As history teaches us, the contrast between life and art has made it easy to think of Cavafy in the abstract, as an artist whose work exists free from tradition and attachment to a specific moment in time. This trend has been prompted by the two elements of his poetry for which he is most famous: his surprisingly contemporary theme (one of his themes, at least), and his attractive and direct style.

Certainly there have always been many readers who appreciate the so-called historical poems, situated in magical places of the Mediterranean during times that have been long dead and acrimonious with sociable irony and a certain tired stoicism. (“Ithaca gave you the beautiful journey, / without her you would not have put in the passage. / But now she has nothing to give you,” he writes in what may be the most famous evocation of ancient Greek culture: the journey is always more important than the fatefully disappointing destination.) This can be seen in the poem:


Honor to all of those who in their lives

have settled on, and guard, a Thermopylae.

Never stirring from their obligations;

just and equitable in all of their affairs,

but full of pity, nonetheless, and of compassion;

generous whenever they’re rich, and again

when they’re poor, generous in small things,

and helping out, again, as much as they are able;

always speaking nothing but the truth,

yet without any hatred for those who lie.

And more honor still is due to them

when they foresee (and many do foresee)

that Ephialtes will make his appearance in the end,

and that the Medes will eventually break through


But it is probably fair to say that the popular reputation of Cavafy rests almost entirely on the remarkably preexisting way in which his other “sensual” poems, often not considered as this poet’s gift, deal with the ever-fascinating and pertinent themes of erotic desire, realization and loss.

The way, too, when memory preserves what desire so often cannot sustain. That desire and longing only makes it appear more contemporary, closer to our own times. Perhaps this is the case with Manolis’ poem:



After leaving our marks

on the sole lamppost

we parted

she to the west

I to the east

with a promise

to meet again

by this lamppost

and trace our marks

though we never thought of the Sirens

the Cyclops and the angry Poseidon

though we never thought of the pricey



No one but Cavafy, who studied history not only eagerly but with a studious respect and meticulous attention to detail, would have recognized the dangers of abstracting people from their historical contexts; and nowhere is this abstraction more dangerous than in the case of Cavafy himself.




You said: “I’ll go to another land, to another sea;
I’ll find another city better than this one.
Every effort I make is ill-fated, doomed;
and my heart —like a dead thing—lies buried.
How long will my mind continue to wither like this?
Everywhere I turn my eyes, wherever they happen to fall
I see the black ruins of my life, here
where I’ve squandered, wasted and ruined so many years.”
New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas.
The city will follow you. You will return to the same streets.
You will age in the same neighborhoods; and in these
same houses you will turn gray. You will always
arrive in the same city. Don’t even hope to escape it,
there is no ship for you, no road out of town.
As you have wasted your life here, in this small corner
you’ve wasted it in the whole world.


Surely his work is as good as great poetry can be and at the same time timeless in the way we like to think that great literature can be alchemizing details of the poet’s life, times and obsessions into something relevant to a large audience over the years and even centuries.

But the tendency to see Cavafy as one of us, as one in our own time, speaking to us with a voice that is transparent and admittedly ours about things whose meaning is self-evident, threatens to take away a specific detail one that, if we give it back to him, makes him look larger than life and more a poet of the future, as it was once described, rather than the time he lived in. This detail also pertains to the biography of Manolis who refers to mythical passages of his home-country and unfolds scenes of sensuality, abandonment and loss.

Cavafy’s style, to begin with, is far less prosaic, much richer although not musical, and rooted deeply in the nineteenth century in which he lived for more than half of its life. Some readers will be surprised to learn that many of Cavafy’s poems, even when he was almost forty, were cast as sonnets or other prepared forms of verse.

Manolis was born in Kolibari a small village west of Chania on the Greek island of Crete in 1947. At an early age his family took him first to Thessaloniki and then to Athens where he was educated, earning a Bachelor of Science in Political Science from the Panteion University of Athens.

The subject in some of Cavafy which tend to be overlooked by readers as difficult are the poems deliberately placed in the dark, geographical and temporal margins of the Greek past: poems which seem not to have much to do with today’s concerns and are often passed in favor of works with more contemporary appeal.

Perhaps this is the case with Manolis who draws from the same Greek sources as Cavafy does making historical references to Greece, the cradle where his soul was born, when he creates the Greek myths interacted in his contemporary poetry. Even far from his motherland Greece where he resides now he still retains in his poetic memory, images and themes he channels through verve in this book and others.


