Yannis Ritsos
THE WORLD is filled with flowers and birds.
Their light-hearted voices ring through the countryside.
Bells on the necks of donkeys.
Bells on the ears of the sun.
Bells on the points of leaves.
Bells on the braided hair of girls.
All dance in the light and ring.
Grandfather comes out into the sunshine and weaves out of green branches small baskets used to gather berries and pigeon eggs.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 346-347]
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Midday Summer Dream: 11
Yannis Ritsos
TODAY a young girl sang from the top of a poplar tree, sea ribbons in her hair.
Out of her song flew small birds, filling the courtyards and covering the roofs.
The birds sat on the shoulders of children.
Grownups, getting tangled in the sun's nets, staggered like hatchlings.
Roses went crazy, doing somersaults in the water.
O Christ, what drunken light, breaking on the window pane, flooding the rooms, not leaving a single shadow for mother to shade her eyes.
So she'll wave her handkerchief in the air and dance the dance she danced when she and father were young— an island dance with the scent of the sea and boats loaded with oranges.
Father will pretend to have forgotten the steps and smile as he strikes his heel in the air.
And we — children, birds, flowers and stones — will follow after them dancing, as far as the threshing floor of the sun, singing of those never-fading days when grownups danced with their children, the same dance every spring.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 346]
TODAY a young girl sang from the top of a poplar tree, sea ribbons in her hair.
Out of her song flew small birds, filling the courtyards and covering the roofs.
The birds sat on the shoulders of children.
Grownups, getting tangled in the sun's nets, staggered like hatchlings.
Roses went crazy, doing somersaults in the water.
O Christ, what drunken light, breaking on the window pane, flooding the rooms, not leaving a single shadow for mother to shade her eyes.
So she'll wave her handkerchief in the air and dance the dance she danced when she and father were young— an island dance with the scent of the sea and boats loaded with oranges.
Father will pretend to have forgotten the steps and smile as he strikes his heel in the air.
And we — children, birds, flowers and stones — will follow after them dancing, as far as the threshing floor of the sun, singing of those never-fading days when grownups danced with their children, the same dance every spring.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 346]
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Midday Summer Dream: 10
Yannis Ritsos
O CHRIST, why do you wear that long mournful dress and those thorns on your head? Wouldn't flowers be better?
Were you worried the door to heaven wouldn't open if you put poppies in your messed up hair?
Don't laugh because I have a bandage on my head.
I fell into the bushes the day before yesterday chasing butterflies.
Come, let's go to the field hand in hand like children and I will teach you to play the flute.
They wouldn't look good on you, those wrinkles on mother's face when she sets down her work for a moment and watches the new moon through the window.
Let's go cut your sorrowful hair. We'll use the large shears they use on sheep.
You'll see, God will love us. He'll let us sit at his feet. And He'll smile sweetly as we place daisies in his long mustache.
And when it gets dark, we'll hitch crickets to his tiny carriage and we will ride through paradise while the angels light the stars that shine down upon all the other children remaining below.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 345-346]
O CHRIST, why do you wear that long mournful dress and those thorns on your head? Wouldn't flowers be better?
Were you worried the door to heaven wouldn't open if you put poppies in your messed up hair?
Don't laugh because I have a bandage on my head.
I fell into the bushes the day before yesterday chasing butterflies.
Come, let's go to the field hand in hand like children and I will teach you to play the flute.
They wouldn't look good on you, those wrinkles on mother's face when she sets down her work for a moment and watches the new moon through the window.
Let's go cut your sorrowful hair. We'll use the large shears they use on sheep.
You'll see, God will love us. He'll let us sit at his feet. And He'll smile sweetly as we place daisies in his long mustache.
And when it gets dark, we'll hitch crickets to his tiny carriage and we will ride through paradise while the angels light the stars that shine down upon all the other children remaining below.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 345-346]
Friday, July 18, 2008
Midday Summer Dream: 9
Yannis Ritsos
TONIGHT we fall asleep in Spring's lap, resting our head against her heart.
We hear heartbeats and birds breathing in our sleep.
In the morning, when we wake, we see the sky strolling about our room like a bird of blue with golden eyes feeding on leftover bread crumbs of shadow.
Then, in a flash, we wash and get ready for the day.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 345]
TONIGHT we fall asleep in Spring's lap, resting our head against her heart.
