Dick

Yannis Ritsos

Stone swept clean by wind—
wind, silence—
we never hear a thing
only the stone's heart
beating in anger and in pain
heavy, slow, constant.

Plentiful stone,
plentiful hearts,
we will use them to build tomorrow's factories,
the new working class,
red stadiums,
and grand monuments for the Heroes of the Revolution.

Of course, we won't forget a monument for Dick—
yes, our dog Dick,
in the artillery division,
that was killed by the prison guards
because he loved us exiles too much.

A monument for Dick—
a stone dog
with muscular hindquarters,
with two drops of devotion for eyes,
with a slightly raised upper lip
showing his left tooth
as if about to bite
night's ankle
or a prison guard's shadow
or the long, narrow beams cast by a lantern
placing a plaque of silence
between our words and our hands.

Comrades, we'll never forget Dick,
our companion
that barked at night by the prison gate facing the sea
and lulled us to sleep with his scratching
at Freedom's bare feet,
at the golden fly of the morning star
upon his raised ear.

Now, Dick rests in peace,
forever showing his left tooth.

Maybe the day after tomorrow we'll hear him again
barking happily at some demonstration
weaving back-and-forth under the banners
a small banner trailing from his left tooth
reading "Down with eardrums!"

Dick, you were the best dog.
Comrades, we'll never forget him,
our dog that they censored from our letters,
our dog that was killed
because he loved us too much.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 264-265]

The Roots of the World

Yannis Ritsos

A few scorched reeds in the armpit of summer,
a little sage, some thyme, a few ferns.

We were filled with thirst,
filled with hunger,
filled with suffering.

We never would have believed
men could be so cruel.
We never would have believed
our hearts could be so strong.

We, the unshaven, with a crust of death in our pockets.
Where does the grain kneel down before the sky?

Slowly evening arrives. Shadow won't soften the severity of stone.
The dead soldier's canteen stuck in the sand.
The moon was moored at some other shore
where a calmness rocks it with its little finger—
but which shore? what calmness?

We were filled with thirst,
laboring with stone all day long.
Only beneath our thirst
exist the roots of the world.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 266]

Evenings

Yannis Ritsos

Dry spit on the day's mouth, not even enough
moisture to stick a stamp on your mother's postcard.
Just dust, under fingernails and in eyes,
like bitterness adhering to memory's hide.

We went on, up and down the mountain,
our backs burdened with stone and with death,
under orders, under the whip.
We thought only of water and of stone,
of life and of death. We got used to it,
our sorrow lessened,
eventually or anger lessened,
only our resolve wouldn't lessen.

Between night's pick and its shovel
the comrades rested
teeth clenched,
using their fists for pillows.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 267]

Noons

Yannis Ritsos

Here the sun doesn't fool around—the furious sun, reigning over us,
with eyebrows arched, with jaws set,
with his hairy chest bared as far as the sea.

One month. Two months. More months.
We kept track by hauling stones and fears on our shoulders,
by tapping a hooked finger along the jug's spine
and listening to the far off sound of water
as though we could hear a woman's voice behind a door,
as though that woman could hear the voice of the smallest of stars,
as though those stars could hear the bleating of dusk.

Noons were immense—
as long as a Sunday in the country without children.
Here noon lasts all day, sunup to sundown.

If only we were less thirsty, it wouldn't occupy our minds,
if only there was a tree on the hillside or at the top of the island,
if only a handful of shade, and less bitterness, less injustice.

We no longer recall the shape of a tree—is it, perhaps,
like a large banner of water?
or like a "thank you" spoken to you in the past?
or like a lover's hand searching for your hand?

The day after tomorrow we'll plant a thousand trees.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 268]

Today

Yannis Ritsos

At first, when we looked at the sea, the men, our hearts,
our mouths filled with silence and our eyes with what lay ahead.

Because nothing was ever certain for us
it was certain that our children, tomorrow, would have their pockets filled
with gardens and with games we never had a chance to play.

It was certain that our women
would have the shade of a small lilac
at their every step, spring mornings.

It was certain that our old men would have a walking stick
that buds at dusk in the corner of the house.
We were able to sleep because of this,
despite the fear coiling up inside our boots.

