Nikos Xylouris

My country was rock and
earth, sun and black
wine. I harvested instruments and
with Homer I sang of you,
my people. On the waves
whole nights I dreamt of you.

My houses were white
carnations and the girls were shy.
They had salt on their lips in their
eyes they burned the universe
and my children with a
harmonica they turned their heads

My country was like the smile,
an everyday dream. Someone
sold it, someone ruined it
as if it were borrowed merchandise.
Now my boys play
death in the trenches.

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Ήταν ο τόπος μου σαν το χαμόγελο,
όνειρο καθημερνό. Κάποιος τον
πούλησε, κάποιος τον ρήμαξε
σαν δανεισμένη πραμάτεια.
Τώρα τ’ αγόρια μου παίζουν
το θάνατο στα χαρακώματα.

A hundred thousand waves / Aïvali far away
Days salt as the sea / and the sun always there (always there)
with the Makedonian birds / and the little ships
that lost their course / and missed the coast of Barbary

Ever lurking in ambush, the shark,
the black fish / coming and going
his circles tightening

A hundred thousand waves / Aïvali far away

Our beards grew long / our soul changed
the dog, mad with anger,tears his voice barking
help, my dear,don’t let us devour each other

A hundred thousand waves / Aïvali far away

Hours after hour we brought him under the spell with the strings of the lyre
tied up with his hands behind his back to the main mast
the man from Chios / the blind singer / the hoarse profet
chewing his mastika / he is singing the praise of Helen
and elsewhere Tzavelaina / is leading the dance (the dance)

A hundred thousand waves / Aïvali far away

Χίλια μύρια κύματα μακριά τ’ Αϊβαλί

I revered your image,
but did not hold the flame.
The good picture
I will bring you one morning at dawn.

Colors, colors,
leave the deeds alone.
Colors, colors,
colors and fragrances.

I revered your image,
and held onto it;
I will join my two hands together
before I will give it up for begging.

Colors, colors,
colors and fragrances.
Colors, colors,
leave the deeds alone.

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Χρώματα, χρώματα,
χρώματα κι αρώματα.
Χρώματα, χρώματα,
άσε τα καμώματα..

For how long, brave young men, shall we live in the narrows,
isolated like lions, in the rocks and mountain spaces?
Better it is to live for one hour in freedom
than forty years, in slavery and prison.

Caves shall we inhabit, and branches regard,
to leave the world, for bitter slavery?
Better it is to live for one hour in freedom
than forty years, in slavery and prison.

Shall we lose brothers and sisters, our homeland, our parents,
our friends, our children, and all our relatives?
Better it is to live for one hour in freedom
than forty years, in slavery and prison.

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Να χάνωμεν αδέλφια, πατρίδα και γονείς,
τους φίλους, τα παιδιά μας, κι όλους τους συγγενείς;
Κάλλιο είναι μιας ώρας ελεύθερη ζωή,
παρά σαράντα χρόνους, σκλαβιά και φυλακή.

There are no daffodils, violets, nor hyacinths-
how can you speak to the dead.
The dead know only the language of the flowers-
for that reason they are silent
they travel and are silent, they are patient and keep silence
from the dreams of the public, from the dreams of the public.

The first thing God created is love
afterwards comes blood
and the thirst for blood
which stings it
the seed of the body as the salt.
The first thing that God created is the long journey-
that house waits
with a light blue smoke
and a dog who has grown old
waiting to release his soul on the return.

[from the poem:
“Stratis Thalassinos among the agapanthus flowers”
Transvaal, 14 January 1942]

(translation: Eva Johanos)

[Άπο το ποίημα
“Ο Στράτης Θαλασσινός ανάμεσα στους αγάπανθους”
Τράνσβααλ, 14 Γενάρη ’42]

I was born on the lash of the lightning bolt
I am extinguished rolling in the water.
I rose up to the peak of the cloudbank
jumping on the ropes
of incense,
I took the road of sowing.

I slept on the pillow
of the sword,
I had the sleep of the hare.
From afar I perceive the conflagration
of the piled sheaves
unspeaking in the hour of the harvest,
I took up the sack of begging.

I met the death of the stone wall
the horse at the threshing floor in the throes of death
I took up the sack of begging.

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Αντάμωσα τον χάρο της ξερολιθιάς,
το άλογο στ’ αλώνι να ψυχομαχεί,
πήρα ταγάρι ζητιανιάς.

Friends and brothers, mothers, old folks and children,
come out to your windows and look
at who is walking in the dark and strolling in the side streets,
Friends and brothers, mothers, old folks and children.
They are writing signs, messages to the king
if you don’t cry out, come out and write it
so they will not hear you, the dogs- bring out your voice without speaking
signs and messages to the king

They were soldiers, captains and working-class people
they made an oath by the sign of the cross over their swords
that freedom would not be lost, they made an oath by the sign of the cross on the sword
captains, soldiers and working-class people.
And where he fears to hear the voice of the people,
in a deserted place he lives and reigns,
he guards a deserted castle and has fear as a talisman,
where he fears to hear the voice of the people.

Earth tormented with iron and with fire,
just look at whom they have brought you, poor thing
to lord over you from on high, your crimes are many,
Earth which iron has tormented and fire.
It is burning, the fuse, the swords have been drawn,
they are setting their intentions, the constituents, and they write
their wishes on papers and the wide sea of the world,
they are setting their intentions, the swords have been drawn.

The third of September, mothers, old folks and children,
come out to your windows and see
what they bring to the king, deeply written on the papers
the third of September, mothers, old folks and children

The third of September, mothers, old folks and children
come out to your windows and see
who is walking in the dark and strolling in the side streets,
the third of September, mothers, old folks and children.

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Τρεις του Σεπτέμβρη μανάδες, γέροι και παιδιά
στα παραθύρια βγείτε και θωρείτε
ποιοι περπατούν στα σκοτεινά και σεργιανούνε στα στενά,
τρεις του Σεπτέμβρη μάνες, γέροι και παιδιά.

…he was a boy of seventeen
who has now flown away.
Who will bring you, my love,
the letter I have promised?

…ήταν παιδί στα δεκαεφτά
που τώρα έχει πετάξει
ποιος θα σου φέρει αγάπη μου
το γράμμα που ‘χα τάξει

Kostas Karyotakis

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Κ. Καρυωτάκης