Yannis Ritsos
So? — he said — is our pride (if there is any?) to be based
on the mistakes of others and not upon our own virtues? —
what justification? Ah dear teacher, how well we were acquainted
with your act: justice, freedom. And that otherworldly smile
of yours (or so we referred to it) — when the doors opened and the crowd poured out.
They ran close behind you, cheering, leaving their house open
to the sun, the wind, the thieves. And when, the following night,
the thirteenth man lifted his glass, we finally realized
it had all been prearranged. The dead lay in their beds,
and beneath the beds, your cardboard shoes —
red, majestic, with small mirrors glued all over them.
June 6, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
Friday, November 14, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
The Bell
Yannis Ritsos
Who hung this black bell (and when?) directly above the table
from the center of the ceiling? — was it months ago? — years ago?
Bent over our plates we hadn't noticed. We had never raised
our heads, not even a little — why should we have? But now
we know — it's there, immovable. Who was the first to see it? Who told us about its presence,
since we never spoke of it? Perhaps, one night,
as we drained the last drop of wine from our cup, our eye
caught a glimpse through the cloudy glass. Immediately
we bent our heads back down, farther than before. Hungry or not, we ate, expecting
the bell to be struck at any moment by some giant and invisible hand —
nine or twelve times, maybe only once, but boundlessly and undisciplined,
and we kept track of the numbers within, lest we grew too fond of its ringing.
June 14, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
Who hung this black bell (and when?) directly above the table
from the center of the ceiling? — was it months ago? — years ago?
Bent over our plates we hadn't noticed. We had never raised
our heads, not even a little — why should we have? But now
we know — it's there, immovable. Who was the first to see it? Who told us about its presence,
since we never spoke of it? Perhaps, one night,
as we drained the last drop of wine from our cup, our eye
caught a glimpse through the cloudy glass. Immediately
we bent our heads back down, farther than before. Hungry or not, we ate, expecting
the bell to be struck at any moment by some giant and invisible hand —
nine or twelve times, maybe only once, but boundlessly and undisciplined,
and we kept track of the numbers within, lest we grew too fond of its ringing.
June 14, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
Nonetheless
Yannis Ritsos
So much time had passed. What we had brought with us from home
had holes, wore out, broke.
The sound of a door slamming on a sunlit day,
the voice that asked in the hallway, "How long will you be gone?"
the ivory comb a woman ran through her hair in front of a mirror,
the cigarette we shared by the window one spring evening
reaching for the tail of the Little Bear constellation,
the shadow of two hands beneath the lamp, falling between two plates of fruit —
we brought so many things with us in our bags —
the white socks worn one summer at the beach,
the white pants and athletic vest that made the torso of April look sharp,
the little pair of scissors our sister used to trim her nails on the window ledge,
and even the refracted light that trembled upon her cheeks and her hands.
Everything frayed, fell to pieces, wore out.
The scissors rusted. Their points broke off.
They looked like a dead swallow when laid upon the stone
beside the razor and the sea foam.
We hardly took notice, trimming our nails and our callous.
They were like a rusted key, no longer needed because the locks were broken.
We carried our belongings with us in our bags and suitcases.
Everything had holes, wore out. Not one thing was spared.
Nonetheless, now and then, when evening arrived
and the Little Bear, its lights hanging at the end of the prison tent,
dug its shallow den into the dry ground with its claws,
Petros or Basilis or old Antonis
rumaged through their bags, searching for a lost cup or spoon,
their hands moved slower and slower until they forgot what they were searching for
and the air encircled them motionless like olives in a jar
and the silence was audible like a millstone grinding water.
Then suddenly, we heard long forgotten sounds —
as if the scissors were cutting paper for gifts on Christmas eve,
as if the ivory comb was running through a woman's hair,
as if the toe nail we held up was a cigarette
we were offering to share with the moon.
We suspected there still might be hidden, deep in our suitcases,
beneath unwashed shirts and socks full of holes,
an embroidered towel from our far away, quiet homes
with the shadows of our beloved's hands upon it like two dried grape leaves.
It was very strange. And we wanted to cry.
from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 295-296]
So much time had passed. What we had brought with us from home
had holes, wore out, broke.
The sound of a door slamming on a sunlit day,
the voice that asked in the hallway, "How long will you be gone?"
the ivory comb a woman ran through her hair in front of a mirror,
the cigarette we shared by the window one spring evening
reaching for the tail of the Little Bear constellation,
the shadow of two hands beneath the lamp, falling between two plates of fruit —
we brought so many things with us in our bags —
the white socks worn one summer at the beach,
the white pants and athletic vest that made the torso of April look sharp,
the little pair of scissors our sister used to trim her nails on the window ledge,
and even the refracted light that trembled upon her cheeks and her hands.
