Instinct

Yannis Ritsos

Fallen—face down, jaw to the ground, his neck
clamped between the other’s knees—his face turns blue,
veins swell at his temples. No movement.
Then a twitch—is it a final convulsion? Close your eyes. No, no.
Merely beautiful surrender. The body relaxes. Little by little
a smile spreads across the face, like someone looking at the sea
from a window (a somewhat narrow window, it’s true) or like
a severed head, dignified—still in control of its expression;
yes, yes, a smile spreads. The red knife is in the tray.
On either side a pot of flowers.
His eye teeth sparkle in the sun—gold, elongated,
two small bayonets guarding the mortal remains
at the gate to ancient, cunning immortality.

May 25, 1968
Partheni concentration camp



from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]

Simple and Incomprehensible

Yannis Ritsos

Nothing new—he says. Men are killed or simply die.
Teeth, hair, hands, mirrors—they grow old.
The lamp's glass chimney broke—we patched it with newspaper.
Worst of all, by the time you learn something is worthwhile, it's already passed. Then
an immense silence. Summer arrives. Trees
turn tall and green—oh so provocative. Cicadas cry out.
In the evening, the mountains turn blue. And from them,
men of shadow descend, limping as they make their way down (in truth, only pretending to limp).
They throw dead dogs into the river. Afterwards, full of sorrow and justifiable anger,
they fold their burlap sacks, scratch their groins, and contemplate the moonlight on water. There’s just
that one inexplicable thing; pretending to be cripples, without anyone to witness them.

May 25, 1968
Partheni concentration camp



from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]

Method for Optimism

Yannis Ritsos

Vindictive—all the dark rumors dredged up—he gave them emphasis,
generalized them, somehow making them both arbitrary and conclusive at the same time—a method
deep, obscure, no doubt carefully thought out. Everything dark, nearly black—
the furniture, faces, windows, time. And yet his appearance
remained bright, splashed with some secret happiness—perhaps from his talent
to see in the dark, to make out the darkness itself, to see far down
to the four brass shell casings glowing on the large bed
where two beautiful corpses lay as though making love.

May 26, 1968
Partheni concentration camp



from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]

Postponements

Yannis Ritsos

Days went by. The ship’s sail snapped in the wind.
The rope wore through. We gave up watering the trees.
They withered in no time, leaving neither fruit nor leaf.
Women grew old. Tiny snails
made their way up the walls. When at last we descended
to clear out the well—there was nothing there
but decayed dampness and a heap of rusty buckets.
We removed them. But the water had dried up.

May 29, 1968
Partheni concentration camp



from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]

With These Stones

Yannis Ritsos

An unexpected wind blew. The heavy shutters creaked.
Leaves were lifted from the ground. They flew away, flew away.
Until only stones remained. Now we must make do with these—
he kept repeating—with these, with these. When night descended
the great, inky mountainside, he threw our keys into the well.
Ah, dear stones—he said—one by one I'll chisel
the unknown faces and my body, with its one hand
tightly clenched, raised above the wall.

May 30, 1968
Partheni concentration camp



from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]

Aging

Yannis Ritsos

Saturday, Sunday, Saturday again—and before you know it, Monday.
A quiet dusk without color, or trees, or chairs.
We have nothing to spend. The old pitcher on the dinner table;
the plates, the glasses, the sad hands, the deserted—
the spoon rises; another mouth finds it—but which mouth?
Who eats? Who grows quiet? In the open window
a small, forgotten moon swallows its own spit.
It's not that we're no longer growing fat, but that we're no longer hungry.

June 4, 1968
Partheni concentration camp



from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]

A Widening

Yannis Ritsos

We were to remain over here—who knew how long. Little by little
we forgot about time, lost track of the difference between months, weeks,
days, hours. Perhaps it was for the best. There were oleanders
far below, cypress trees above, and stones above that.
Flocks of birds passed overhead; their shadows made the ground dark.
In my day, the old man said, it happened just like this. The iron bars
were already in the windows; I could see them long before they were installed. Now,
seeing them every day, I begin to think they’re not there. I no longer see them.
I wonder if you see them?—Then, the guards called out and opened the door.
They brought in two wheel-barrows loaded with watermelons. The old man continued:
Ah, as long as eyesight remains, you can’t see a thing.
You peer into the void, as they say—whitewash, sun, wind, salt—
you enter the house—without stool or bed—you sit down on the ground;
small spiders walk across your hair, across your clothes, into your mouth.

June 5, 1968
Partheni concentration camp



from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]

Without Counterweight

Yannis Ritsos

Yuck!—he said—disgusting. He closed his ears, his nostrils, his eyes.
What? What do you hear? What do you see? Seven bullets, eight bullets.
Even the murderers murdered, and other similar things
here and there. Toward what will you turn? What will you offer instead?
All the flags torn into strips through time
and not one on a balcony overhead will be lowered to half-mast.
Old newspapers drift on the water, right beside the drowning victim.

June 5, 1968
Partheni concentration camp



from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]

Photographic

Yannis Ritsos

Everyone inside large earthen jars—each one in his own.
They eat, sleep, shit, give birth, die inside the jars.
Sometimes they read an old newspaper—a new one never arrives.
Murdered, murdered—you know—you'd like to murder the jars. Only
a large, rose-colored bra soaking up the sun on the barbed-wire.
Large flies strolling round and round on Beckett’s jar.

June 5, 1968
Partheni concentration camp



from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]