#Modern Greek Poetry

[daweyt]

Constantine P. Cavafy, from “Modern Greek Poetry; ‘The Bandaged Shoulder’”, tr. Kimon Friar.

[lionofchaeronea]

All I love is incessantly reborn All I love is always at its beginning. --Odysseus Elytis (1911-1996), trans. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

[aboutanancientenquiry]

Εν τω μηνί Αθύρ (In the month of Athyr)- a poem of Constantinos Cavafis (Cavafy) with English translation

Με δυσκολία διαβάζω   στην πέτρα την αρχαία. «Κύ[ρι]ε Ιησού Χριστέ».   Ένα «Ψυ[χ]ήν» διακρίνω. «Εν τω μη[νί] Αθύρ»   «Ο Λεύκιο[ς] ε[κοιμ]ήθη». Στη μνεία της ηλικίας   «Εβί[ωσ]εν ετών», το Κάππα Ζήτα δείχνει   που νέος εκοιμήθη. Μες στα φθαρμένα βλέπω   «Αυτό[ν]… Αλεξανδρέα» Μετά έχει τρείς γραμμές   πολύ ακρωτηριασμένες· μα κάτι λέξεις βγάζω –   σαν «δ[ά]κρυα ημών», «οδύνην», κατόπιν πάλι «δάκρυα»,   και «[ημ]ίν τοις [φ]ίλοις πένθος». Με φαίνεται που ο Λεύκιος   μεγάλως θ’ αγαπήθη. Εν τω μηνί Αθύρ   ο Λεύκιος εκοιμήθη.

It is hard to read . . . . on the ancient stone. “Lord Jesus Christ” . . . . I make out the word “Soul”. “In the month of Athyr . . . . Lucius fell asleep.” His age is mentioned . . . . “He lived years . . . .”? The letters KZ show . . . . that he fell asleep young. In the damaged part I see the words . . . . “Him . . Alexandrian.” Then come three lines . . . . much mutilated. But I can read a few words  . . . . perhaps “our tears” and “sorrows.” And again: “Tears” . . . . and: “for us his friend mourning.” I think Lucius . . . . was much beloved. In the month of Athyr . . . . Lucius fell asleep . 

Translated by George Valassopoulos in E.M. Forster, Pharos and Pharillon, Hogarth Press, 1923 from C. P. Cavafy, Poems 1916-18 as published on the Official Website of the Cavafy Archive, http://www.cavafy.com/

[iknewhimwellhoratio]

rip Narcissus, you would have loved flexing in the mirror at the gym

[aestheteasteria]

"I would eat my way into perdition to taste you"

- Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

[flowersandfashion]

Sun & Moon

requested by @oops-it-is-i

[amali4m]

"listening to music in your target language is the best way to learn it" they said "it'll be fun" they said but now i'm listening to smells like teen spirit in classical latin with weird instrumentals in the background.

[moki-dokie]

you know what i'm still not over andrew hozier byrne writing the lyrics "And when the earth is trembling on some new beginnin' With the same sweet shock of when Adam first came"

takes me the fuck out every. single. time.

[mkhancock]

Eurydice’s Memory

by M.K. Hancock

I’ve been through 

Meaningful connections

Among life’s mysteries

A cycling and unorthodox

Series of complexities

Misery in memories

Unresolved grief

My moments

Fragmented to bits

I decode to know

And over the years

With learning and tears

I’ve found them whole again

French Philosopher

Jacques Derrida suggested 

deconstruction

As a manner of viewing

Signs and Sign Processes

(What Semiotics calls

Communication)

Deconstruction

Is a form of Semiotic Analysis

AKA a way to see

What’s deep underneath

Communication

Disassembling

Something as

Significant

As the abrupt

Quiet

Behind Orpheus

Who misses

Eurydice

With every shadow 

He sees

But his heart

Learns to love

Her memory

Always incomplete

But there in his mind

In each moment

He recalls as a

Widower Twice

To one woman

The day is different

And so is he and

Traces of her linger

However incomplete

The memories

Guide his heart

Her words

His mind

Their love

He takes the grief

As a sign it happened

That his loss, as mysterious

As it was, was truly

Real

That one day

He may hold her again

When it is his turn

To cross the Styx

A final time

Until then

The stones may weep

To hear his grieving

Soul release through

Music

His sweetest songs

Gone with her

[tracykestler]

"And iron Ares, even as, helmetless nor lifting warlike spear, he comes into the house of Hephaistos, in such wise without breastplate and without whetted sword danced smilingly [at the wedding]"

--- Colluthus, Rape of Helen 14 ff  on theoi.com

Found the most wonderful description of Ares at the Wedding of Peleus and Thetis. Love how they specifically refrenced every warlike aspect as removed from Ares.