The moon, at the opening of the tent,
was like a yellowed and heavily censored postcard.

Yet, we could read them,
even the ones that were erased,
even the ones that were never written,
even the ones that were known never to have been sent,

as if we could read spring in the green leaves,
as if we could read out the corner of our eyes
Phitsos's apology or the tiny scribblings of Aliki Tsoukala,
as if we could read beneath our bitterness Moscow's Red Square
with its processions of delegates from people's democracies around the world.

We slept soundly because of this, sprawled out beside our hearts.
A window open beyond our sorrow, beyond our fear.
And a branch in front of the window.
The bread.
And our oath.

We listened as our beards, our nails, and our hopes grew long.

Sleep, comrade.
I'm near you.
Take my hand.

The sun is near.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 269-270]

Alexis

Yannis Ritsos

Alexis was at peace,
like someone making it their duty.
When he went to bed, he fell asleep instantly
like someone making it their duty.
Both of his foot soles, wide, earthen,
stuck out from under the blanket
as if great plane trees or eucalyptus trees
had sprung up in the night.
Alexis, when we said your name
it was like saying, "tomorrow the sun shall shine."

They broke that peace, Alexis—
they woke you up in the middle of the night, comrade,
you weren't given time to pack your dufflebag with clothes,
you weren't given time to lace your boots. We saw them
as you stepped out the door of the tent
and pointed to your laces dragging on the ground.
We didn't want you to trip over them. You understood
and smile. We smiled.

Ah, yes, it wasn't fear that you would trip over,
you had never tripped over that in your life.
You stepped out the door. Your leaving
created a silence of vast significance.
On your wooden cot remained
a piece of bread and a comb.
And that untied lace
was still dragging along in our thoughts
like a sadness dragging though our souls. We're not afraid.

They took you away to be court-martialled
and for that you were sentenced to death, comrade,
and for that you'll be kept hidden in all hearts,
in all life, in all eyes, in all trees, comrade.
Because of this you're so embittered
so confident
so happy—
a star blinks on and off within your eyes,
this red star that never forgets us.

Today you became even more of a comrade, comrade.

Take our last two cigarettes,
we have nothing else—only our hearts, comrade,
take the cigarettes,
on for you, the other for your shadow—
as if you could light his with your match in front of that large wall,
and stand there talking about peace like two real people,
talking about yesterday's parades
about communist functions
about world-wide freedom.
You went on talking about peace,
you and your shadow,
like two old agitators,
until you finished your cigarette
until you heard the shot
breaking your conversation in half
as well as our hearts.

You know, dear comrade, that every thing's not lost—
we will carry on your heart and your work.
And for this we will be so confident
so peaceful
so happy.

And, comrades, we are happy. He looked after us—don't weep.
No, comrades. Weep. We can't hold it back.
Because we are communists, and we loved you, dear comrade,
and you will be missed in our struggle, and we will miss you.
No matter how much you are inside us or near us, we will miss you.
We will miss your eyes
that were like two blue windows opened at the far end of a dark corridor
and we will miss your smile
that was like a banner on a balcony in the poor districts
and those hands of yours that were strong together as well as shy
that had in their motions both urgency and stealth
as if they were posting in the night a poster for the Revolution.

Dear comrade, we are grieving. We can't hide it,
even the Party grieves—and therefore acts seriously and solemn,
and it is by far the most serious Party today—to not lament, friend,
when it places your party membership cards in their proper order
in the archive at the People's Memorial for the Resistance.

Today you became even more of a comrade, comrade.
Today we became better comrades, comrades.
Farewell dear comrade. Sleep peacefully
beside your boots and their undone laces,
as peacefully as one who has completed their duty,
peacefully—and don't worry, comrade,
we will also do our duty.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 271-273]

Small Occurrences

Yannis Ritsos

Diseases arrived—diarrhea, tetanus—
we placed the sick on stretchers bound for the sick wards
we placed the dead on tables in a long row at the sea's edge,
from there, just at dusk, they loaded them on boats bound for Lavrios.
The exiles take off their caps, clench their teeth, and stare out to sea.
They don't say a word, just stare for a long time beyond Sounios.
Night falls and the wind starts by shaking out a dead man's blanket.
The never ending wind that throws itself against this dumb vault of stone,
that tosses up the camp's thorns and waste paper,
that starts far out beyond the ships, that fills its pockets with pieces of lint,
that strips flesh from bone, an immense wind
that loosens the knots in the starts and lashes our hearts.

