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Seferis, Giorgos: Thrush II - Sensual Elpenor (Κίχλη Β´ - Ὁ Ἡδονικὸς Ἐλπήνωρ in English)

Portre of Seferis, Giorgos

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Κίχλη Β´ - Ὁ Ἡδονικὸς Ἐλπήνωρ (Greek)

Τὸν εἶδα χτὲς νὰ σταματᾶ στὴν πόρτα
κoιτῶ ἀπὸ τὸ παράθυρό μου θἄ᾿ταν
ἑφτὰ περίπου μιὰ γυναίκα ἦταν μαζί του.
Εἶχε τὸ φέρσιμο τοῦ Ἐλπήνορα, λίγο πρὶν πέσει
νὰ τσακιστεῖ, κι ὅμως δὲν ἦταν μεθυσμένος.
Μιλοῦσε πολὺ γρήγορα, κι ἐκείνη
κοίταζε ἀφηρημένη πρὸς τοὺς φωνογράφους-
τὸν ἔκοβε καμιὰ φορὰ νὰ πεῖ μία φράση
κι ἔπειτα κοίταζε μ᾿ ἀνυπομονησία
ἐκεῖ ποὺ τηγανίζουν ψάρια- σὰν τὴ γάτα.
Αὐτὸς ψιθύριζε μ᾿ ἕνα ἀποτσίγαρο σβηστὸ στὰ χείλια:

- Ἄκουσε ἀκόμη τοῦτο. Στὸ φεγγάρι
τ᾿ ἀγάλματα λυγίζουν κάποτε σὰν τὸ καλάμι
ἀνάμεσα σὲ ζωντανοὺς καρποὺς — τ᾿ ἀγάλματα-
κι ἡ φλόγα γίνεται δροσερὴ πικροδάφνη,
ἡ φλόγα ποὺ καίει τὸν ἄνθρωπο, θέλω νὰ πῶ.

- Εἶναι τὸ φῶς... ἴσκιοι τῆς νύχτας...

- Ἴσως ἡ νύχτα ποὺ ἄνοιξε, γαλάζιο ρόδι,
σκοτεινὸς κόρφος, καὶ σὲ γέμισε ἄστρα
κόβοντας τὸν καιρό.
                             Κι ὅμως τ᾿ ἀγάλματα
λυγίζουν κάποτε, μοιράζοντας τὸν πόθο
στὰ δυό, σὰν τὸ ροδάκινο κι ἡ φλόγα
γίνεται φίλη μὰ στὰ μέλη κι ἀναφιλητὸ
κι ἔπειτα φύλλο δροσερὸ ποὺ παίρνει ὁ ἄνεμος-
λυγίζουν γίνουνται ἀλαφριὰ μ᾿ ἕνα ἀνθρώπινο βάρος.
Δὲν τὸ ξεχνᾶς.

- Τ᾿ ἀγάλματα εἶναι στὸ μουσεῖο.