[didoofcarthage]

When they saw Patroklos dead –so brave and strong, so young– the horses of Achilles began to weep; their immortal nature was upset deeply by this work of death they had to look at. They reared their heads, tossed their long manes, beat the ground with their hooves, and mourned Patroklos, seeing him lifeless, destroyed, now mere flesh only, his spirit gone, defenseless, without breath, turned back from life to the great Nothingness.

C.P. Cavafy, “The Horses of Achilles,” from Collected Poems (translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

[theneedyseaflea]

From Modern Mythology: Poems About Gods, Mortals, and Monsters by Nadia McGhee

[savorynights]

Recalque

Estranho e desejoso momento esse em que me encontro.

Perigoso e divertido é o prazer em que me desfruto.

Nada proibido como a história do famoso tabu-fruto.

Em fetichista realidade recalcada e moralista,

morrem os inocentes virgens.

Nada permanece puro.

Eva estava certa ao provar do fruto.

Adão foi infeliz e imaturo.

Do jardim inteiro tiro proveito,

seja das flores ou dos frutos.

E como beija flor, espetarei meu bico em tudo.

Nada vai me parar, meu lugar ao Sol vou conquistar

e diferente de Ícaro, vou prosperar para somente então,

as estrelas tocar.

[aboutanancientenquiry]

“Ελένη”(“Helen”). A poem of Giorgos Seferis with English translation

                                            Ελένη

ΤΕΥΚΡΟΣ: …ἐς γῆν ἐναλίαν Κύπρον, οὗ μ’ ἐθέσπισεν

οἰκεῖν Ἀπόλλων, ὄνομα νησιωτικὸν

Σαλαμῖνα θέμενον τῆς ἐκεῖ χάριν πάτρας.

.........................................................

ΕΛΕΝΗ: Οὐκ ἦλθον ἐς γῆν Τρῳάδ’, ἀλλ’ εἴδωλον ἦν.

.........................................................

ΑΓΓΕΛΟΣ: Τί φῄς;

Νεφέλης ἄρ’ ἄλλως εἴχομεν πόνους πέρι;

ΕΥΡΙΠΙΔΗΣ, ΕΛΕΝΗ

«Τ’ αηδόνια δε σ’ αφήνουνε να κοιμηθείς στις Πλάτρες».

Αηδόνι ντροπαλό, μες στον ανασασμό των φύλλων,

συ που δωρίζεις τη μουσική δροσιά του δάσους

στα χωρισμένα σώματα και στις ψυχές

αυτών που ξέρουν πως δε θα γυρίσουν.

Τυφλή φωνή, που ψηλαφείς μέσα στη νυχτωμένη μνήμη

βήματα και χειρονομίες· δε θα τολμούσα να πω φιλήματα·

και το πικρό τρικύμισμα της ξαγριεμένης σκλάβας.

«Τ’ αηδόνια δε σ’ αφήνουνε να κοιμηθείς στις Πλάτρες».

Ποιές είναι οι Πλάτρες; Ποιός το γνωρίζει τούτο το νησί;

Έζησα τη ζωή μου ακούγοντας ονόματα πρωτάκουστα:

καινούριους τόπους, καινούριες τρέλες των ανθρώπων

ή των θεών·

η μοίρα μου που κυματίζει

ανάμεσα στο στερνό σπαθί ενός Αίαντα

και μιαν άλλη Σαλαμίνα

μ’ έφερε εδώ σ’ αυτό το γυρογιάλι.

Το φεγγάρι

βγήκε απ’ το πέλαγο σαν Αφροδίτη·

σκέπασε τ’ άστρα το�� Τοξότη, τώρα πάει νά βρει

την καρδιά του Σκορπιού, κι όλα τ’ αλλάζει.

Πού είν’ η αλήθεια;

Ήμουν κι εγώ στον πόλεμο τοξότης·

το ριζικό μου, ενός ανθρώπου που ξαστόχησε.

Αηδόνι ποιητάρη,

σαν και μια τέτοια νύχτα στ’ ακροθαλάσσι του Πρωτέα

σ’ άκουσαν οι σκλάβες Σπαρτιάτισσες κι έσυραν το θρήνο,

κι ανάμεσό τους —ποιός θα το ’λεγε— η Ελένη!