One bed, two beds—how many must go empty?
The silverware of those who have been killed is thrown into the corner
like a handful of stars, stars without names.
The pockmarked moon moans in fear all night long over the sea
like the creaking of an old shutter opening and closing in the dark.
Night drops its bundles beside the kitchen and its potato peels
and grief stricken beside fear, close to our hearts.

Later on the wind quiets down
so we can hear the stones tumbling from the mountain,
so we can hear the boots of the dead
and farther off, the boots of freedom
marching uphill as though from beneath the world.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 274]

this translation was originally published in the Great River Review

Change

Yannis Ritsos

Over here we have to imagine many things—
for instance, a window to look through onto the sea.
We look at the sea differently through a window,
differently than from behind barbed wire.

The voice of a child in the afternoon—Where is that voice?
A woman at the doorstep of a house—Where is that house?
And a closet full of warm clothing
and the silence which drips from the clock above the chair
and the shadow cast by a gentle hand placing flowers in a glass—Where is that shadow?
A gramophone on the shaded window sill on a Saturday evening,
and a cat walking along the roof of the house next door
in a twilight all in mothballs—
the neighborhood's black cat, with no one to look after it now,
with two drops of the oil of loneliness in its eyes,
the neglected black cat walking along the roof of the house next door
and the strange quiet at dusk that it walks through,
rubbing its tail against the white moon. We have to imagine all these things.

There are many cold nights here.
There is so much loneliness beneath the fear,
so much friendship beneath the fear
at that hour when death descends upon the prisons
and, seated cross-legged on the ground, plays dice with the guards.

The cats are very different here;
fierce, standoffish, and patient
they won't rub their cheeks against our elbows,
they stand away from us and study us,
learning about death,
learning about grief,
learning about revenge and about resolve,
learning about silence and love.
The fierce, unpettable, and silent cats of Makrónisos
study our eyes, looking at the life inside.

And this August moon that hangs over us here
is like a word that can never be spoken,
a word that has turned to marble inside the throat of night.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 277-278]

this translation was originally published in the Great River Review

Duty

Yannis Ritsos

We don't speak anymore.
We don't even utter our own song.

Kept behind our voice the noise of a parade
winding its way past a thousand doors,
while the people proceed waving their songs in the air
while the handicapped wave back from tenement windows,
it's then our hearts are flown with a thousand other hearts
like a shout among a thousand red banners.

Later, again, the cannon fire at first light
scattering the sparrows out of the cypress trees.
Transport planes loaded with fighters,
heading for the battle grounds,
cutting the sun in half with their propellors.

Comrades, they stopped our mouths.
We didn't have a chance to utter our song.
Again, a lot of dust remained in the afternoon,
dust raised by the black dresses worn by mothers,
as they return from Averoff or from Hadzikosta Hospital,
or from the department of transfers,
mothers with black dresses,
with their hearts wrapped tightly in handkerchiefs
like a dry piece of bread that even Death isn't able to chew.

Comrades, they locked our mouths shut.
They locked away our sun.
We couldn't utter our song—
that one that starts out simple, strong, and bitter:
Workers of the world, unite!

Nights when an illegal, mute moon rises above the horizon,
the shadow from a huge crutch is cast on the rock of Makrónisos.
We must make this crutch into a ladder,
Vangélis said bending to the ear of Petros
as though he pronounced the first line from our song of tomorrow.

Comrades, we're late. We're very late.
We need to let out that song.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 279-280]

Moon

Yannis Ritsos

The flapping of the tent over our sleep—
sleep cut to pieces by the wind:
a landscape half black, half pale,
an amputated limb in search of its body
and a diviner rapping against the stone—testing it;
death rapping against our hearts—testing it.