Everything frayed, fell to pieces, wore out.
The scissors rusted. Their points broke off.
They looked like a dead swallow when laid upon the stone
beside the razor and the sea foam.
We hardly took notice, trimming our nails and our callous.
They were like a rusted key, no longer needed because the locks were broken.
We carried our belongings with us in our bags and suitcases.
Everything had holes, wore out. Not one thing was spared.
Nonetheless, now and then, when evening arrived
and the Little Bear, its lights hanging at the end of the prison tent,
dug its shallow den into the dry ground with its claws,
Petros or Basilis or old Antonis
rumaged through their bags, searching for a lost cup or spoon,
their hands moved slower and slower until they forgot what they were searching for
and the air encircled them motionless like olives in a jar
and the silence was audible like a millstone grinding water.
Then suddenly, we heard long forgotten sounds —
as if the scissors were cutting paper for gifts on Christmas eve,
as if the ivory comb was running through a woman's hair,
as if the toe nail we held up was a cigarette
we were offering to share with the moon.
We suspected there still might be hidden, deep in our suitcases,
beneath unwashed shirts and socks full of holes,
an embroidered towel from our far away, quiet homes
with the shadows of our beloved's hands upon it like two dried grape leaves.
It was very strange. And we wanted to cry.
from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 295-296]
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Common Fate
Yannis Ritsos
From one rented room to another — a suitcase,
a table, a very old bed, a chair;
the straw mattress stained by bed bugs and by sperm.
No one had a house of their own — everyone was constantly moving.
Our common fate — he says — it's reassuring. Just like this tree,
stationary, calm, blossoming, in a world of its own;
completely preoccupied with its flowering — it looks at nothing —
reflected in the large, inexplicable, glass door.
June 14, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
From one rented room to another — a suitcase,
a table, a very old bed, a chair;
the straw mattress stained by bed bugs and by sperm.
No one had a house of their own — everyone was constantly moving.
Our common fate — he says — it's reassuring. Just like this tree,
stationary, calm, blossoming, in a world of its own;
completely preoccupied with its flowering — it looks at nothing —
reflected in the large, inexplicable, glass door.
June 14, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
Midnight
Yannis Ritsos
Dressed in black and the ethereal — her footsteps went unheard.
She walked through the portico. No lights on. As she climbed
the stone steps, they shouted, "Halt!" Her face
a white mist in the darkness. Beneath her apron,
she was hiding a violin. "Who's there!" She didn't speak.
She stopped dead; hands raised, with that violin
clutched between her knees. She was smiling.
June 15, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
Dressed in black and the ethereal — her footsteps went unheard.
She walked through the portico. No lights on. As she climbed
the stone steps, they shouted, "Halt!" Her face
a white mist in the darkness. Beneath her apron,
she was hiding a violin. "Who's there!" She didn't speak.
She stopped dead; hands raised, with that violin
clutched between her knees. She was smiling.
June 15, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
The Crab
Yannis Ritsos
And all at once everything scuttled off — shapes, trees, the sea,
events, facts, poetry — far off, very far off,
to a distant shore — he could both see and not see them. Would they
leave and abandon him like this? Immovable, death
dwelt with him, to the edge of his toe nails. At night
he heard the huge, immovable one within him. Always there,
before sleep and after waking, it went on
brushing his teeth with the old, shedding brush,
displaying the last smile — clean, white, certain.
July 27, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
And all at once everything scuttled off — shapes, trees, the sea,
events, facts, poetry — far off, very far off,
to a distant shore — he could both see and not see them. Would they
leave and abandon him like this? Immovable, death
dwelt with him, to the edge of his toe nails. At night
he heard the huge, immovable one within him. Always there,
before sleep and after waking, it went on
brushing his teeth with the old, shedding brush,
displaying the last smile — clean, white, certain.
July 27, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
The Hands of Comrades
Yannis Ritsos
Our hands remained bare.
Our hands were scraped a thousand times
upon the unshaven jaw of the wind,
a thousand times they caught on the barbed-wire,
a thousand times they brushed up against
the icy railings of Death.
Our hands grew calloused from the pick-ax, from the stone, from the struggle,
from rubbing our palms together so often.
But now they hold certain things better.
The wind through the house and our mother's shadow
had been two soft gloves, two woolen gloves,
that kept our hands warm — but they kept us
from ever holding someone else's hand against our skin.
Once those gloves were torn—
we found them useful as bandages for our wounded comrades,
we found them useful as dishrags for soup spoons and cauldrons in the mess hall.
