An Ease of Movement

Yannis Ritsos

Quiet, widening within its freedom, fluid,
in the attitude of shadow, line, or color;
a branch beckons to him, a shining crookedness;
"Good morning" — pause; "Beautiful day" — pause.
A roof lowers a shoulder and looks about to fall. No matter.
Even if it rains. Welcome it. And also the large clouds.
And the wind that tosses things to-and-fro. Don't let is scare you.
If you sew three shirts for me. I'll bring the twelfth plate,
the one that broke a few days ago, entire and golden.


from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 147]

Humility

Yannis Ritsos

I.
If you go up there I'll wait down here—she said to him—
in the olive shade, in the sheep shade, of our small field:
I'll raise your children—you needn't be worried—see to your work:
Only, now and then, send us down
some bitter almonds, some asters, some feathers,
or, if it's all you have, a bitter and astringent cypress cone.

II.
Even bitterness would be welcome from your open hands—she wrote—
on the best side of the linen chest, I kiss your empty cigarette packet:
I keep a crumpled paper from your gift, my dear and yours truly,
and here I bundle all my hardships together and lighten them, my son.
Only if it's not much trouble, could you send me a package of sugar
so I can bake you the Easter bread that you like.

III.
After they closed the door, they had no idea what to say. So many years
he was away with her waiting. "I'll fix you some tea,
and heat up something to eat," she said, thus the misery in her joy,
thus the awkwardness and the fear. She returned before long with a tray.
And within the steam of the cup sat a delicate bird with folded wings.
Their eyes didn't meet there. They returned and were watched.
He smiled and she began to cry.
Outside, the wind, the sea, the trees hissed angrily.




from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 144-146]

Peacefulness

Yannis Ritsos

Morning sleep, punctured by the voice of cicadas and birds.
Light fights its way into the room. The woman got up noiselessly,
closed the windows, just as he wished. "It's early.
You're still sleepy," she said to him and covered him with the sheet. The sea
climbed from his toenails up to his Adam's apple
with slow, blue, internal steps. And an instant later
the smoke of fields and the hooves of horses are heard in the street.



from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 143]

Holiday

Yannis Ritsos

Two doors opened straight into sky.
Into the narrow passage cluttered with farmer's baskets
of clematis sticks and leaves. Childhood names:
apricots, peaches, grapes, pears, figs,
all of their peculiar aromas coloring
a large, revolving glass sphere
like the colored globe in the closed school office,
and from outside the mischievous cicadas will recite
their poems each one the same—and above criticism.




from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 142]

Early Morning Breathing

Yannis Ritsos

The up and down of sparrows builds the day.
Windows let in the light like ships.
The bee slumbers upon a leaf.
The woman doesn't leave the house. Just her sandals.
Forgotten since yesterday evening at the coast
they breathe calmly, a yellow butterfly in blue light.


from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 141]

Childhood Memory

Yannis Ritsos

Summer noon, the grownups were asleep.
A water bucket tipped off the steps onto the tiles of the corridor.
And then, beneath the corridor, at the very spot
that the bucket poured out, a cool storage room opened up
after being forgotten for years. Within were birds
taking refuge with tiny violins and tiny linen towels,
those starched linens of an old and sorrowful tidiness,
two broken chairs, a basket of grapes,
a pair of red sandals, a tall glass,
chalk, a school bell, and the tiny woodworker
that sawed the cicada's great stairway. Before long
a light breeze began to come from within
furrowing a trace of the sea and poetry's forehead
with that lame, neglected, and childish scowl.



from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 140]

The Unanticipated

Yannis Ritsos

The door opens. In bounds Eri. Two antlers
placed behind her ears. "I am Spring!" she says.
Outside a noise is heard. A small motorboat
coming back from the sea, enters our garden,
glides over the roses, steers through the window
and bumps into the chandelier. The crystals chime.
Eri laughs. She looks at her father,
leaps up on his knee, and, using her two fingers, picks
a smile from his mouth — a red smile
like the wild rose, unprepared and startled,
that peeks out through the railings of his verse.



from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 139]

Cheerful Morning Madness

Yannis Ritsos

The tall yellow flower vase, the black servant figurine,
the basket with letters, the hand-pump with insecticide,
the cabinet filled with toys and games, ten dolls—
one must have a bit of a headache—it's holding its forehead;
the red dog, the deer with a swallow's nest
lodged in its antlers; the shopping bag with apples;
the blue shirt on the chair's shoulder;
the odor of coffee rising up from the street;
the toy soldier with the drum; the white linen sheets
sending out signals.
Quietly the curtains part,
in floats a boat; it moors alongside the bed.
Outside, from the sea-shore, the voices of fishermen are heard,
the laughter of young swimmers. Somewhere around here
a small prankster is hiding with a mirror
casting gleams of the sun onto the objects,
onto a table leg, onto the little cup, onto the drinking glass,
onto the large wall calendar, where it lingers cheerfully
on the 5th day of September, right next to Eri's yellow teddy bear.


from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 138]

This poem is a good example of Ritsos' use of a catalog or list—what Amy Mims has wonderfully termed his "objectitis." The date is curious and probably significant. It is not Eri's birthday nor Ritsos', perhaps it's just a sly way to get a date into a book of poems that is, atypically for Ritsos, undated.

If I Knew

Yannis Ritsos

Yellow sky, black moon.
If I knew what shirt you were wearing,
if I knew where you were sitting,
the sky and my voice wouldn't be the same.



from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 137]

Hour of Crystal

Yannis Ritsos

One glass-panelled door opposite another.
The polished wash-stand in the corner of the kitchen. The mirror
shines out of an entirely green and square smile.
A small breeze slips beneath the footbridge.
The three canaries we set free this morning won't leave.
They sit in the chairs and stare at the glasses.


from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 136]

A Bird

Yannis Ritsos

In a tree, a bird leaves a small string of song, and later a second
—tying spring's apron around her waist—
its head turns slightly, looks attentively, remains contented
but all of a sudden dives into the blue, disappearing into its song.
Where are you looking? Do you still see it? Show me.



from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 135]

Gentle Evenings

Yannis Ritsos

A leaf falls in the night. Silence is heard.
An insect buzzes in the Great Bear's ear.
The moon appears—small, very small,
smaller even than the key to the wardrobe. On the flat roof
our table stands naked—covered in dew,
it shines like a pool of water. A white tree
leaps into the house through the open window,
travels round the chamber with noiseless pirouettes.
Ah, well, how are we supposed to get any sleep?
And won't we be woken tomorrow also? Eri, Eri,
come, you might as well dance a tiny mazurka with the tree.


from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 134]

Little Song for Eri

Yannis Ritsos

The small mirror hung on the wall
brings a small sky into the chamber—
the cicada's voice makes it shimmer.
The rooms are walking, they head for the countryside—
our chairs on the plane trees,
our table on the white cloud,
my papers in the stream,
my coat on the shoulder of the belltower,
and my eyes—well—my eyes are in the swallow's nest
two blue eggs, very blue, and warm;
and from within two yellow birds
peck peck peck with their pink beaks—
Hurry Eri—they'll be out soon,
and they want to sing with you!


from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 133]

Note: Eri is Yannis Ritsos' daughter. I especially love the line about the papers being swept away. Being a stay at home dad and a writer, I'm well aware of how often my daughter seems to make this same wish, hoping I'll stop working and play. SK