Can Manolis channel the beauty as easily as he describes in his verse? “An ancient time leader / as an anointed and pious / a musical instrument of candor flowing free / ready to speak with words that relieve pain and free the soul?” Yes its main tool is its firsthand experience of the power of Eros. His psychological makeup attracts and conveys authenticity and happiness based on his worship and being adored by sensual and provocative female figures exposing him in an ecstatic transcendence through his bodies of lust and his deep love and dedicated understanding. It is obvious that he finds his purpose in falling in love passionately for his beloved.

He does not hide that before he emerged he wanted to become “a festival / movement song of a bird / a vesper / a simple sigh / that will heal the lips of his beloved.” If he feels impotent in the face of inconceivable and unlimited Destiny, he declares that a woman’s embrace beckons him and he likes to give in to his passion: “dark and vague circle / forever indeterminable / and this, the command / and this, the Obedience / This, the orgasm / and this, the Eros / and this is you.” He feels being favored by Eros he diffuses his burning passion with light that fills his erotic verses. As a gallant defender of lust and sensuality and the true emotions of love, he delivers the joy and joy to the soul.


Both idealism and pragmatism, messianism, but also the tradition in the languor of the senses, the subjects of love dedicated to ephemeral satisfaction and erotic drunkenness make up the changes of its vast poetic content. Having the maturity of an accomplished poet and the ability to create evocative images in a personal way, the poet introduces us to what constitutes the most brilliant expression of his most intimate thoughts and beliefs in front of the world of his time and age.

The way, too, where memory preserves what desire so often can’t sustain. That desire and longing were for other men only makes it appear more contemporary, closer in our own times as we see in this opening poem of Golden Kiss, which poem may seem obscene and prosaic created by a minor poet, but when creating by a poet as Manolis locks up the erotic aura of a Moravia.


like a bird stilled by camera lens

her scandalous vulva visits his mind

from days of that August

on the scorched island

in low tone siesta

in muffled moaning

lest the mirror would crack from tension



In the 1880s and 1890s, Constantine Cavafy was a young man with modest literary ambitions, writing verses and contributing articles, critiques and essays, mostly in Greek but in English (A language in which he was perfectly at home as a result of spending a few of his adolescence years in England), on a number of idiosyncratic subjects, Alexandria and Athenian newspapers. This similarity in biographies binds Cavafy with Manolis who lives in Vancouver and writes poems in Greek and English referring to both countries.


Yannis Ritsos was born in Monemvasia, Greece, on May 1, 1909, in a family of landowners. He did his early schooling and finished high school in Gythion, Monemvasia and after graduating in 1925, he moved to Athens where he began working on typing and copying legal documents. A year later, he returned to his home town where he spent his time writing and painting, another form of art that he devoted himself which along with his writing he kept for the rest of his life, perhaps the painting has given him elements of his sensual poems:



Our women are distant, their sheets smell of goodnight.

They put bread on the table as a token of themselves.

It’s then that we finally see we were at fault; we jump up saying,

‘Look, you’ve done too much, take it easy, I’ll light the lamp.

’She turns away with the striking of the match,

walking towards the kitchen, her face in shadow,

her back bent under the weight of so many dead –

those you both loved, those she loved, those

you alone loved . . . yes . . . and your death also


Listen: the bare boards creaking where she goes.

Listen: the dishes weeping in the dishrack.

Listen: the train taking soldiers to the front.



Sometimes the poems are invested with the fractured logic of the dream with images of dream events or they’re placed in a landscape of dreams that grows, as one reads more, more and more recognizable, less strange, always attractive. At the same time, their locations and quotations are redemptive of a completely recognizable Greece: the balconies, the geraniums, the statuary, women in their black attires and, in a lasting way, the sea. His touch is light, but its effect is profound. Much depends on the image that causes the narrative movement. Some poems are so small, so distilled, that the fragments of history given to us – the kids’ psychodramas – have an irresistible power. “The less I get the bigger it gets,” said Alberto Giacometti and the same powerful reticence is a feature in Ritsos’ shorter poems.


The content of Yannis Ritsos also deserves renewed attention – both the specific themes of the individual poems, which in fact keep the historical and the erotic in a single focus.

Eroticism is one of the appearances of man’s inner life. In this one deludes himself because one is seeking his fixed object of desire. But this object of desire responds to the internal desire. The choice of an object always depends on the individual’s personal tastes: even if it falls on the woman most would have selected, what comes into play is often an unspeakable aspect, not an objective characteristic of this woman unless she has touched the inner being of man she creates the force to choose her.

The notion of disorientation (similar, perhaps, to the effect of a mild virus), when heightened emotion puts us at odds with the world, when the aromas become sour, when a view of the garden becomes desolate, when household objects shed their purpose, is perfectly evoked in these ten lines. There is an immediate recognition of a precarious ontological state tied to a story until, a moment later, we realize that we can see that street, see that window, see through that door:





It was just luck: I open the door, the two women

side by side on the sofa


in his black handkerchief,

mother and daughter, perhaps,


staying immobile, unpronounceable, a mouthful of bread

on the table, a cat sleeping on the couch.


