Tasos Livaditis/translated by Manolis Aligizakis

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ΕΚΛΕΚΤΙΚΕΣ ΣΥΓΓΕΝΕΙΕΣ

 

Η φτωχή Ραχήλ, ωχρή, με ανίατα όνειρα, θεραπευόταν τώρα

ανάμεσα στα μαύρα δέντρα, όπως ένα τυφλός που με το φλάουτο

κάνει ν’ανθίζει το σκοτάδι ή όπως τα παιδικά παιγνίδια που μια

μέρα εξαφανίζονται σα να τα πήρε μαζί του το παιδί — καθώς

πέθαινε, περίλυπο, μέσα στον άντρα.

 

 

 

SELECTED RELATIONS

 

Poor Rachel, pale, with incurable dreams, now healing herself

among the black trees like the blind man who with his flute makes

the darkness bloom or like the childhood games that one day

suddenly vanish as though a child took them along — as it was dying

sorrowfully into adulthood.

 

 

TASOS LIVADITIS-SELECTED POEMS, translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad, Vancouver, 2014

www.libroslibertad.com

www.manolisaligizakis.com

Yannis Ritsos/translated by Manolis Aligizakis

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ΠΕΡΑΣΜΑ

 

Κοντοστεκόταν στις βιτρίνες των μικρομάγαζων. Δεν είχε

τίποτα ν’ αγοράσει, μόνο που έτσι ακουγόταν καλύτερα

πίσω απ’ την πλάτη του η θάλασσα. Τότε είδε

τους τρεις λιμενεργάτες με τα μαύρα κασκέτα

που κουβαλούσαν βλαστημώντας σ’ ένα γυάλινο φορείο

ένα τεράστιο δασύτριχο ψάρι με κατακίτρινα μάτια.

 

 

PASSAGE

 

He stopped short in front of window displays of small shops. He didn’t

want to buy anything, only this way the sea was

heard better behind his back. Then he saw

the three longshoremen with black caps

who cursed while carrying on a glass stretcher

a huge thick-haired fish with stark yellow eyes.

 

 

YANNIS RITSOS-SELECTED POEMS, translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Ekstasis Editions, Victoria, BC, 2013

 

www.libroslibertad.com

www.manolisaligizakis.com

www.ekstasiseditions.com

SECOND ADVENT OF ZEUS-REVIEW

merging dimensions cover

ΔΕΥΤΕΡΗ ΠΑΡΟΥΣΙΑ ΤΟΥ ΔΙΑ — ΚΡΙΤΙΚΗ

 

~João da Penha

 

ΠΟΙΗΤΗΣ, ΤΟΥ ΠΡΑΓΜΑΤΙΚΟΥ

 

Αν πάρουμε σαν παράδειγμα το τραγούδι του Frank Sinatra που λέει ότι, όλοι τραγουδούν αλλά μόνον δέκα με δώδεκα τραγουδιστές υπάρχουν, μπορούμε να πούμε ότι μόνο τόσοι λίγοι αληθινοί ποιητές υπάρχουν στον κόσμο — εδώ και παντού, ποιητές του χθές ή σημερνοί. Κι υποπτεύομαι ότι δεν θα υπάρξουν ποτέ πολλοί ή τουλάχιστον δεν θα υπάρξουν πολλοί εξαιρετικοί. Κι είμαι σίγουρος πως δεν θα υπάρξουν τόσοι πολλοί όσα τα βιβλία ποίησης που εκδίδονται και προωθούνται από οικονομικά ισχυρούς φορείς και με τίτλους που είναι μόνο για να εντυπωσιάσουν. Συναντούμε πολλές ποιητικές εξαασκήσεις κάνουν ακριβώς αυτό: μιαν εξάσκηση ή φαντάζονται ότι κάνουν. Αλλά εκείνοι που γράφουν εξαιρετική ποίηση είναι λίγοι από λίγους χαρισματικούς που ανήκουν σε μια ξεχωριστή κλάση ανθρώπων.

