ΚΩΣΤΗΣ ΠΑΛΑΜΑΣ "Μολωχ"

Τῶν Ἑλλήνων τὴν πατρίδα
βάρβαροι τὴν ἀτιμάζουν!
Ὅπου ἀνθοπετοῦσαν οἱ Ἔρωτες
παραδέρνει ἡ νυχτερίδα.
Στὴ νυχτιά μας μιὰ πυγολαμπίδα,
τῶν ἀρχαίων ἡ μνήμη, ψευτοφέγγει
κ᾿ εἶναι μιὰ νυχτιὰ ποὺ δὲν τὴ διώχνεις,
τοῦ παντοτινοῦ μας ἥλιου ἀχτίδα!
Καὶ πατρίδα καὶ ψυχὴ ρουφᾶν
βάρβαροι ἀπὸ βάθη καὶ ἀπὸ ὕψη.
Κι ὅταν, μ᾿ ἕνα τρίσβαθο ὤχ!
τῶν Ἑλλήνων θεέ, ρωτοῦμε σέ:
«Εἶσ᾿ ἐσὺ ὁ ξανθὸς Ἀπόλλωνας;»
Ἀποκρίνεσαι:-«Εἶμ᾿ ἐγὼ ὁ Μολώχ!»

Friedrich Nietzsche "Dem Unbekannten Gotte" Poem animation

Friedrich Nietzsche

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.

"Το οικειο μου ονειρο" Πωλ Βερλαιν

Συχνα εχω τουτο το παραξενο και διαπεραστικο
ονειρο μιας γυναικας αγνωστης
που αγαπω και μ'αγαπα

"Anacreon's Grave" Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Here where the roses blossom, where vines round the laurels are twining,
Where the turtle-dove calls, where the blithe cricket is heard,
Say, whose grave can this be, with life by all the Immortals

Beauteously planted and deck'd?--Here doth Anacreon sleep
Spring and summer and autumn rejoiced the thrice-happy minstrel,
And from the winter this mound kindly hath screen'd him at last.

"A Sunset" by Victor Marie Hugo

I love the evenings, passionless and fair, I love the evens,
Whether old manor-fronts their ray with golden fulgence leavens,
In numerous leafage bosomed close;
Whether the mist in reefs of fire extend its reaches sheer,
Or a hundred sunbeams splinter in an azure atmosphere
On cloudy archipelagos.

Oh, gaze ye on the firmament! a hundred clouds in motion,
Up-piled in the immense sublime beneath the winds' commotion,
Their unimagined shapes accord:
Under their waves at intervals flame a pale levin through,
As if some giant of the air amid the vapors drew
A sudden elemental sword.

The sun at bay with splendid thrusts still keeps the sullen fold;
And momently at distance sets, as a cupola of gold,
The thatched roof of a cot a-glance;
Or on the blurred horizon joins his battle with the haze;
Or pools the blooming fields about with inter-isolate blaze,
Great moveless meres of radiance.

Then mark you how there hangs athwart the firmament's swept track,
Yonder a mighty crocodile with vast irradiant back,
A triple row of pointed teeth?
Under its burnished belly slips a ray of eventide,
The flickerings of a hundred glowing clouds in tenebrous side
With scales of golden mail ensheathe.

Then mounts a palace, then the air vibrates--the vision flees.
Confounded to its base, the fearful cloudy edifice
Ruins immense in mounded wrack;
Afar the fragments strew the sky, and each envermeiled cone
Hangeth, peak downward, overhead, like mountains overthrown
When the earthquake heaves its hugy back.

These vapors, with their leaden, golden, iron, bronzèd glows,
Where the hurricane, the waterspout, thunder, and hell repose,
Muttering hoarse dreams of destined harms,--
'Tis God who hangs their multitude amid the skiey deep,
As a warrior that suspendeth from the roof-tree of his keep
His dreadful and resounding arms!

All vanishes! The Sun, from topmost heaven precipitated,
Like a globe of iron which is tossed back fiery red
Into the furnace stirred to fume,
Shocking the cloudy surges, plashed from its impetuous ire,
Even to the zenith spattereth in a flecking scud of fire
The vaporous and inflamèd spaume.

O contemplate the heavens! Whenas the vein-drawn day dies pale,
In every season, every place, gaze through their every veil?
With love that has not speech for need!
Beneath their solemn beauty is a mystery infinite:
If winter hue them like a pall, or if the summer night
Fantasy them starre brede.