Looking away and the sun at the top of the waves, cicadas

the swallows attractions in blue. They look back.


I almost had it, I almost had it in one of them.

Then Mother got up and closed the door.


This poem by Yannis Ritsos refers us to another poem by Manolis but more sensual and right:


Nothing to hold onto

but ourselves in lust

and the cenotaph with

names engraved in marble

yet in this near futile void

a sudden speck of light

gleams on Suzanne’s breast

as a lightning flash like

when her eyes demanded

a deeper meaning to this: are we

to search for it during this dark night

with our two bodies as the only absolution?


The sensuality of the Mediterranean world may be in the Greek soul of the poets to a greater or lesser degree, as we have seen over the years and centuries, referring to the idea that the Greek gods though dead are alive in the souls of the Greeks: Eros and Dionysus are alive from the bygone days of yesteryears to today and even more so in the case of Manolis who lives in Vancouver but has not forgotten his Cretan roots, and he writes in both Greek and English and shows with his simple poem Golden Kiss the sensual and erotic connection between his poetry and that of Cavafy and Yannis Ritsos.


~Eric Ponty, poet, translator, Sao Paolo, Brazil, 2016

Τάκης Βαρβιτσιώτης, Εξόριστος

Βίκυ Παπαπροδρόμου: ό,τι πολύ αγάπησα (ποίηση, πεζογραφία & μουσική)


Εξόριστος μες σ’ ένα μακρινό χιονοστρόβιλο
Κρυμμένος πάντα μες στην ομίχλη
Απλώνεις το χέρι σου στα πιο ταπεινά πράγματα

Στον καπνό που στέφει το τζάκι
Στο κλειδί που σκουριάζει στην έρημη πόρτα
Στη μικρούλα φωτιά του χειμώνα

Ξυπνάς στη βροχή που κοιμάται
Μες σ’ ένα γυάλινο φέρετρο

Ξυπνάς τ’ αρώματα των κάμπων
Και ντύνεσαι τη μελωδία τ’ ουράνιου τόξου

Έτοιμος για τη συγκομιδή του κενού

Από τη συλλογή Το ξύλινο άλογο (1955) του Τάκη Βαρβιτσιώτη

Οι ποιητές της Θεσσαλονίκης τον 20ό αιώνα και ως σήμερα (ανθολογία) / Τάκης Βαρβιτσιώτης

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Ἀρτέμης ~ Mashup Sessions II 05. Ἀναμάρτητος Κανείς (Electronic Version) / Λυκόσχημος Ἀμνὸς

the Tempest Ahead

Εἶν’ ὁ Λυκόσχημος Ἀμνός, ὁ πράκτωρ τοῦ φωτός,
αὐτὸς ποὺ εἶναι ἐντὸς τοῦ κόσμου καὶ συγχρόνως ἐκτός.
Μέσα στὴν περιοχὴ τῆς βοώσας σιωπῆς.
Ὁ ἀφανής, ἐργάτης τῆς ἀρετῆς.
Εἶν’ ἡ πνευματικὴ ἀναφορά, μέσα στὴ φθορά,
ἡ εὐωδία τοῦ μύρου, στὴ δυσώδη ἀποφορά.
Φορᾶ τοῦ λύκου τὴ δορά· αὐτὴ εἶναι ἡ στολή του!
προσηλωμένος σταθερὰ στὴν ἀποστολή του!
Σὲ στάσιμη κίνηση καὶ ἀεικίνητη στάση.
Πίσω ἀπὸ τὶς ἐχθρικὲς γραμμὲς καλεῖται νὰ δράσει.
Ἐθελοντὴς στὸν πόλεμο κατὰ τοῦ Matrix,
ἀπ’ ὅταν πρωτοσήμανε ἡ χρυσόφωνη σάλπιγξ!