 

Ο Schiller είπε ότι δεν αρκεί να γράψει κανείς καλούς στίχους για να αυτοονομαστεί ποιητής γιατί ο καθένας κι απανταχού μπορεί να γράψει μερικούς στίχους αλλά αυτοί που γράφουν εξαιρετική ποίηση είναι πολύ λίγοι όπως ανέφερα πιο πάνω. Μόνον η μικρή αυτή κλάση ανθρώπων έχει το χάρτη του μονοπατιού. Κι όσοι το έχουν και γνωρίζουν πώς να το διαβάζουν, και ξέρουν πώς να το εξηγούν, αυτοί μόνο ηγούνται και οδηγούν όλους τους άλλους, όλους μας εννοώ, που αποτελούμε την ομάδα των δημιουργών-ποιητών, προς τον τόπο της ποίησης, κι αν είμαστε ευαίσθητοι στα των Μουσών θα καταλάβουμε. Οι υπόλοιποι θα κάνουν απλά τουρισμό.

 

Ο Eric Ponty, που μετέφρασε το βιβλίο ποίησης του Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη στην Πορτογαλική γλώσσα, έχει το χάρτη του μονοπατιού γιατί είναι ο ίδιος ένας αυθεντικός ποιητής κι η ωριμότητά του είναι ολοφάνερη, όπως μας υπογραμίζει η έκδοση του “Retirement Boy Goes to the Circus in Brodowski” (Εκδόσεις Μούσα, Σάο Πάολο, Βραζιλία, 2003).

 

Στο βιβλίο του Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη, ΔΕΥΤΕΡΗ ΠΑΡΟΥΣΙΑ ΤΟΥ ΔΙΑ που μετέφρασε ο Eric Ponty και συγκεκριμένα στο ποίημα, ΑΠΟΛΛΩΝΑΣ,

 

ΑΠΟΛΛΩΝΑΣ

 

Στον ήλιο του Απόλλωνα μεγάλωσα

 

λεπτά εκφραστικά

μόνος στα σκοτεινά

πρoτού τα μάτια ανοίξω

είχα για συνοδία

το νόμο της αποτυχίας

 

που εγεννήθηκα τυφλός

μ’ είπαν κι αιρετικό

μια επανάσταση στη γέννησή της

πριν καν μια λέξη να ειπώ

κλάμα λυπητερό ή πόνου

 

συγκέντρωσα όλη τη δύναμή μου

το ραντεβού μου με το θάνατο εταχτοποίησα

ώρες πριν γεννηθώ

στα χέρια της μητέρας

νιογένητη γιορτή

λάθος επιτρεπταίο

 

δυο πόδια για να περπατώ

μία καρδιά

για να αισθάνομαι

κι άλλα ανθρώπινα

μεγαλοσύνης σύσσημα

 

Η ανάπτυξη του ποιήματος αυτού αποδεικνύει ότι ο χώρος του ποιητή δεν υποκλείνεται μπροστά σε καθορισμένους λεκτικούς και κανόνες αλληλουχίας που κυβερνούν τον κόσμο της εμπειρίας (τίποτα δεν είναι πιο πραγματικό απ’ το τίποτα, είπε ο Δημόκριτος) κι οι ποιητές το γνωρίζουν αυτό καλά. Γι’ αυτό ακριβώς υπάρχει και το ειδικό λογικό. Ειδικό αλλά όχι αμφισβηταίο ή αυθαίρετο. Ειδικό γιατί οι ποιητές κατέχουν το “κλειδί του βασιλείου”.

 