Someone mutters in his sleep.
Another cries out as if wounded in battle.
The others don't hear him. They're sleeping.
Have they not died as well?
Then the same voice crying out, Water, water.

It's nothing. Go back to sleep.
Tomorrow I'll carry you a well in my arms,
I'll carry you a river, tomorrow. Go back to sleep.
It isn't a ship. It's only the wind.
The corridor with tiles, half black, half yellow
and the crutches of night in the corridor.

It's nothing. It's the wind. Go back to sleep.
The resistence of stretched rope.
The rope holds—the resolve holds.
It doesn't break in half. Panagia of the Moon
walks barefooted through the tent.

In such wind what do you want?—someone mutters.
The words of the dying are cut off in the middle.
What do you want? What do you want?
What could the moon want in a tent of old men?
The moon has a pocket knife
in order to harvest grape leaves from old man Mitsos' wooden chest.
The moon with two small Sabbaths in her eyes.

What shall we use this knife for?
There's a vein in the wrist above the hand—it's not there—
deep within is a pulse, deep within,
and the rope that fights with wind—
oo—oo, oo son—old Moon,
don't cut these ropes
put down your knife—and be gone,
go to the sick children to sell your silver crosses.
Inside those wide shoes are your slender feet.
Your feet aren't able to drag
the heavy shoes of comrades.

She bends over and measures them
to calculate the distance they have traveled,
the distance they have still to travel,
the distance that has no end.
These boots, patched and heavy,
aren't for your feet, Moon.
These boots traveled through pain,
traveled through death, old Moon,
without stumbling.

So be gone, moon, traveler from a distant place.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 281-282]

Old Man Mitsos

Yannis Ritsos

Old man Mitsos slept.
Over his flinty mustache
passed the lamplight of Panagia.

Gone are his three children to the struggle,
gone are his small house and his vineyard.
There's nothing else left. All of his life is gone.

Old man Mitsos had one joy: that his children were members of the Communist Party.
Old man Mitsos had one sorrow: that he himself wasn't a member.
Old man Mitsos wouldn't sign a confession. So they killed him.

Old man Mitsos sleeps.
Three clouds in the shape of calves
drink water from the stone trough of the moon.

Old man Mitsos sleeps.
A large red bird is in his dream,
and a holy relic of the struggle sewn into the lining of his jacket.

If we searched his pockets perhaps we'd even find
a small field of corn
or the shade of a poplar tree beside a river.

Inside his tied-up handkerchief he had kept
a wedding ring and a newspaper clipping
that announced the execution of his eldest son.

Old man Mitsos tell your son it's ok.
You know how you'll tell the others of Roumeli,
tell him it's ok. We take in everyone we believe in.

We're not asking much—just wiggle your mustache a little.
So that we know he knows. Goodbye old man Mitsos.
He'll understand. So long old man Mitsos.

Leave your cane here. It's needed.
We'll use it to fly a red flag.
Depend on it, old man Mitsos, dark dark red.

Good bye Mitsos—it will be red
like the blood of your children who were killed by the fascists
like the blood of all those who struggle in the world.

So long old man Mitsos.
So long comrade Mitsos—don't worry.
Your application has been accepted by the Party.

And today the light is very great,
great as the oath of a Revolutionary
who's committed forever.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 283-284]

Our Children

Yannis Ritsos

These children go completely naked for hours,
lice of stars crawl upon their underclothes,
and at night, hawks lay eggs in their shoes.

Each Sunday when they dress they put on a pair of plane trees for pants,
a small almond shirt,
their handkerchief made from the sea, a cloth cap made from the wind,
in their eyes are mountains, a river, and a forest.

The buttons on their jackets are acorns,
they slice the round loaf of their longing with their pocket knives,
they dine off stones, they drink in the sky,
and in their bowels it all gets mixed up.
The month of May hand in hand with December.

They have strong arms, stout voices and the will of mules. They won't back down.
They're dutiful children.
They know how to say struggle, how to say duty. Headstrong,
though they can't grow a beard on their obligations.