Our hands remained bare.
They learned about work, about silence, about scars.
They went up and down countless times, the iron-rooster of anger.
They went back and forth with a knife, slicing the round loaf of patience.
They pounded against our foreheads, the walls, and the night.
Now, completely bare, our hands rest on our knees,
like the sun that rests on the mountains,
like the mountains that rest on the sea,
like the hearts of comrades that rest on their beliefs.
These are the hands of Communists.
When they clasp your hand, you suddenly understand how all the cities can be lit with electric lights behind the night.
When they lug buckets of seawater straight up steep slopes
you understand how tomorrow and the sun and the sea are from their hands,
you understand why the burlap bags full of stones move light as air in their hands —
because, always, Freedom carries at least half the burden.
These are the hands of comrades.
These bare hands, their blue veins
are like railway lines on a map of the world.
Even though the lines of good fortune in their palms have been censored,
it's in these bare hands that the future of the world is kept safe.
These are the hands of Communists.
from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 297-298]
Our hands remained bare.
Our hands were scraped a thousand times
upon the unshaven jaw of the wind,
a thousand times they caught on the barbed-wire,
a thousand times they brushed up against
the icy railings of Death.
Our hands grew calloused from the pick-ax, from the stone, from the struggle,
from rubbing our palms together so often.
But now they hold certain things better.
The wind through the house and our mother's shadow
had been two soft gloves, two woolen gloves,
that kept our hands warm — but they kept us
from ever holding someone else's hand against our skin.
Once those gloves were torn—
we found them useful as bandages for our wounded comrades,
we found them useful as dishrags for soup spoons and cauldrons in the mess hall.
Our hands remained bare.
They learned about work, about silence, about scars.
They went up and down countless times, the iron-rooster of anger.
They went back and forth with a knife, slicing the round loaf of patience.
They pounded against our foreheads, the walls, and the night.
Now, completely bare, our hands rest on our knees,
like the sun that rests on the mountains,
like the mountains that rest on the sea,
like the hearts of comrades that rest on their beliefs.
These are the hands of Communists.
When they clasp your hand, you suddenly understand how all the cities can be lit with electric lights behind the night.
When they lug buckets of seawater straight up steep slopes
you understand how tomorrow and the sun and the sea are from their hands,
you understand why the burlap bags full of stones move light as air in their hands —
because, always, Freedom carries at least half the burden.
These are the hands of comrades.
These bare hands, their blue veins
are like railway lines on a map of the world.
Even though the lines of good fortune in their palms have been censored,
it's in these bare hands that the future of the world is kept safe.
These are the hands of Communists.
from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 297-298]
Monday, November 10, 2008
A. B. Γ.
Yannis Ritsos
Three large letters
written in whitewash along the spine of Makrónisos.
(When we arrived by ship,
twisted-in among our bundles and suspicions,
we read them from on deck
under the curses of the police, we read them
that quiet morning in July,
in the salty air with its odor of rigani and thyme
there was no way of knowing what those three white letters would come to mean.)
Concentration camp Alpha.
The Beta Camp.
The Gamma Camp.
MAKRÓNISOS
And the Aegean Sea was blue as always
completely blue, only blue.
Alpha —
Ah, yes, we spoke sometimes about a poetry of the open Aegean,
Beta —
about health's bare chest tattooed with an anchor and a mermaid,
Gamma —
about the sea-light that weaves curtains for the seagulls.
A. B. Γ.
300 killed.
We spoke, it's true, about a poetry of the open Aegean —
the crab that dreams upon the sea-damp rock,
against the golden-hued sunset
like a small bronze statue of the Ocean.
A. B. Γ.
600 killed.
(The glass-like shrimp darts through the shallows at the shadow of the morning star,
golden and blue summer casting pine cones at the sleeping girls at midday,
the old pines scratching their backs on the whitewashed fences.)
A. B. Γ.
900 killed.
Long live
King Paul!
(And Panagia of the sea draped in smoke at dusk
will walk barefooted along the sandy beach
tidying up the houses of the tiny fishes
attaching a starfish to her moonlit braids.)
A. B. Γ.
A. B. Γ.
(We spoke of a poetry of the open Aegean, yes, yes.)
MAKRÓNISOS —
MAKRÓNISOS — MAKRÓNISOS
And the sea is still blue as always
and the American fleet travels on the Aegean
peaceful, peaceful, beautiful,
and the stars light tiny fires each evening
the Angels will use to cook Panagia's fish soup.
A. B. Γ.
A. B. Γ.
While beneath the stars there passed
ships loaded with political prisoners
and bags filled with amputated legs
bags filled with amputated arms
bags filled with the dead
the storms in the lights of Lavrion boil over.