Ο Croce και ο Vossler, τώρα που το θυμήθηκα, πολέμισαν ένα γύρω στη φράση Η Στρογγυλή Τράπεζα είναι τετράγωνη και για τον Ιταλό αναλυτή η φράση αυτή δηλώνει ότι δεν υπάρχει καθόλου λογική έννοια, ενώ ο Γερμανός αναλυτής έλαβε τη φράση αυτή σαν αληθινή, από αισθητική και γραμματολογική άποψη αδιαφορώντας για το λογικά αδύνατο. Ο Vossler κι “άλλοι πολλοί πριν και μετά απ’ αυτόν κατάλαβαν ότι οι ποιητές είναι ο μόνοι που δημιουργούν την πραγματικότητα. Στην κυριολεξία οι ποιητές δημιουργούν κόσμους όπως στα ποιήματα του Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη που μετέφρασε ο Eric Ponty, μουσικός αλλά και ποιητής, που ακολουθούν τη συμβουλή του Wagner ότι ο ποιητής τονώνει το αντιληπτό του ανθρώπου και τον οδηγεί στο να κάνει νέους συνδυασμούς του αντιληπτέου έχοντας σαν οδηγό την αισθητική του αντίληψη.

 

Αν, όπως μας λέει ο Eric Ponty σ’ ένα απ’ τα ποιήματα αυτά,

 

στα χέρια της μητέρας

νιογένητη γιορτή

λάθος επιτρεπταίο

δυο πόδια για να περπατώ

 

είναι εξ ίσου αληθινό και πρέπει πάντα να δίνουμε προσοχή στο τί μας λένε οι ποιητές (λίγοι εξηγούν τις λέξεις καλύτερα απ’ τους ποιητές, γείτονες των φιλοσόφων). Ο Eric Ponty, στο απόγειο της δημιουργικής του καρριέρας, μας λέει και μας υπογραμμίζει πολλά αφού η μετάφραση των ποιημάτων ΔΕΥΤΕΡΗ ΠΑΡΟΥΣΙΑ ΤΟΥ ΔΙΑ του Κρητικού-Καναδού ποιητή, συγγραφέα και μεταφραστή Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη δεν είναι τίποτε άλλο από ένα ποιητικό αριστούργημα.

 

“…για τη συνεχή του αντανάκλαση-ενδοσκόπηση και λυρική φωνή και τον τρόπο που βλέπει την ύπαρξη όχι σαν ένα στείρο αντικείμενο, αλλά σαν ένα σύνθετο δυναμικό που έχει τη δική του εξαιρετική και ιδιόμορφη εικόνα του αληθινού…” όπως μας λέει ο ποιητής-κριτικός Ηλίας Τουρτίδης, είναι αναγκαίο να δώσουμε προσοχή στη φωνή του Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη μέσω της μετάφρασης του Eric Ponty που είναι ένας ταλαντούχος σημερνός ποιητής.

 

 

~ João da Penha, δημοσιογράφος, συνταξιούχος καθηγητής, που έχει συναργαστεί με πάμπολλα λογοτεχνικά περιοδικά κι εφημερίδες. Επίσης συγγραφέας πολλών βιβλίων όπως των What Is Existentialism (Brasiliense, 2011, 17. ed.) And Philosophical Periods (Ática 2000, 4. ed.). Έχει μεταφράσει για λογοτεχνικά περιοδικά κι εφημερίδες ποίηση των Ρώσων  Sierguêi Iessiênin and Alieksandr Blok και διηγήμτα των José María Argüedas, Júlio Cortázar and Gabriel García Márquez, που εκδόθηκανστη λατινική Αμερική.

 

 

 

SECOND ASDVENT OF ZEUS REVIEW

By João da Penha

 

 

POET, OF FACT.

 

 

Singing, everyone sings, but singers only about ten or twelve.

 

The boutade, they say, is by Frank Sinatra, whose remarkable vocal skills – it seems to me – have not been contested to this day.

To paraphrase the song of the great American singer, it can be said that there are not so many poets like this in the world – here and elsewhere, yesterday and today. I suspect that there will never be many poets, or at least many great poets. At least, I am convinced, not as many as the growing number of edited collections suggest, by marketing strategy arts, just under hyperbolic titles. Many poetic exercise exercises it, or imagine exercising it. But to make great poetry is grace granted to a minority; to a caste of elect, therefore.

Schiller, by the way, has already warned that it is not enough to create good verses so that its author considers himself a poet. Now, to do verses, almost everyone, at some point in life, has already done. To make POETRY, however, is the road traveled by the minority referred to above. Only she, this chosen caste, has the map of the trail. Whoever holds it, who knows how to read it, interprets its coordinates, leads the others, that is, all of us, who have formed this majority, as creators, of the poetic territory, only by traveling, if sensitive to the Muses, as travelers. For the senseless, the tour of this territory will be nothing more than mere tourism.