Αυτή που κυνηγούσαμε χρόνια στο Σκάμαντρο.

Ήταν εκεί, στα χείλια της ερήμου· την άγγιξα, μου μίλησε:

«Δεν είν’ αλήθεια, δεν είν’ αλήθεια» φώναζε.

«Δεν μπήκα στο γαλαζόπλωρο καράβι.

Ποτέ δεν πάτησα την αντρειωμένη Τροία».

Με το βαθύ στηθόδεσμο, τον ήλιο στα μαλλιά, κι αυτό το ανάστημα

ίσκιοι και χαμόγελα παντού

στους ώμους στους μηρούς στα γόνατα·

ζωντανό δέρμα, και τα μάτια

με τα μεγάλα βλέφαρα,

ήταν εκεί, στην όχθη ενός Δέλτα.

Και στην Τροία;

Τίποτε στην Τροία — ένα είδωλο.

Έτσι το θέλαν οι θεοί.

Κι ο Πάρης, μ’ έναν ίσκιο πλάγιαζε σα νά ηταν πλάσμα ατόφιο·

κι εμείς σφαζόμασταν για την Ελένη δέκα χρόνια.

Μεγάλος πόνος είχε πέσει στην Ελλάδα.

Τόσα κορμιά ριγμένα

στα σαγόνια της θάλασσας στα σαγόνια της γης·

τόσες ψυχές

δοσμένες στις μυλόπετρες, σαν το σιτάρι.

Κι οι ποταμοί φουσκώναν μες στη λάσπη το αίμα

για ένα λινό κυμάτισμα για μια νεφέλη

μιας πεταλούδας τίναγμα το πούπουλο ενός κύκνου

για ένα πουκάμισο αδειανό, για μιαν Ελένη.

Κι ο αδερφός μου;

Αηδόνι αηδόνι αηδόνι,

τ’ είναι θεός; τί μη θεός; και τί τ’ ανάμεσό τους;

«Τ’ αηδόνια δε σ’ αφήνουνε να κοιμηθείς στις Πλάτρες».

Δακρυσμένο πουλί,

στην Κύπρο τη θαλασσοφίλητη

που έταξαν για να μου θυμίζει την πατρίδα,

άραξα μοναχός μ’ αυτό το παραμύθι,

αν είναι αλήθεια πως αυτό ειναι παραμύθι,

αν είναι αλήθεια πως οι ανθρώποι δε θα ξαναπιάσουν

τον παλιό δόλο των θεών·

αν είναι αλήθεια

πως κάποιος άλλος Τεύκρος, ύστερα από χρόνια,

ή κάποιος Αίαντας ή Πρίαμος ή Εκάβη

ή κάποιος άγνωστος, ανώνυμος, που ωστόσο

είδε ένα Σκάμαντρο να ξεχειλάει ��ουφάρια,

δεν το ’χει μες στη μοίρα του ν’ ακούσει

μαντατοφόρους που έρχουνται να πούνε

πως τόσος πόνος τόση ζωή

πήγαν στην άβυσσο

για ένα πουκάμισο αδειανό για μιαν Ελένη.

Γιώργος Σεφέρης. 1955. Κύπρον, οὗ μ᾿ ἐθέσπισεν. Αθήνα: Ίκαρος. Και στον συγκεντρωτικό τόμο: Γιώργος Σεφέρης. [1972] 1985. Ποιήματα. 15η έκδ. Αθήνα: Ίκαρος.

                                           Helen 

BY GEORGE SEFERIS

TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY

Teucer: . . . in sea-girt Cyprus, where it was decreed by Apollow that I should live, giving the city the name of Salamis in memory of my island home. . . . . . . . . . . Helen: I never went to Troy; it was a phantom. . . . . . . . . . . Servant: What? You mean it was only for a cloud that we struggled so much? — Euripides, Helen

‘The nightingales won’t let you sleep in Platres.’

Shy nightingale, in the breathing of the leaves,

you who bestow the forest’s musical coolness

on the sundered bodies, on the souls

of those who know they will not return.

Blind voice, you who grope in the darkness of memory

for footsteps and gestures — I wouldn’t dare say kisses —

and the bitter raving of the frenzied slave-woman.

‘The nightingales won’t let you sleep in Platres.’

