Wheat Ears, Selected Poems


Your gown touches the ground

outline of your body

visible delicious and ethereal

breeze voraciously besieges your legs

dictating their every move

and I want to build a church

to match your angelic shape

an altar to erect 

atop the inviting space

designed by your thighs

point of reverence

for the upcoming generations

an icon to place high up

where the anger subsides

and your mound stands

unerring judge of both

the dead and the alive


Katerina Anghelaki Rooke – Selected Poems


How many times it dawned in Greece

before I was born

after my death

how many times the rosy color

and the old woman with the vegetables

in the metro to the sea at Phaliro.

How many times Brallos

kept on being white

in the winter morning

stone different from other stone

first surprise, as I return

from abroad thirsty and

I haven’t discovered the language

of my own things.

How many times

it was dawning in Greece

with the few, the small

the meagre

the bitter almond tree and the amaranthus

with all the wrong things I learned

with everything I imprudently loved.


I live here and I long

for this same landscape

as if I miss it

with each glance


Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Selected Books, Volume II, Second Edition


Bit by bit we learn the world and our hearts

we try a word that weights equally on all lips

like the word mother

like the word bread

like the word comrade.

We dress broad beans and peel potatoes

we carry rocks and water

we take turns in cleaning the toilets and

we push the cart with our tiredness uphill.

For this our hands have the same movement

they grope for the silence and death during the night

they coil in fists inside the pockets

they study the lines of a rifle

as they once studied the body of a woman

they tie themselves on the mast of the flag

like they suckled their mother’s breast.

For this our eyes meet at the same spot gazing

          at the sea

as if we had no water for three or more days

and the water truck isn’t coming

and patience bites its hands.

At that time the same angry ship passes through

         every eye

a ship we know well

loaded with water pitchers and flags.

Then we don’t talk at all;

the eyes understand without words

only the feet kneed the mud harder

to make bricks, to pile them around the tents

to protect ourselves from the winter, the rain and

           the cold.

These bricks look nice made of reddish soil

a whole army of bricks, square, drying in the sunshine

         quiet, austere, thoughtful.

Our words have to be this way, I’m thinking,

kneed with reddish soil and sea

kneed by the strong, angry feet of the thirsty comrades

left to dry up in the sunshine and the wind

so we can build a lot of songs to protect our hearts

         from the rain and the cold.

We don’t talk.

The day before yesterday a comrade bit his tongue not

         to betray anything

another one cut off his hand to avoid signing his confession

yesterday they took 14 others to the military court.

At night I think of the words a cut off tongue could say

words a severed hand could write

some words, everyday words like bread on the lap

          of a hungry exiled

like the curse the unjustly treated keeps in his mouth

          during the night  

like the ah of a mother who lights her oil lamp over

the empty beds of her three children,

like the bitten bullet in the palm of a democrat.

The moon falls in through the hole of the tent like

          a severed tongue.

We’re still unable to talk.


Γιώργος Θέμελης: Δενδρόκηπος (III, α. Ιντερμέδιο)

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



α. Ιντερμέδιο

—Μου δίνετε την ταυτότητά σας;
—Να σας ανοίξω την καρδιά μου.

Ο αριθμός μου είναι αριθμός μου.

Δεν είμ’ αυτός, δεν είμ’ εκείνος.
Να σας χαρίσω την ψυχή μου.

Ο καθρέφτης μου είναι ο καθρέφτης μου.

Μη με κοιτάτε μες στα μάτια,
Κοιτάξτε με ως εν εσόπτρω.

Όπου πηγαίνω, σέρνω και τη μοίρα μου
Μαζί με την ταυτότητά μου και τ’ όργανο που παίζω.

Όπου πηγαίνω, δένω το καράβι μου
Μαζί με το σκυλί μου και το μαχαίρι μου.

Όπου πηγαίνω, βάζω τα παπούτσια μου
Μαζί με την καρδιά μου και το καπέλο μου.

Όπου πηγαίνω, παίρνω και τον ίσκιο μου
Μαζί με τη φωτιά μου και τα τσιγάρα μου.

Όπου πηγαίνω, ανοίγω και ψάλλω
Των παθών μου τον ύμνο, την ταφή.

Όπου πηγαίνω, βλέπω τον καιρό,
Κοιτάζομαι ως εν εσόπτρω.

Κάθομαι αντίκρυ μου και τον ακούω που παίζει,
Σαν ένα ορφανό παιδί τη φυσαρμόνικά του.

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Μικρά βήματα για να λυθεί το αίνιγμα “Γραμμική Α”


Γράφει ο Δημήτρης Μιχαλόπουλος

Γεμάτη μυστήρια είναι η Ελλάδα μας! Τι να πρωτοπιάσει και τι να αφήσει κανείς… Την πυραμίδα που αδρομερώς διαγράφεται στην κορυφή του Ταΰγετου; Τους Δροσουλίτες της Κρήτης; Τον ποταμό ο οποίος πηγάζει στην Πελοπόννησο και εκβάλλει στη Σικελία; Τα σπήλαια που η λαϊκή μας παράδοση περιβάλλει με θρύλους, πολλοί από τους οποίους πότε-πότε αποδεικνύονται αληθινοί; Τα περίεργα που, όπως λέγεται, συμβαίνουν στο Αγκίστρι του Σαρωνικού; Τα παράδοξα που, σύμφωνα με επανειλημμένες μαρτυρίες, γίνονται στον Υμηττό;

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