Eric Ponty has the map of the trail. He is an authentic poet. Maturity is everything, the supreme bard in the “King Lear” told us. Poet, owner of his craft, poet who reached the full domain of poetic making.

His poetic virtuosity, Ponty has already shown and demonstrated in the magnificent “Retirement Boy Goes to the Circus in Brodowski” (Musa Publishing House, São Paulo, 2003.) In this book with its translation, our poet only makes it reaffirmed. For example when translating this stanza of Manolis’ poem Apollo, which reminds us of Paul Valéry’s Socratic prose in Eupalinos Lame et la Danse Dialogue De L arbre:

 

APOLLO

 

And I grew under Apollo’s sun

 

minutes of expressiveness

alone in darkness and

before I opened my eyes

I was accompanied

by the law of failure

born blind and

accused of heresy

a revolution in its making

even before I could utter

a groan or a begging cry

 

I gathered all my strength

to pick a date with death

hours before I appeared

in my mother’s arms

newborn festivity

error permitted

two legs just to walk

a heart as if

to feel emotion and

other human traces

of grandeur

 

 

 

APOLO

 

E eu cresci sob o sol de Apolo

 

Minutos de expressividade

Sozinho nas trevas e

Antes de abrir os meus olhos

Eu estava acompanhado

Pela lei da bobagem

 

Nasceu cega e

Acusada de heresia

Uma conflagração na sua fazendo

Mesmo antes que eu pudesse articular

Um suspiro ou um grito a mendigar

 

Eu ajuntei toda minha força

A seleção de uma data com a morte

Horas antes eu semelhava

Nos meus braços da minha mãe

Festa de um recém-nascido

Erro admitido

As duas pernas apenas a pé

Um coração como se

Sentisse à emoção e

Outros traços humanos

Da grandeza

 

This defense can be translated as the recognition that poets inhabit a province where logic does not bow down to the principles that govern the empirical world (nothing is more real than nothing, pre-Socratic Democritus preached). Poets know that. That’s why your particular logic. Particular, but not arbitrary. Particular because only they have the “kingdom key”.

Croce and Vossler, the memory comes to me now, they polemicized around the phrase: “The round table is square”. For the Italian thinker, the phrase would sum up to a total absence of meaning, illogical, while the German critic saw it as true, aesthetically and grammatically valid, caring little that logically impossible. Vossler, like so many others, before and after him, realized that the poet is the one who creates realities. Poets are creators of worlds. Therefore, in the poems translated by Eric Ponty, a musician, as well as a poet, he follows the Wagnerian advice that the poet does nothing but stimulate the understanding, leading the reader to make new combinations on the subject already known by means of sensory perception.

If, as Ponty tells us in one of the translated poems, “In My Mother’s Arms /newborn festivity / error permitted / two legs just to walk” it is equally true that we should listen to what poets have to say (few decipher the world better than poets, neighbors to philosophers). Eric Ponty, at the height of his creative force, has much to tell us through these translations as he did with Manolis-a Canadian Greek poet who’s credit is The Second Advent of Zeus a masterful piece.

 

“…for his sustained reflection, for a lyrical voice, and an invitation to see life not as a barren subject, but as a complex dynamic that has its own extraordinary design and imago of truth” as Ilya Tourtidis tells us, it is urgent that we listen to Manolis’ voice through the translation of the poet-translator Ponty, one of the most talented of his time.

 

 

 

João da Penha, a journalist and retired professor, collaborated in cultural publications such as Encounters with Brazilian Civilization, Cult and Tempo Brasileiro. Author, among other books, of What Is Existentialism (Brasiliense, 2011, 17. ed.) And Philosophical Periods (Ática 2000, 4. ed.), Translated for magazines and newspapers poems by Russians Sierguêi Iessiênin and Alieksandr Blok, and short stories By José María Argüedas, Júlio Cortázar and Gabriel García Márquez, published in The first short stories of ten masters of Latin American narrative (Paz e Terra, 1978). How to read Wittgenstein. São Paulo: Paulus, 2013.

