© ΑΠΑΓΟΡΕΥΕΤΑΙ η αναδημοσίευση και αναπαραγωγή οποιωνδήποτε στοιχείων ή σημείων του e-περιοδικού μας, χωρίς γραπτή άδεια του υπεύθυνου π. Παναγιώτη Καποδίστρια (pakapodistrias@gmail.com), καθώς αποτελούν πνευματική ιδιοκτησία, προστατευόμενη από τον νόμο 2121/1993 και την Διεθνή Σύμβαση της Βέρνης, κυρωμένη από τον νόμο 100/1975.

ΘΕΜΑΤΙΚΑ ΕΝΘΕΤΑ. Ό,τι νεότερο εδώ!

Παρασκευή, 18 Μαΐου 2007

On purpose. Ποιήματα Π. Καποδίστρια στ' Αγγλικά / Panagiotis Kapodistrias' Poems in English


[THREE CHORDS]

Outside sleep
lie the borders.
Come, let us cross them.

***


[To Calvos]
Danaides,
air of wasps
in the nests of the face.

***

Look at the Poem:
Body in the line of fire,
because of its Credo.

***

If you persist,
the King of Winds
preparing your reckoning.

***

The apparition,
multi-layered bloom,
holy, secret.

***

The miracle,
following the onslaught of tears:
After the rain.

***

Flooded with light,
where points and pierces
the inexotable arrow.

***

There where you bend low
are the echoes
of intangible love.

***

The snake,
its hue mother-of-pearl
suddenly shotn of its skin.

***

The knotted chord,
obvious habit,
finally Divine Love.


Translated by Ariadne Maria Vraila



THE CAVE-HOLDER

Thus I cast anchor in a fruitful season
I gathered my eyes from you in fragments

and ever since
in the fear perhaps that wishes come true
I have ceased speaking about what I’d considered mine
until
everything was said right from the beginning,
theway it truly was

that red is demanded where the sound misses the mark
that in order to quash order, as we were saying,
enumerate for me one by one down to your adjacent pediment
and after that let your body
the sun-maddened
the seven-lined verse
the charity from everywhere
take whatever is proper

so that sleep won’t find it ignorant of geography
when
the Cave-holder arrives.

Translated by Philip Ramp




INSTANCE OF GRACE

In my mind it was raining polysyllabic blues
the stones of anathema plus the Sundays,
mirrors from the sea
to the heart of hearts

All of me
minus my soul
and a brief stay
in a temperate room with a view of bitter orange trees
and threshold of Hades
the alpha and beta instance of grace
accountable nonetheless

What laughter and praises
what notes and caresses
what sweet lies served on a spoon
what a grand cloud of dust in the end
interposes the Vague
so you can’t get close

My soul
my soul
moonstruck and barmy
in a while I’ll nod at you
and you won’t understand

these intentions of ours behind little curtains
will be left ungathered
abstraction will have nothing carried over

and the Poet
itinerant peddler
he is to blame
for the ultimate delusion.


Translated by Philip Ramp



ON PURPOSE

You look at me on the sly
and I’m hemmed in
light seizes me
and doom crushes me
extraordinarily

I have no other expectation
I was turned into a tree
my soul a crumb on purpose,
here on the floor of Hades
it’s a goner.

Translated by Philip Ramp



ARTFULLY

To Aria Komianou

Beauty means to mourn
and to mourn deeply
-suddenly she tells you
“so and so”
and after this
all things are uttered as neutral
as a precocious morning
or a prearranged noon.

Papers of tears
firelighters
the wings of the mind, flapping
this Need, before anything else

and you are naming the books “reminders of all meanings”
you are telling the story of a youth, in engravings
the implements of passion, certainly.

Now
the birds, scared away
perch in Aria’s Kingdom
while the precious brown
flirts with black
and flowers grow out of stones.

Here, death is melting with desire
love is being carved out of wood
you can win over all profane things
with this art which is cast in peace
on those blessed boards
which are almost rafts
for beyond.


Translated by Marilena Glinou




AFGHAN GIRL

Because of
National Geographic


What are you looking for shaded girl
with a sharp fear
and much red
of promptness
and unhesiting?

Whatever you’re looking at, it doesn’t exist.

The day after tomorrow,
a morning will find you as an old woman of many winters
wearing your tribe’s head scarf
that covers the Woman.

You’re always wearing your eyes
but
these eyes are sunken.

Whatever you’re looking at
it does or it doesn’t exist
without meaning.



ANGEL PSYCHOPOMP

Outside the life
the last friend
the first miracle
in the nests of your body

a poor dream with dome
after the rain
after the snow.

Look at your Soul:

Its snake has slept,
its war has born Divine Love

as if stained glass
or translucent waters

as if handmade rainbow
or blasted poems
because of their impoliteness.

Look after your Soul
when the Cave-holder arrives
finally Angel Psychopomp.

Then,
your window shuts
and I will pay the Boatman.



ICON ENIGMA

“The only thing I know is that I know nothing” 
Socrates


Oh, let me love your Enigma

the face of the ray
your ironic wrinkle;
me, who I’m agnostic.

Oh, let me adore your Image
the demigod of the fire
your lithic laugh;
me, who I’m pagan.

Oh, let me spell your Echo
the feature of the fear
your impious tears;
me, who I’m analphabetic.

Oh, let me touch your Icon
the body of the Rising
your unexpected mask;
me, who I’m iconoclast.

(September 2002)

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