-Ὄχι, σὲ κυνηγοῦν, πῶς δὲν τὸ βλέπεις;
θέλω νὰ πῶ μὲ τὰ σπασμένα μέλη τους,
μὲ τὴν ἀλλοτινὴ μορφή τους ποὺ δὲ γνώρισες
κι ὅμως τὴν ξέρεις.
                            Ὅπως ὅταν
στὰ τελευταῖα τῆς νιότης σου ἀγαπήσεις
γυναίκα ποὺ ἔμεινε ὄμορφη, κι ὅλο φοβᾶσαι,
καθὼς τὴν κράτησες γυμνὴ τὸ μεσημέρι,
τὴ μνήμη ποὺ ξυπνᾶ στὴν ἀγκαλιά σου-
φοβᾶσαι τὸ φιλὶ μὴ σὲ προδώσει
σ᾿ ἄλλα κρεβάτια περασμένα τώρα
ποὺ ὡστόσο θὰ μποροῦσαν νὰ στοιχειώσουν
τόσο εὔκολα τόσο εὔκολα καὶ ν᾿ ἀναστήσουν
εἴδωλα στὸν καθρέφτη, σώματα ποὺ ἦταν μία φορὰ-
τὴν ἡδονή τους.
                          Ὅπως ὅταν
γυρίζεις ἀπ᾿ τὰ ξένα καὶ τύχει ν᾿ ἀνοίξεις
παλιὰ κασέλα κλειδωμένη ἀπὸ καιρὸ
καὶ βρεῖς κουρέλια ἀπὸ τὰ ροῦχα ποὺ φοροῦσες
σὲ ὄμορφες ὧρες, σὲ γιορτὲς μὲ φῶτα
πολύχρωμα, καθρεφτισμένα, ποὺ ὅλο χαμηλώνουν
καὶ μένει μόνο τὸ ἄρωμα τῆς ἀπουσίας
μιᾶς νέας μορφῆς.
Ἀλήθεια, τὰ συντρίμμια
δὲν εἶναι ἐκεῖνα- ἐσὺ ῾σαι τὸ ρημάδι-
σὲ κυνηγοῦν μὲ μία παράξενη παρθενιὰ
στὸ σπίτι στὸ γραφεῖο στὶς δεξιώσεις
τῶν μεγιστάνων, στὸν ἀνομολόγητο φόβο τοῦ ὕπνου-
μιλοῦν γιὰ περιστατικὰ ποὺ θὰ ἤθελες νὰ μὴν ὑπάρχουν
ἢ νὰ γινόντουσαν χρόνια μετὰ τὸ θάνατό σου,
κι αὐτὸ εἶναι δύσκολο γιατί...

-Τ᾿ ἀγάλματα εἶναι στὸ μουσεῖο.
Καληνύχτα.

-... γιατὶ τ᾿ ἀγάλματα δὲν εἶναι πιὰ συντρίμμια,
εἴμαστε ἐμεῖς. Τ᾿ ἀγάλματα λυγίζουν ἀλαφριὰ …
καλήνύχτα.

Ἐδῶ χωρίστηκαν. Αὐτὸς ἐπῆρε
τὴν ἀνηφόρα ποὺ τραβάει κατὰ τὴν Ἄρκτο
κι αὐτὴ προχώρεσε πρὸς τὸ πολύφωτο ἀκρογιάλι
ὅπου τὸ κύμα πνίγεται στὴ βοὴ τοῦ ραδιοφώνου:
Τὸ ραδιόφωνο

«Πανιὰ στὸ φύσημα τοῦ ἀγέρα
ὁ νοῦς δὲν κράτησε ἄλλο ἀπὸ τὴ μέρα.
Ἄρωμα πεύκου καὶ σιγὴ
εὔκολα θ᾿ ἁπαλύνουν τὴν πληγὴ
ποὺ ἔκαμαν φεύγοντας ὁ ναύτης
ἡ σουσουράδα ὁ κοκωβιὸς κι ὁ μυγοχάφτης.
Γυναίκα ποὺ ἔμεινες χωρὶς ἁφή,
ἄκουσε τῶν ἀνέμων τὴν ταφή.

«Ἄδειασε τὸ χρυσὸ βαρέλι
ὁ γήλιος ἔγινε κουρέλι
σὲ μιᾶς μεσόκοπης λαιμὸ
ποὺ βήχει καὶ δὲν ἔχει τελειωμό-
τὸ καλοκαίρι ποὺ ταξίδεψε τὴ θλίβει
μὲ τὰ μαλάματα στοὺς ὤμους καὶ στὴν ἥβη.
Γυναίκα ποὺ ἔχασε τὸ φῶς,
ἄκουσε, τραγουδᾶ ὁ τυφλός.»

«Σκοτείνιασε- κλεῖσε τὰ τζάμια-
κάνε σουραύλια μὲ τὰ χτεσινὰ καλάμια,
καὶ μὴν ἀνοίγεις ὅσο κι ἂν χτυποῦν-
φωνάζουν μὰ δὲν ἔχουν τί νὰ ποῦν.
Πάρε κυκλάμινα, πευκοβελόνες,
κρίνα ἀπ᾿ τὴν ἄμμο, κι ἀπ᾿ τὴ θάλασσα ἀνεμῶνες
γυναίκα ποὺ ἔχασες τὸ νοῦ,
ἄκου, περνᾶ τὸ ξόδι τοῦ νεροῦ...»