 

 

Arc Poetry Magazine Review

ARC POETRY MAGAZINE FEATURE REVIEW

 

Harold Rhenisch

 

Love and War and Oranges

Philip Resnick. Footsteps of the Past. Vancouver: Ronsdale Press, 2015.

Nick Papaxanthos. Love Me Tender. Toronto: Mansfield Press, 2015.

Dimitris Lianinis. Hours of the Stars. Surrey, BC: Libros Libertad, 2015.

Tzoutzi Matzourani. Hear Me Out: Letters to My Ex-Lover. Surrey, BC: Libros Libertad, 2015

 

Classicism is the belief that adherence to past models recreates their successes. It’s why art students draw from the nude, formalists write sonnets, and Germany is structured on Goethe’s Faust. It’s also why Canadian poets write in a series of stances called, variously: self-actualization, emotional honesty, imagism, verse, activism, English and French, surrealism, glosas, villanelles, open fields, vers libre, academic deconstruction, and that juggling trick Leonard Cohen did with the oranges. Most commonly, classicism references the artistic works of ancient Greece—usually to foster humanist values. In this review I look at four Canadian poetry books that reference classical Greek modes.

 

Philip Resnick’s Footsteps of the Past is exquisite. Poems such as “West Coast Mythis-torema” and “Paris on a Sunday Afternoon” are tours de force of Greek metrics: mus­cular objects like Greek statues in marble: “limbs and flesh so dear / that words, you feel, are puffs of hollow air, / and images of love / Pygmalions carved in sandstone or in wax” (“Paris on a Sunday Afternoon”). Most of the other poems are satires. My work­ing model: back in the day, such jibes were sung by drunkards caught up in moonlit orgies in the Aegean hills; in civic life, satirical dramas stripped off the masks of power in dances of violence and forgiveness. Resnick’s are elegiac: “faces in a sullied looking glass / that must be digitalized / before they turn to dust” (“Cuarentena”). Often, they sound like pulpit work: “what is familiar becomes with time / a parasite in the intes­tinal flora” (“The Crown in Canada”). Resnick’s honoured dead aren’t the heroic dead of Homer and Alice Oswald, who fight in eternal battle on the scorched plains of the Middle East. They’re ghoulish. In Resnick’s reckoning, classical Greece was a wellspring of Western ideals; its citizens lived in common society, united with land and its spirits. In his Canada, this spirit lingers on in decaying fragments. The millions of people of his Vancouver, whose intellectual traditions honour Daphne and Apollo, have washed up on the shores of Raven’s sea. They have jettisoned classical unity in favour of the ability to live in tall glass rectangles. This is not courage. Reflecting the city’s ennui, many of Resnick’s poems fizzle away, as if a god has been filled with power but then, when fate hangs in the balance, slips down to the pub for a beer and to watch the Canucks lose the Stanley Cup. Classicism here grits its teeth to reveal a broad gap between realities and professed ideals, in beautiful but sad models of civic, occasional and funereal verse.

 