Platres: where is Platres? And this island: who knows it?

I’ve lived my life hearing names I’ve never heard before:

new countries, new idiocies of men

or of the gods;

                     my fate, which wavers

between the last sword of some Ajax

and another Salamis,

brought me here, to this shore.

                                             The moon

rose from the sea like Aphrodite,

covered the Archer’s stars, now moves to find

the heart of Scorpio, and alters everything.

Truth, where’s the truth?

I too was an archer in the war;

my fate: that of a man who missed his target.

Lyric nightingale,

on a night like this, by the shore of Proteus,

the Spartan slave-girls heard you and began their lament,

and among them — who would have believed it? — Helen!

She whom we hunted so many years by the banks of the Scamander.

She was there, at the desert’s lip; I touched her; she spoke to me:

‘It isn’t true, it isn’t true,’ she cried.

‘I didn’t board the blue bowed ship.

I never went to valiant Troy.’

Breasts girded high, the sun in her hair, and that stature

shadows and smiles everywhere,

on shoulders, thighs and knees;

the skin alive, and her eyes

with the large eyelids,

she was there, on the banks of a Delta.

                                                        And at Troy?

At Troy, nothing: just a phantom image.

That’s how the gods wanted it.

And Paris, Paris lay with a shadow as though it were a solid being;

and for ten whole years we slaughtered ourselves for Helen.

Great suffering had desolated Greece.

So many bodies thrown

into the jaws of the sea, the jaws of the earth

so many souls

fed to the millstones like grain.

And the rivers swelling, blood in their silt,

all for a linen undulation, a filmy cloud,

a butterfly’s flicker, a wisp of swan’s down,

an empty tunic — all for a Helen.

And my brother?

                        Nightingale nightingale nightingale,

what is a god? What is not a god? And what is there in between them?

‘The nightingales won’t let you sleep in Platres.’

Tearful bird,

                 on sea-kissed Cyprus

consecrated to remind me of my country,

I moored alone with this fable,

if it’s true that it is a fable,

if it’s true that mortals will not again take up

the old deceit of the gods;

                                      if it’s true

that in future years some other Teucer,

or some Ajax or Priam or Hecuba,

or someone unknown and nameless who nevertheless saw

a Scamander overflow with corpses,

isn’t fated to hear

messengers coming to tell him

that so much suffering, so much life,

went into the abyss

all for an empty tunic, all for a Helen.

George Seferis, "Helen" from Collected Poems (George Seferis). Translated, edited, and introduced by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Copyright © 1995 by George Seferis.  Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press.Source: George Seferis: Collected Poems (Princeton University Press, 1995).

 Giorgos Seferis (1900-1971), a career diplomat, was major Greek poet of the 20th century (1963 Nobel Prize of literature).

I remind that the version of the events according to which Helen never went to Troy, but she was in Egypt during the  whole Trojan war is of Herodotean origin (The Histories, Book II, 116-117). Euripides later reworked this version, introducing as part of the plot the story that the gods had sent to Troy a phantom in Helen’s place, a phantom for which Greeks and Trojans were killing each other for ten years... 

[esoteric-dyke]

Do you think he knew he'd do it?

Before he set off

down down deep into the hot melt

of Hades

when he put down his lute like a judges gavel

when soft grass turned

sulphur

and he thought about seeing her face again.

(wouldn’t you, my love?)

And what did they ask him after?

His mates at

the pub in the years that

followed, did he think he was tricked

or fooled did he not believe

it was her-

sweat of soft palms pressed its

religious.

(look at me like you have to,

look like it’ll kill me)

Was he crying?

When he turned like a dead man in

his grave. Did he laugh or scream

or reach out to kiss her

and what was

that empty taste that fell

on his tongue? A question

without answer a record with no

music a prayer

taken in silence

to a dead god.

(wouldn’t you take

my bones between your

bare teeth just

for a second?)

Aphrodite on her highest mountain,

won’t you tell me of Eurydice's

smile when she

saw her lover’s eyes.

[brb-on-a-quest]

Growing up hearing parts of stories like The Iliad as a child, I idolized the Achaean Greeks because they were so cool and like the horse thing was *an absolutely brilliant battle tactic.* Actually reading The Iliad is like "Oh gods, why are the Achaean Greeks committing so many war crimes?????? Why are the Trojans the only people who actually have honor and decency??" and immediately siding with Troy because the majority of them Do Not Deserve This and have been majorly unfortunate.