει.
Νὰ τ᾿ ἀκούσει ὁ χρόνος καὶ νὰ μὴν σ᾿ ἀγγίξει, ἀγάπη μου, ποτέ.

The Ascension of the Vision (Held Captive in Water) by Sarah Angelise

In dream you saw me arise
My heart alight
Evaporating into the perfect powder pearl blue skies
Escaping the bed of darkening night
that awaited the heaviness of my dress

Beneath the bow and branches of the willow tree
you found the mirror of me

As the River of truth washed over my body
in a rush of trickling tears
The hours sank like anchored notes of sorrow
forever tying me to that bank
And with each current of heartbeats another part of us sank

And as the rain of your thoughts fell upon my watery grave
You gathered all the flowers that were laid upon me
and tied them into a wreath
From violets now to poppies
Gifting me a halo of beauty
as you felt it now your duty
to hide the horror beneath your grief
of my soul ascending from water
now cold, dark and deep
From the virtues of violets to the blood of the poppies

"A wolf" by Jorge Luis Borges

"Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

      The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

      Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

      And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

      And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

      He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

      He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Ωρες" (Απόσπασμα από ''Αόρατους Ονειροδιαβάτες'' Κωνσταντινα Θεοδωροπουλου

Οι ώρες δεν περνούν. Είναι πρωί και είμαι ξάγρυπνη από ποια ώρα, δεν θυμάμαι! Με κατακλύζει εκείνο το γνώριμο σκοτάδι . Εκείνο που μιλά μόνο με πικραμένες αλήθειες.
Φταίω που έπεσα νωρίς για ύπνο. Τινάχτηκα με το κάλεσμα και πέταξα τα βαριά καλύμματα . Με μία παλιά μακριά λευκή νυκτικιά, βάδισα σιωπηλά και άνοιξα την πύλη.
Με τύφλωσε το φώς. Και αντίκρισα την μελωδία. Όσο το πλησίαζα, τόσο απομακρυνόμουν από τα ζεστά. Και σαν ένιωσα ένα χέρι στην πλάτη , γύρισα να το χαϊδέψω . Εκείνο με έσπρωξε με δύναμη , και έπεσα από το γκρεμό. Ένιωθα πως έπεφτα ώρες…

"Μου θυμιζεις την θαλασσα εντος μου..." Γιαννης Μαυροματιδης

Καθε φορα που αφηνω το βλεμμα μου,
ν' απλωθει στο απεραντο της θαλασσας εντος μου
Τα παντα πανω της,μεσα της,παντου ολογυρα της
μου θυμιζουν εσενα.
Οι εναλλασσομενες μπλε και πρασινες αποχρωσεις της
μου θυμιζουν τα χρωματα των δικων σου ματιων.
Ρουφω απληστα την καθαρια,αναζωογονητικη αυρα της,
οπως την δροσερη αναπνοη σου καθε φορα που γευομαι τα φιλια σου.
Κι οταν βυθιζομαι μες στο βαθυγαλαζο της
και παρασυρομαι ηδονικα στην ρευστη απεραντοσυνη της,
καιγεται ολο μου το "Ειναι" και μονο στην σκεψη,
οτι ετσι "χανομαι" εκεινες τις μοναδικες στιγμες που κανω ερωτα μαζι σου...

"A Dream of death" William Butler Yeats

I dreamed that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand,
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
Wondering to lay her in that solitude,
And raised above her mound
A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,
And planted cypress round;
And left her to the indifferent stars above
Until i carved these words:
i{She was more beautiful than thy first love,}
i{But now lies under boards.}

"Το ταξιδι μου μεσα σου" Γιαννης Μαυροματιδης

 Ποιο κλειδι,ποιος χαρτης,ποιο μυστικο θα μου δειξουν τον δρομο και τον τροπο. 
 Να μπορεσω διασχισω τις τοξοτες γεφυρες των φρυδιων σου και να εισχωρησω σαν προσκυνητης   στο συμπαν της μοναδικης ομορφιας σου;
 Να διασχισω τις βαθιες λιμνες των βιολετιων ματιων σου, να ξεδιψασω με την υγρη μελαγχολια τους την φωτια που καει ακαταπαυστα μεσα μου.
 Να ανοιξω τα χειλη σου σαν ωριμο συκο και να γευτω την σαρκωδη γλυκα τους.
 Και να συνεχισω πιο κατω,με σιγουρα βηματα πανω στο βαθυ σου στερνο,
 που θα μ' οδηγησουν στο λειο,χιονολευκο στηθος σου.
 Εκει που ρεουν δυο ροδοχρωμοι κρουνοι με το μελι και το γαλα που τρεφονται οι σκοτεινοι Θεοι του ερωτα.
 Ν' ακολουθησω τ'απατητα μονοπατια που σχηματιζουν τις καμπυλες του κορμιου σου,
 ν' αφησω τα απροσεκτα χναρια μου πανω στην σκονη που εμεινε απο το παρελθον  που περασε,
 να χαραξω παντου τα σημαδια μου,να σπειρω τους θλιμενους αναστεναγμους μου και να φυτρωσουν αγκαθωτα,κοκκινα σαν το αιμα τριανταφυλλα.
 Και καποια στιγμη,μια μαγικη στιγμη,εκεινη την μοναδικη στιγμη να σταθω μπροστα στο αδυτο που κρυβεις τους πιο ανομολογητους ποθους σου.
 Εκει που κυλαει απο μεσα σου το λαμπερο ποταμι ολων οσων λιωνει με την λαβα της η φωτια που καει μεσα στην ψυχη σου.
 Εκει θα σταθω,εκει θα τελειωσει το ταξιδι μου, εκει θ' αρχισει κατι αλλο,κατι που ουτε να το φανταστω μπορω....