Nick Papaxanthos’ Love Me Tender draws on the oracular tradition of the priestesses of Apollo, who breathed sulfuric vapours to predict the future—in riddles that would ex­cite any neurolinguistic programmer today. His Love Me Tender is like a bomb of dada lobbed into an opposing trench in the Somme: “avocados fudge / blimps to raisins / the inning, lungs / in the fatso and / braids toothpaste.” It’s a bit blunt. Bombs are. Dada is. The sections “The Next Arrangement of Molecules” and “Chairlift to Hell,” though, are classic surrealist games. They just go by at warp speed, that’s all—like fanning a deck of tarot cards instead of laying them down one by one. Here’s one, to give you a taste: “the yo-yo panorama looks out gently / then returns, tinged with blood” (“At the Peak of Mt. Murder”). Fun, or what!? It’s language interrogating itself using a random­ness generator. No, wait: it’s René Char redux, differing only from the original in that Char learned his poetics in the 1940s Resistance, which certainly beat the heroism of running into machine gun fire or its contemporary equivalent, the randomness gener­ator. In Papaxanthos, the resistance continues—just faster than human sight, that’s all, and through the global universalism of surreal imagery. What was originally a group of exiles aggrandizing their verbal powerlessness during WWI by replacing art with nonsense (as the war had replaced civilization with destruction) is now Papaxanthos aggrandizing the hurlers of Molotov cocktails (rather than hurling them.) Have a look at one of his glorifications: “The Meadow of Dents // Light slams the flowers on its way out.” It’s clever stuff. Like the Dadaists, its topic is its own cleverness. It is display and a desire to disappear all at once. That can’t be healthy. For the Dadaists, a gesture like that was violent. Here the violence is turned inward. This is dangerous territory. Another example might help: “In the Atmosphere // of headlight beams and floral bedsheets, / voices trade hellos / from faces turning shyly away.” (Both examples are from “The Next Arrangement of Molecules.”) The text here has replaced “self” identity. Now the text is lobbing the IEDs. The self? The poor thing is embarrassed. Maybe that’s how a poet has to survive in Resnick’s anti-culture: a strong, victorious book is obscured to survive within the culture it tries to replace. That’s the necessary work of a clown. It’s sad that such a ruse is needed. These surreal sequences would be stronger if not vacuum-packed into a container of a size and shape better suited to hold the ashes of Bliss Carman. Such a nod to the norms of Canadian book editing dulls the revolution within these devices. It aestheticizes them. It makes them “safe,” just another turn within a potpourri of verbal gymnastics, compressed to fit. They aren’t the aesthetic objects the book shape—and the Canadian sensibility behind it—makes them to be, and they sure aren’t safe. They deserve their own launch vehicles.

 

Dimitris Liantinis’ Hours of the Stars draws on Greek culture from within. Where Papaxanthos manipulates Greek oracular tradition through secular surrealism, Liantinis uses similarly bizarre imagery within an unbroken connection with the Greek panthe­on. Where Papaxanthos’s Canadian postmodernism employs psychology and industrial identity severed from the earth to view its roots as flotsam left over after a tsunami, recombined into steam punk bangles such as “A sink washes the air’s hands / A detour around a candle darts” (“The Vaccinated Dawn”), Liantinis’ imagery is the oracle: “mem­oirs will be written only / on the edge of the sword / that cracks the cheekbones of the night like walnuts” (“Hercules”). Liantinis lacks Resnick’s and Papaxanthos’s sense of loss, tragedy, romance and bathos. His references to the gods fill the space their emp­tiness fills. In “Aquarius,” for example, an un-named god unearths “the viscera of the desert,” but then miracle—not a burning bush but “Suddenly water drops shone / on the weight of its tiredness and / filled the sun with passengers.” It is a warning against see­ing Greece as the root of the Western tradition, which shows the material faces of God and uses art to create archetype. After all, it’s also the source of Eastern tradition, which apprehends God as archetype and uses art to arrive at material presence. This is a book to set with Seferis, Cavafy and Ritsos. It’s the real deal.

 