A Poison Tree

"ΙΔΑΝΙΚΟΙ ΑΥΤΟΧΕΙΡΕΣ" Κώστας Καρυωτάκης

Γυρίζουν τὸ κλειδὶ στὴν πόρτα, παίρνουν
τὰ παλιά, φυλαγμένα γράμματά τους,
διαβάζουν ἥσυχα, κι ἔπειτα σέρνουν
γιὰ τελευταία φορὰ τὰ βήματά τους.
Ἦταν ἡ ζωή τους, λένε, τραγῳδία.
Θεέ μου, τὸ φρικτὸ γέλιο τῶν ἀνθρώπων,
τὰ δάκρυα, ὁ ἵδρως, ἡ νοσταλγία
τῶν οὐρανῶν, ἡ ἐρημιὰ τῶν τόπων.
Στέκονται στὸ παράθυρο, κοιτᾶνε
τὰ δέντρα, τὰ παιδιά, πέρα τὴ φύση,
τοὺς μαρμαράδες ποὺ σφυροκοπᾶνε,
τὸν ἥλιο ποὺ γιὰ πάντα θέλει δύσει.
Ὅλα τελείωσαν. Τὸ σημείωμα νά το,
σύντομο, ἁπλό, βαθύ, καθὼς ταιριάζει,
ἀδιαφορία, συγχώρηση γεμάτο
γιὰ κεῖνον ποὺ θὰ κλαίει καὶ θὰ διαβάζει.
Βλέπουν τὸν καθρέφτη, βλέπουν τὴν ὥρα,
ρωτοῦν ἂν εἶναι τρέλα τάχα ἢ λάθος,
«ὅλα τελείωσαν» ψιθυρίζουν «τώρα»,
πὼς θ᾿ ἀναβάλουν βέβαιοι κατὰ βάθος.

"Love lies sleeping" by Elizabeth Bishop

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare

down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see

an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,

reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass

from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)

The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.

(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling

on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes

throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.

I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:

queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,

so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,

for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of

the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.

"H βασίλισσα" Πάμπλο Νερούδα

Σε ονόμασα βασίλισσα.
Υπάρχουν πιο ψηλές από σένα, πιο ψηλές.
Υπάρχουν πιο αγνές από σένα, πιο αγνές.
Υπάρχουν πιο ωραίες από σένα, υπάρχουν ωραιότερες.
Όμως εσύ είσαι η βασίλισσα. 
Όταν περπατάς στου δρόμους κανένας δε σε αναγνωρίζει. 
Κανείς δε βλέπει το κρυστάλλινο στέμμα σου,
κανένας δε κοιτά το χαλί από κόκκινο χρυσάφι που πατάς όταν περνάς, το χαλί που δεν υπάρχει.
Κι όταν φανείς
αντηχούν όλα τα ποτάμια
στο κορμί μου
σείουν τον ουρανό οι καμπάνες
κι ένας ύμνος γεμίζει τον κόσμο.
Μόνο εσύ κι εγώ,
εσύ κι εγώ αγάπη μου, τον ακούμε.

"Κακοι οιωνοι" Γιουκιο Μισιμα

Καθως στεκομουν στο παραθυρο μου
Περιμενα καθε βραδυ
παραξενα συμβαντα.
Ειχα το νου μου σε κακους οιωνους
Μια αμμοθυελλα που ορμα απο το δρομο
Ενα ουρανιο τοξο τη νυχτα.

"Μην μου ξυπνάς την λύπη μέσα μου" William Shakespeare

                                                        Μην δίνεις τόσο εύκολα!

                                       Δεν έχω θυμό μέσα μου! Δεν έχω έχθρα για κανέναν!      

                                                Όμως μέσα μου κοιμάται μια λύπη!

                           Πρόσεχε μην μου την ξυπνάς! Κι η λύπη όταν την ξυπνάς γίνεται θάνατος!

                  Μη μου ξυπνάς τη λύπη μέσα μου Άστη να κοιμηθεί, να γαληνέψει και να
                                                                   ξεχαστει.  

                                        Θα “θελα να μπορούσα να θυμώσω και να φωνάξω.

                                                 Να ξεσπάσω, να κλάψω, να εκδικηθώ.

                                          Μόνο που τίποτα από αυτά δεν θέλω να κάνω.

                                       Το μόνο που θέλω είναι να κοιμήσω την λύπη μου.
                                                Να την κοιμήσω και να την ξεχάσω.

                                              Όπως κάνω ότι ξεχνώ τόσα πράγματα.

                                                           Κι ας μην τα ξεχνώ.

                                                       Σε θυμάμαι να μου λες,

                                              πως πρέπει στον εχθρό να χαμογελώ,

                                                       γιατί έτσι τον πανικοβάλω.

                                              Σου χαμογελώ και σε κοιτώ στα μάτια.

                          Τώρα πια, ξέρω, τα ψέματα πίσω από τις καλά κρυμμένες αλήθειες σου.

                                                              Είναι όλα ξεκάθαρα πια.

                                       Χάθηκε η ομίχλη, διαλύθηκαν τα σύννεφα κι η ομορφιά

                                                      και η ασχήμια μας κοιτούν κατάματα.

                                           Μην μου ξυπνάς αυτά που αφήνω να κοιμούνται.

                                                   Είναι επιλογή να κάνω τoν χαζo.

                                             Κι ίσως είναι η σοφότερη επιλογή απ” όλες.

"Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.'