(The open Aegean landscape
golden and blue.)
A. B. Γ.
On these rocks the 300 of concentration camp Alpha were shot.
This sea wrack is from tufts of torn out hair and scalp
off the skull of a comrade that refused to sign a statement.
A. B. Γ.
The barbed-wire.
The dead.
The insane.
A. B. Γ.
(Blue, the sea — completely blue.
Golden open Aegean landscape.
The seagulls.)
A. B. Γ.
Black, completely black sea.
Black, completely black landscape.
The barbed-wire.
A. B. Γ.
Black, completely black landscape with clenched teeth,
red, completely red landscape with clenched fists,
black and red hearts lost in their blood
and a red sun lost in its blood.
A. B. Γ.
The barbed-wire.
The prisons, black inside the night.
And the cries from the prison, black all night.
HALT — HALT.
WHO'S THERE?
WHO'S THERE?
WHO'S THERE?
THE LAME
THE AMPUTATED
THE BLIND
THE INSANE
THE DEAD
HALT — HALT.
HALT.
WHO'S THERE?
THE DEAD.
THE DEAD.
They are asking for the bread that was kept from them.
They are asking for the sun that was stolen from them.
They are asking for the life that was cut off.
HALT — HALT.
From the prisons of the night
all night.
HALT.
— WHO'S THERE?
— THE DEAD.
— WHO'S THERE?
— THE INSANE.
— WHO'S THERE?
— WE ARE.
HALT — HALT — HALT.
The dead are seeking their lives.
The insane are seeking their sun.
The lame are seeking their legs.
The blind are seeking their eyes.
They are all seeking their freedom.
A. B. Γ.
From the beginning we were learning the alphabet.
From the beginning we were learning fear and pain.
From the beginning we were learning life and death.
A. B. Γ.
A. B. Γ.
A. B. Γ.
Seeing that we learned, comrades, how to die
we also learned how to live, comrades.
Freedom is near.
A. B. Γ.
SUN
A. B. Γ.
FREEDOM
A. B. Γ.
Alpha-beta — just a little longer, just a little longer.
August - September, 1951
Makrónisos
A. B. Γ. being recited in Greece
from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 299-304]
Three large letters
written in whitewash along the spine of Makrónisos.
(When we arrived by ship,
twisted-in among our bundles and suspicions,
we read them from on deck
under the curses of the police, we read them
that quiet morning in July,
in the salty air with its odor of rigani and thyme
there was no way of knowing what those three white letters would come to mean.)
Concentration camp Alpha.
The Beta Camp.
The Gamma Camp.
MAKRÓNISOS
And the Aegean Sea was blue as always
completely blue, only blue.
Alpha —
Ah, yes, we spoke sometimes about a poetry of the open Aegean,
Beta —
about health's bare chest tattooed with an anchor and a mermaid,
Gamma —
about the sea-light that weaves curtains for the seagulls.
A. B. Γ.
300 killed.
We spoke, it's true, about a poetry of the open Aegean —
the crab that dreams upon the sea-damp rock,
against the golden-hued sunset
like a small bronze statue of the Ocean.
A. B. Γ.
600 killed.
(The glass-like shrimp darts through the shallows at the shadow of the morning star,
golden and blue summer casting pine cones at the sleeping girls at midday,
the old pines scratching their backs on the whitewashed fences.)
A. B. Γ.
900 killed.
Long live
King Paul!
(And Panagia of the sea draped in smoke at dusk
will walk barefooted along the sandy beach
tidying up the houses of the tiny fishes
attaching a starfish to her moonlit braids.)
A. B. Γ.
A. B. Γ.
(We spoke of a poetry of the open Aegean, yes, yes.)
MAKRÓNISOS —
MAKRÓNISOS — MAKRÓNISOS
And the sea is still blue as always
and the American fleet travels on the Aegean
peaceful, peaceful, beautiful,
and the stars light tiny fires each evening
the Angels will use to cook Panagia's fish soup.
A. B. Γ.
A. B. Γ.
While beneath the stars there passed
ships loaded with political prisoners
and bags filled with amputated legs
bags filled with amputated arms
bags filled with the dead
the storms in the lights of Lavrion boil over.
(The open Aegean landscape
golden and blue.)
A. B. Γ.
On these rocks the 300 of concentration camp Alpha were shot.
This sea wrack is from tufts of torn out hair and scalp
off the skull of a comrade that refused to sign a statement.
A. B. Γ.
The barbed-wire.
The dead.
The insane.
A. B. Γ.
(Blue, the sea — completely blue.