Of course, classical tradition isn’t just a high testosterone phalanx of monks and sui­cide bombers battling to see who has the better bronze sword and who the best desert in which to watch the mind writing on silence. It also contains Sappho, writing of her lesbian lover so passionately that no love poem has surpassed hers in 2600 years. In Hear Me Out: Letters to My Ex-Lover, Tzoutzi Matzourani makes direct nods to her: “The agony, the heart ache, the pain in the guts, the longing the yearning each felt for the other, the match, the writhing, the complete surrender” (“The Road to Hell”). She discards many parts of classical tradition. She keeps precision: “What you loved of me, you killed” (“What You Loved”). She sidesteps Plato’s annoying questioning by directly addressing her beloved. She keeps elegy: “Because simply you can’t grasp onto anyone’s hand you can’t grasp onto anything” (“The Lost 1%”)—like Heraclitus and the river you can’t step into twice: “My dry lips still had the taste of watermelon we ate at lunch time, and now, evening already, my glance was glued high up in the sky” (“A Slice of Moon With the Scent of Watermelon Fragrance”). Classical metrics are eschewed for simple stanzas built around exquisite semantic rhythms and the ebbs and flows of prose. These are the sea’s tides, so present they need never be mentioned. Don’t be fooled, though: these letters gradually reveal themselves as notes to: Matzourani’s ex-lovers, the things she has loved, and poetry’s passions and devotions. There is no oracle. This is a real woman, exploring the day-to-day triumphs and pains of love in all of its particulars, consciously aware that she is replacing an entire classical tradition of men jabbering about politics, sociology, religion, architecture, literature, philosophy, etc., with an alter­nate lens: love, and its devotions and attentions. Out of the four books here, all steeped in Greece, it’s hers that extends humanism, and with fused passion, wit and intellect. If an entire century were built on her model, we would do well.

 

        Hours of the Stars and Hear Me Out are poetic triumphs.

 

 

Poetry Presentation

 

20170412_094420Παρουσιάζω ποίησή μου σε μέλη του διδακτορικού προσωπικού και φοιτητές του Πανεπιστημίου του Long Island (LIU) της Νέας Υόρκης, 12 Απριλίου.

Presenting my poetry to the faculty members and students of the University of Long Island, (LIU), New York, April the 12th.

 

Autumn Leaves//Feuilles d’ automne

My poetry book AUTUMN LEAVES translated in French by Károly Sándor Pallai, on the self of the Miskolc Library in Hungary.

Το βιβλίο μου ΦΥΛΛΑ ΦΘΙΝΟΠΩΡΟΥ σε μετάφραση στα γαλλικά από τον Károly Sándor Pallai διαθέσιμο στη βιβλιοθήκη Miskolc στην Ουγγαρία.

Des recueils en français de notre auteur gréco-canadien Manolis Aligizakis et de notre auteur hongrois de Slovaquie Károly Fellinger traduits par Károly Sándor Pallai dans une bibliothèque de Miskolc (Hongrie) !

Books in French of our author Greco-Canadian Manolis Aligizakis and our author Hungarian Slovakia Károly Fellinger translated by Károly Sándor Pallai in a library of miskolc (Hungary)

 

~Manolis Aligizakis//Μανώλης Αλυγιζάκης

 

Tasos Livaditis/translated by Manolis Aligizakis

 

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ΚΕΡΔΗ ΤΗΕ ΝΥΧΤΑΣ

 

Τις μέρες συνήθως ονειρεύομαι ή ματαιοπονώ, αμφιβάλλω

ή υποκύπτω, αλλά όταν κατέβει η νύχτα τρέχω από κήπο σε κήπο

και ακουμπώντας το αυτί μου στις φλούδες των δέντρων

ακούω εκείνον τον αρχαίο λυγμό.

 

 

 

NIGHT GAINS

 

During the day I usually dream or I plough the sand, I debate

or retreat but when night falls I run from garden to garden and

placing my ear on the bark of the trees

I listen to the ancient sob.

 

 

 

TASOS LIVADITIS-SELECTED POEMS, translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad, Vancouver, 2014

www.libroslibertad.com

www.manolisaligizakis.com

 

Yannis Ritsos/translated by Manolis Aligizakis

 

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ΜΙΑ ΑΛΛΗ ΝΥΧΤΑ

 

Αυτός με την κιθάρα, εκείνος με το ακορντεόν. Ώρα προχωρημένη.

Η μουσική τα δικά της. Και πώς να γδυθείς; Έκανε κρύο.

Ξύλινη σκάλα, λίγα λαμπιόνια, η άσπρη λεκάνη.

Μες στο κλεισμένο εστιατόριο, το βιολί πάνω στην καρέκλα.

Στο δεύτερο όροφο πατήματα των χορευτών με γυμνά πόδια,

μπερδεύοντας μπουκάλια, κόκκινες κορδέλες, μαύρα καπέλα.