Ἄγρυπνος φρουρός, ἐξ ὄρθρου ἄχρι νυκτός,
ὁ ἀληθινός, ὁ ὄντως πολεμιστὴς τοῦ φωτός.
Σαμποτὲρ πνευματικός, μὲ σοφίαν ἐξ ὕψους,
γκρεμιστὴς τῶν τεχνασμάτων τοῦ κήτους!
Χάος ὁλόγυρα, βαβελικὴ ἀτμόσφαιρα, κι αὐτὸς
κρατᾶ τῆς ἱερῆς παράδοσης τὰ ζώπυρα.
Ἀπαστράπτων σάπφειρος στὸν βόρβορο,
ἱστάμενος μέσα στὸν γενικότερο ὄλεθρο.
Τὴ βιοτή του καὶ τὸ ἦθος, δὲν ὑποψιάζεται
τὸ πλῆθος, ἀφοῦ κρίνει ἐξ ὄψεως συνήθως.
Ὅλοι ξεγελιοῦνται ἀπ’ τὸ ἐξωτερικό του σχῆμα

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Οι “Χάριτες”


Οι Χάριτες στην αρχαιότητα συμβόλιζαν ό,τι πιο ευγενικό, όμορφο και αγνό υπήρξε ποτέ στη Γη. Ήταν το ιδανικό της σεμνότητας, της άψογης συμπεριφοράς και της ευπροσηγορίας. “Χάρις” σήμαινε, πρώτα, χαρά· την χαρά που εκπέμπει κάποιος όταν τον χαρακτηρίζουν ευγενικά συναισθήματα, αλλά και την χαρά και τέρψη που προκαλεί στους γύρω του. Η “Χάρις” ήταν ακόμη συνώνυμο της ερασμιότητας, της ευεργεσίας και της ευγνωμοσύνης.

Ήταν κόρες του Δία και της Ωκεανίδας Νύμφης Ευρυνόμης. Υπήρχαν όμως και διάφορες άλλες εκδοχές για την καταγωγή τους. Μητέρα τους θεωρείται η Ήρα, ή η Ευνομία, ή η Λήθη, ή η Αφροδίτη και πατέρας τους ο Ουρανός, ή ο Διόνυσος. Υπήρχε επίσης, ασάφεια σχετικά με το πόσες ήταν και πώς ονομάζονταν, καθώς και ποικίλες εκδοχές προέλευσης από τόπο σε τόπο. Σε παλαιότερες εποχές ήταν μία ή δύο και ήταν γνωστές ως σύζυγοι μεγάλων θεών ή ως…

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Αυτό δεν είναι τραγούδι #904
Dj της ημέρας, η Τσαμπίκα Χατζηνικόλα

εσένα επέλεξα
για ό,τι αγάπησα πολύ κι έχασα
κι ας ήταν βολικότερη η λήθη.
Στο γύρισμα του χρόνου,
Έλα, λοιπόν!
Μόνο μη φέρεις τίποτα μισό,
ολόκληρη τη θέλω την ανάμνηση,
μήπως και ξανανιώσει σώμα και ψυχή
κάτι από ’κείνον τον εξαίσιο έρωτα.

* * *


Εικόνα εξωφύλλου: Σαλβαδόρ Νταλί, «Η επιμονή της μνήμης» (1931)

* * *

Κάθε βράδυ, ένας συνεργάτης ή φίλος του dim/art διαλέγει ένα τραγούδι — ή, μάλλον όχι· αυτό δεν είναι τραγούδι, ή δεν είναι μόνο ένα τραγούδι: είναι μια ιστορία για ένα τραγούδι. Στείλτε μας κι εσείς ένα τραγούδι που δεν είναι τραγούδι στο dimartblog@gmail.com. 

Εδώ άλλα τραγούδια που δεν είναι τραγούδια

Το dim/art στο facebook

Το dim/art στο twitter



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Concierto de Aranjuez



Αυτό δεν είναι τραγούδι #981
Dj της ημέρας, η Νάση Αναγνωστοπούλου

Και ξαφνικά, με αφορμή ένα αθώο παιχνιδάκι σε ένα μέσο κοινωνικής δικτύωσης —ξέρετε, από αυτά που όλοι λατρεύουμε να μισούμε—, να μια ακόμη βουτιά στο παρελθόν, που όμως έγινε αιτία κι αφορμή για ένα γερό ξεσκόνισμα της «πατίνας του χρόνου» που έχει κατακάτσει και σε άλλα «διαμερίσματα» χωμένα στις έτσι κι αλλιώς παραχωμένες κυψέλες των εγκεφαλικών μου κυττάρων, χωμένα όμως σε επίπεδα πιο πρόσφατα από τις εικόνες της παιδικής μου ηλικίας στις οποίες με ταξίδεψε μια μνήμη…

Το ξέρω σας τα λέω μπερδεμένα, η σειρά είναι άλλη: η μαμά μου, οι ραδιοφωνικές εκπομπές που άκουγε (άρα κι εγώ καθισμένη στα πόδια της για παρέα, τώρα τί παρέα μπορεί να κάνει ένα νήπιο στη μαμά μου δεν το ξέρω αλλά μάλλον με παραμύθιαζε να της κάνω παρέα για να μην κάνω αταξίες στη διάρκεια της …απουσίας της, γιατί απούσα ήταν…

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