We hear heartbeats and birds breathing in our sleep.
In the morning, when we wake, we see the sky strolling about our room like a bird of blue with golden eyes feeding on leftover bread crumbs of shadow.
Then, in a flash, we wash and get ready for the day.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 345]
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Midday Summer Dream: 8
Yannis Ritsos
AT NIGHT the almond trees pass beneath our windows slow and sad in their white dresses, like those pale girls from the orphanage returning from a short, Sunday outing, nearly asleep, holding hands two by two, not speaking, not looking up to the stars sprouting one by one in the shadows, distant and happily.
Tomorrow we'll tell the almond trees to go to the beach and wash the dust of our sadness from their faces.
In the evening, when they return cheerful, they'll give us our first words washed clean in the sea, and we'll cry in the open windows for the joy of being able to cry.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 344]
AT NIGHT the almond trees pass beneath our windows slow and sad in their white dresses, like those pale girls from the orphanage returning from a short, Sunday outing, nearly asleep, holding hands two by two, not speaking, not looking up to the stars sprouting one by one in the shadows, distant and happily.
Tomorrow we'll tell the almond trees to go to the beach and wash the dust of our sadness from their faces.
In the evening, when they return cheerful, they'll give us our first words washed clean in the sea, and we'll cry in the open windows for the joy of being able to cry.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 344]
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Midday Summer Dream: 7
Yannis Ritsos
WE SLEPT when we weren't tired. We ate when we weren't hungry.
We kept time using the wristwatch given to us on our name day, forgetting the clock of the garden that always pointed to summer.
Now we want to place the wristwatch close to our pulse, checking the time when the hour hands of shadow begin to point across the golden green face of the lawn.
There's still time for us to cut some poppies so our hands won't grow old within the monasteries of books.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 344]
WE SLEPT when we weren't tired. We ate when we weren't hungry.
We kept time using the wristwatch given to us on our name day, forgetting the clock of the garden that always pointed to summer.
Now we want to place the wristwatch close to our pulse, checking the time when the hour hands of shadow begin to point across the golden green face of the lawn.
There's still time for us to cut some poppies so our hands won't grow old within the monasteries of books.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 344]
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Midday Summer Dream: 6
Yannis Ritsos
LIKE the heart of a tiny swallow that trembles in the palm of daybreak your memory begins along with the first green leaf.
You remember how you sat and stared into the large round eyes of grazing cows, seeing a miniature rural landscape: the plain like a vast green tray, the small church with cypresses, the white arc of doves over the forest, the harvesters with bundles of wheat and with yellow handkerchiefs.
You didn't know the architecture of the roses, nor the mechanics that birds used to traverse the sky.
You simply said good morning to the roses and to the birds, as you might say good morning to girls.
Then daisies opened small windows and leaned out over the sills to greet the morning as it passed down the street without the burdens of shadow and memory.
Later on, you learned to greet people by taking off your hat, and to say "Thank you" to the flowers only when there was no one around to hear you.
You wished to grow up quickly, to put on long pants, to learn to write so you could stop saying "Thank you," to construct a rose where a sad ray of light sleeps in an empty arch of fragrance.
Now you ask to deliver once more over the same lip that same "Thank you" after so many years of forgetting it.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 343-344]
LIKE the heart of a tiny swallow that trembles in the palm of daybreak your memory begins along with the first green leaf.
You remember how you sat and stared into the large round eyes of grazing cows, seeing a miniature rural landscape: the plain like a vast green tray, the small church with cypresses, the white arc of doves over the forest, the harvesters with bundles of wheat and with yellow handkerchiefs.
You didn't know the architecture of the roses, nor the mechanics that birds used to traverse the sky.
You simply said good morning to the roses and to the birds, as you might say good morning to girls.
Then daisies opened small windows and leaned out over the sills to greet the morning as it passed down the street without the burdens of shadow and memory.
Later on, you learned to greet people by taking off your hat, and to say "Thank you" to the flowers only when there was no one around to hear you.
You wished to grow up quickly, to put on long pants, to learn to write so you could stop saying "Thank you," to construct a rose where a sad ray of light sleeps in an empty arch of fragrance.
Now you ask to deliver once more over the same lip that same "Thank you" after so many years of forgetting it.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 343-344]
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