When it grows rose colored in the late afternoon around the tent,
when beyond the quietness the first gunshots of the evening star are heard,
they stand on the stone with their legs apart, transfixed,
they clench their fists inside their pockets
and make their way uphill for the evening roll-call
dragging their shadows behind them like a leashed lion.

Later on, after the evening rations, as the wind calms down,
the hour when night's goldfish glide between their toes,
they watch the distant town of Lavrios turn on its lights,
they load their eyes like bullets into the cartridge clip of the Milky Way
and they, the still ones, move toward their tent.

Mikalis stood in the doorway,
looking somewhere off in the distance.
He said, "They are fighting for us."

We didn't speak. We lit the lamp.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 285-286]

Daybreak

Yannis Ritsos

Pitchers and baskets in the dusk,
metal plates, cups made from empty tin cans,
shadows from nightmarish screams beneath the wooden cots.
This night passes like the last. The army-green colored soil,
the army-green tent and the army-green scarecrow.
Patched blankets, and the sky.

The white sheets of dawn flutter in the wind—but who will see them?—
a leaf swinging madly like a clothes-pin on a rope—who pays attention to such things?—
the clothes-pin is holding summer's handkerchief—who will take it down?

Beyond the mountains there's a white country: the window have green shutters,
there's a lot of noise from all the heavy trucks hauling
workers, sacks of cement, and telephone poles.

Far away—we know—there are women,
women who are bitter and of few words. They bend over their work
holding their needles as though they were tiny rays of light,
sewing a large flag. And the windows there
shall turn rose colored as if freshly dyed.

Daybreak arrives.
A cat plays in the field with a piece of the moon
as if it were a discarded lemon rind.

No, we're no longer exhausted. We're no longer thirsty.
We put on our shirts—morning's blue shirt.
We shave. What shall we see today?

Beyond the mountains there's a white country
and there are women sewing a large flag.

Good morning, Kalimera.
The prison work begins.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 287]

Time

Yannis Ritsos

Behind our tent the blaze of sunset.
Evening roll call. 7 pm.
The sun colors the face of the sergeant,
the sun colors the shaved heads of the exiles,
and below the sea.

4th Concentration Camp of Makronisos.
12 enclosures.
10,000 political prisoners.
The day's last light.

Each of us has upon our shoulder
the fatigue of 12 hours of stone,
the fatigue of 12 hours of sun,
a lifetime's resolve
and this small bag
with colored spools of late afternoon light.

Our shoes are torn open by stone,
our shoes are black with dirt.
Through the bitter cracks enters now and again a little of the sea.

Evening sits down upon our shoes
like a trusty black dog,
the hour when we fix the steps of our tsourapia
the hour when we fix hope with a star.

When we fall asleep the donkeys of night walk outside our tent,
many kind looks as olives are tossed in the air
—they're the peaceful donkeys of night—
suspending in the shadows a small landscape with corn,
a small garden with beans, with celery, with dill,
a well, a rustic hut, a woman combing her hair.
They are the donkeys that graze upon quietude.

Ah, dear mother, what difficult days these are.
But in sleep, mother, it's like inside a house
when the chairs are arranged neatly around a table,
wise chairs and patient like good neighbors,
when your shadow is seated in the doorway
dismissing evil and fear of the dark
as if you dismissed a buzzing mosquito near our sleeping faces
with a wave of your hand.

We live in a difficult time, mother. Don't be bitter.
The struggle is hard, mother,
but our brothers and sisters are many
your children are many, mother.
At daybreak we hear your shadow as it departs,
we hear the tiny windows being closed.

A gun shot into the air.
The guards whistle.
A shot that kills
the bird of the morning star.

The small donkeys of the night slowly depart
behind the white fence of dawn.
their shadows slip into the still harbor
between the first two words of the wind.

Later, the large stone on the shoulder,
the long uphill climb,
the heart's great resolve.

Our great days are ahead, mother.

With large stones on our shoulders,
climbing uphill toward death,
we'll build great countries.

Mother, don't be bitter.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 288-289]

Old Man Karas and His Son

Yannis Ritsos

Old man Karas has been sick for days.
His mustache ages and withers.
In his eyes it drizzles as at dusk in Thessaly,
a cloud from Bralos drags across his forehead.