Golden open Aegean landscape.
The seagulls.)
A. B. Γ.
Black, completely black sea.
Black, completely black landscape.
The barbed-wire.
A. B. Γ.
Black, completely black landscape with clenched teeth,
red, completely red landscape with clenched fists,
black and red hearts lost in their blood
and a red sun lost in its blood.
A. B. Γ.
The barbed-wire.
The prisons, black inside the night.
And the cries from the prison, black all night.
HALT — HALT.
WHO'S THERE?
WHO'S THERE?
WHO'S THERE?
THE LAME
THE AMPUTATED
THE BLIND
THE INSANE
THE DEAD
HALT — HALT.
HALT.
WHO'S THERE?
THE DEAD.
THE DEAD.
They are asking for the bread that was kept from them.
They are asking for the sun that was stolen from them.
They are asking for the life that was cut off.
HALT — HALT.
From the prisons of the night
all night.
HALT.
— WHO'S THERE?
— THE DEAD.
— WHO'S THERE?
— THE INSANE.
— WHO'S THERE?
— WE ARE.
HALT — HALT — HALT.
The dead are seeking their lives.
The insane are seeking their sun.
The lame are seeking their legs.
The blind are seeking their eyes.
They are all seeking their freedom.
A. B. Γ.
From the beginning we were learning the alphabet.
From the beginning we were learning fear and pain.
From the beginning we were learning life and death.
A. B. Γ.
A. B. Γ.
A. B. Γ.
Seeing that we learned, comrades, how to die
we also learned how to live, comrades.
Freedom is near.
A. B. Γ.
SUN
A. B. Γ.
FREEDOM
A. B. Γ.
Alpha-beta — just a little longer, just a little longer.
August - September, 1951
Makrónisos
A. B. Γ. being recited in Greece
from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 299-304]
Epilogue
Yannis Ritsos
Life? — a wound in non-existence.
July 27, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
Life? — a wound in non-existence.
July 27, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
Night
Yannis Ritsos
Tall eucalyptus trees and a wide moon.
A star shimmers on the water.
The heavens white, silver.
Stones, ravaged stones, all the way up.
Nearby, in the shallows, a fish
is heard jumping, a second, a third . . .
Grand, ecstatic orphanage — freedom.
October 21, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
Tall eucalyptus trees and a wide moon.
A star shimmers on the water.
The heavens white, silver.
Stones, ravaged stones, all the way up.
Nearby, in the shallows, a fish
is heard jumping, a second, a third . . .
Grand, ecstatic orphanage — freedom.
October 21, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
Epilogue
Yannis Ritsos
Don't forget me—he said. I walked thousands of miles
without bread, without water, over stones and thorns,
because I wanted you to have bread, water, even roses. Beauty,
I never have forsaken it. My whole life I doled it out.
I even gave away my own portion. Utterly poor. With a small field lily
I lit our way through the wildest night. Remember me.
And please forgive this final sorrow: how I wish
to harvest one more ripe ear of corn using the thin
sickle of the moon. How I wish to stand at the threshold and look out
and chew on the wheat, grain-by-grain, with my front teeth
marveling at and blessing this world that I am leaving,
marveling at The One climbing the hill through the golden last light. Look:
on his good sleeve there is a purple patch—though barely
visible. How I wish more than anything to show you this.
And perhaps for this alone I'll deserve to be remembered.
July 30, 1987
Karlovasi
This translation was first published in Luna: a journal of poetry and translation (vol 8)
from Negatives of Silence (1987) [Αργα, Πολυ Αργα Μεσα Στη Νυχτα ---pg 93-94]
Don't forget me—he said. I walked thousands of miles
without bread, without water, over stones and thorns,
because I wanted you to have bread, water, even roses. Beauty,
I never have forsaken it. My whole life I doled it out.
I even gave away my own portion. Utterly poor. With a small field lily
I lit our way through the wildest night. Remember me.
And please forgive this final sorrow: how I wish
to harvest one more ripe ear of corn using the thin
sickle of the moon. How I wish to stand at the threshold and look out
and chew on the wheat, grain-by-grain, with my front teeth
marveling at and blessing this world that I am leaving,
marveling at The One climbing the hill through the golden last light. Look:
on his good sleeve there is a purple patch—though barely
visible. How I wish more than anything to show you this.
And perhaps for this alone I'll deserve to be remembered.
July 30, 1987
Karlovasi
This translation was first published in Luna: a journal of poetry and translation (vol 8)
from Negatives of Silence (1987) [Αργα, Πολυ Αργα Μεσα Στη Νυχτα ---pg 93-94]
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