«Ἀθῆναι. Ἀνελίσσονται ραγδαίως
τὰ γεγονότα ποὺ ἤκουσε μὲ δέος
ἡ κοινὴ γνώμη. Ὁ κύριος ὑπουργὸς
ἐδήλωσεν, Δὲν μένει πλέον καιρός...»
«... πάρε κυκλάμινα... πεῦκο βελόνες...
κρίνα ἀπ᾿ τὴν ἄμμο... πεῦκο βελόνες...
γυναίκα. .»
«... ὑπερτερεῖ συντριπτικῶς.
Ὁ πόλεμος...»

ΨΥΧΑΜΟΙΒΟΣ



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://users.uoa.gr

Thrush II - Sensual Elpenor (English)

I saw him yesterday standing by the door
below my window; it was about
seven o’clock; there was a woman with him.
He had the look of Elpenor just before he fell
and smashed himself, yet he wasn’t drunk.
He was speaking fast, and she
was gazing absently towards the gramophones;
now and then she cut him short to say a word
and then would glance impatiently
towards where they were frying fish: like a cat.
He muttered with a dead cigarette-butt between his lips:

— ‘Listen. There’s this too. In the moonlight
the statues sometimes bend like reeds
in the midst of ripe fruit — the statues;
and the flame becomes a cool oleander,
the flame that burns one, I mean.’

— ‘It's just the light. . . shadows of the night.’

— ‘Maybe the night that split open, a blue pomegranate,
a dark breast, and filled you with stars,
cleaving time.
                     And yet the statues
bend sometimes, dividing desire in two,
like a peach; and the flame
becomes a kiss on the limbs, then a sob,
then a cool leaf carried off by the wind;
they bend; they become light with a human weight.
You don’t forget it.’

— ‘The statues are in the museum.’

— ‘No, they pursue you, why can’t you see it?
I mean with their broken limbs,
with their shape from another time, a shape you
don’t recognize  yet know.
                        It’s as though
in the last days of your youth you loved
a woman who was still beautiful, and you were always afraid,
as you held her naked at noon,
of the memory aroused by your embrace;
were afraid the kiss might betray you
to other beds now of the past
which nevertheless could haunt you
so easily, so easily, and bring to life
images in the mirror, bodies once alive:
their sensuality.
                              It’s as though
returning home from some foreign country you happen to open
an old trunk that’s been locked up a long time
and find the tatters of clothes you used to wear
on happy occasions, at festivals with many-coloured lights,
mirrored, now becoming dim,
and all that remains is the perfume of the absence
of a young form.
Really, those statues are not
the fragments. You yourself are the relic;
they haunt you with a strange virginity
at home, at the office, at receptions for the celebrated,
in the unconfessed terror of sleep;
they speak of things you wish didn’t exist
or would happen years after your death,
and that’s difficult because. . .’

— ‘The statues are in the museum.
Good night.’

— ‘. . . because the statues are no longer
fragments. We are. The statues bend lightly. . .
Good night.’

At this point they separated. He took
the road leading uphill toward the North
and she moved on towards the light-flooded beach
where the waves are drowned in the noise from the radio:

— ‘Sails puffed out by the wind
are all that stay in the mind.
Perfume of silence and pine
will soon be an anodyne
now that the sailor’s set sail,
flycatcher, catfish and wagtail.
O woman whose touch is dumb,
hear the wind’s requiem.

‘Drained is the golden keg
the sun’s become a rag
round a middle-aged woman’s neck
who coughs and coughs without break;
for the summer that’s gone she sighs,
for the gold on her shoulders, her thighs.
O woman, O sightless thing,
Hear the blind man sing.

‘Close the shutters: the day recedes;
make flutes from yesteryear’s reeds
and don’t open, knock how they may:
they shout but have nothing to say.
Take cyclamen, pine-needles, the lily,
anemones out of the sea;
O woman whose wits are lost,
listen, the water’s ghost. . .

— ‘Athens. The public has heard
the news with alarm; it is feared
a crisis is near. The prime
minister declared: “There is no more time. . .”
Take cyclamen. . . needles of pine. . .
the lily. . . needles of pine. . .
O woman. . .
— . . . is overwhelmingly stronger.
The war. . .’

Soulmonger.



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://www.poetryfoundation.org

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