His hands holding his head
are like the silhouettes of two fir trees in the mist.

Old man Karas has one son of flint-colored stone.
His son has two black pigeons hidden in his patched shirt,
because now and then his smile becomes like a saddle out in the rain,
when a broom of sunlight sweeps the new grass,
because in his eyes graze four cows
and a colt with a blue bead and bell.

We hear that bell at day break,
when the son of old man Karas heats up his tea,
when he takes hold of his father's hand and leads him out in the sun.
That son rolls up his father's rough blanket
and straightens his father's mattress,
like a small energetic puppy caring for an old sheep dog,
he changes the water in the bowl
he picks the burrs and thorns.

Old man Karas gets better—
because he hears that bell in the eyes of his son,
because the son hears the bell of birds beyond the mountains,
because we too are the sons of old man Karas, his son's brothers,
because we're all comrades.

Every evening, the shepherd's star tolls inside the tent
and the bells of the mountain sound noisily above
and old man Karas sleeps peacefully,
and we sleep peacefully,
only the son of old man Karas stays up and attends his father
lighting a lamp of doves above the rocks of our dreams.

Old man Karas, nothing frightens you as long as that lamp burns.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 290-291]

Each Evening

Yannis Ritsos

The earth is hard.
Toward evening, as the wind subsides,
some slender broken sticks remain
and a torn undershirt on the rocks.

Over here death walks many times.
These holes in the stone
are from the nails of his shoe soles,
these other holes, in our hearts,
are from them as well.

Each evening the stars seem to grow larger.
Some dates, some signatures, some cryptic fragments
these stars in the sky—we study them each evening
like the names of rebels we study on the prison walls.

The eyes of the newly arrived are two smoke-blackened stones
like those black stones in the solitude of late afternoon
where a refugee family boils dandelion greens.

And the eyes of the other comrades
are the fire between the blackened stones.
And others are the same.
The world is cooking something immense among these eyes.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 292]

Little by Little

Yannis Ritsos

Little by little we learn about the world and about our hearts.
We try out words that have the same weight on everyone's lips:
words like mother
words like bread
words like comrade.

We cook beans and potatoes every day.
We carry water and stones,
we take turns cleaning the latrine
and we worked together on the ascent the handcart and our sweat

Because of this our hands have the same motions:
they search at night for silence and death,
they ball-up into fists in our pockets,
they study the lines of a rifle
the way they used to study the body of a woman,
they curl around the pole of our flag
the way they once curled around our mother's breast.

Because of this our eyes meet the same symbol seeing in the distance the sea
as when we go three or more days without water
and the water carriers still don't arrive
and Patience bites at her hands.

It is then that the same angry ship passes through every eye,
a ship which we all know well
full of containers, with dufflebags and flags.

Later on we don't speak at all.
The eyes understand without words.
Only that feet are kneading the mortar stronger
we will settle the bricks, we will build a wall around the tents,
we will escape the winter, from the rain and from the cold.
They are beautiful, these red-colored bricks
whole armies of bricks—perfectly square, they will dry in the sun
peacefully, serious, judicious—

So we are convinced, that our words must be made the same,
kneaded of the sea and the color red,
kneaded by the hard, angry feet of thirsty comrades,
we will let them dry in the sun and in the wind
for we will build plenty of songs to protect our heart from the rain and from the cold.

We don't speak.
The day before yesterday a comrade ate his knowledge and didn't give evidence,
another comrade cut off his own hand so as not to sign,
and yesterday they took another fourteen comrades away for questioning.

In the evenings we reflect upon the cries of those who have been summoned with severed thoughts,
some words are written out by a severed hand,
some common words like bread at the knees of the starving,
like the curse that bites all night long at the mouth of the wronged,
like the "ah" of mothers that light the small olive oil lamp above the three empty beds of children,
like the bitten bullet in the palm of the Democracy.

Moonlight falls through a hole in the tent as if it were a severed thought.
Still we aren't able to speak.


from Petrified Time (1949) [Collected Poems: Τα Επικαιρικα --- pg 293-294]

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]

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]

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]