Είδαμε τότε πως καλύπτει τα μάτια της η δόξα με το `να φτερό της.

 

 

 

A DIFFERENT NIGHT

 

This one with the guitar; that one with the accordion. Late hour.

Music by itself. And how to undress? It was cold.

Wooden staircase, some small lamps, the white basin.

Inside the closed restaurant the violin on the chair.

On the second floor footsteps of barefoot dancers,

mixing up bottles, red ribbons, black hats.

Then we saw how glory covers its eyes with one of its feathers.

 

 

 

YANNIS RITSOS-SELECTED POEMS, translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Ekstasis Editions, Victoria, BC, 2013

 

www.libroslibertad.com

www.manolisaligizakis.com

 

The Second Advent of Zeus-Review

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THE SECOND ADVENT OF ZEUS// REVIEW

By João da Penha

 

 

POET, OF FACT.

 

 

Singing, everyone sings, but singers only about ten or twelve.

 

The boutade, they say, is by Frank Sinatra, whose remarkable vocal skills – it seems to me – have not been contested to this day.

To paraphrase the song of the great American singer, it can be said that there are not so many poets like this in the world – here and elsewhere, yesterday and today. I suspect that there will never be many poets, or at least many great poets. At least, I am convinced, not as many as the growing number of edited collections suggest, by marketing strategy arts, just under hyperbolic titles.

Many poetic exercise exercises it, or imagine exercising it. But to make great poetry is grace granted to a minority; to a caste of elect, therefore.

Schiller, by the way, has already warned that it is not enough to create good verses so that its author considers himself a poet. Now, to do verses, almost everyone, at some point in life, has already done. To make POETRY, however, is the road traveled by the minority referred to above. Only she, this chosen caste, has the map of the trail. Whoever holds it, who knows how to read it, interprets its coordinates, leads the others, that is, all of us, who have formed this majority, as creators, of the poetic territory, only by traveling, if sensitive to the Muses, as travelers. For the senseless, the tour of this territory will be nothing more than mere tourism.

Eric Ponty has the map of the trail. He is an authentic poet. Maturity is everything, the supreme bard in the “King Lear” told us. Poet, owner of his craft, poet who reached the full domain of poetic making.

His poetic virtuosity, Ponty has already shown and demonstrated in the magnificent “Retirement Boy Goes to the Circus in Brodowski” (Musa Publishing House, São Paulo, 2003.) In this book with its translation, our poet only makes it reaffirmed. For example when translating this stanza of Manolis’ poem Apollo, which reminds us of Paul Valéry’s Socratic prose in Eupalinos Lame et la Danse Dialogue De L arbre:

 

APOLLO

 

And I grew under Apollo’s sun

 

minutes of expressiveness

alone in darkness and

before I opened my eyes

I was accompanied

by the law of failure

born blind and

accused of heresy

a revolution in its making

even before I could utter

a groan or a begging cry

 

I gathered all my strength

to pick a date with death

hours before I appeared

in my mother’s arms

newborn festivity

error permitted

two legs just to walk

a heart as if

to feel emotion and

other human traces

of grandeur

 

 

 

APOLO

 

E eu cresci sob o sol de Apolo

 

Minutos de expressividade

Sozinho nas trevas e

Antes de abrir os meus olhos

Eu estava acompanhado

Pela lei da bobagem

 

Nasceu cega e

Acusada de heresia

Uma conflagração na sua fazendo

Mesmo antes que eu pudesse articular

Um suspiro ou um grito a mendigar

 

Eu ajuntei toda minha força

A seleção de uma data com a morte

Horas antes eu semelhava

Nos meus braços da minha mãe

Festa de um recém-nascido

Erro admitido

As duas pernas apenas a pé

Um coração como se

Sentisse à emoção e

Outros traços humanos

Da grandeza

 

This defense can be translated as the recognition that poets inhabit a province where logic does not bow down to the principles that govern the empirical world (nothing is more real than nothing, pre-Socratic Democritus preached). Poets know that. That’s why your particular logic. Particular, but not arbitrary. Particular because only they have the “kingdom key”.

Croce and Vossler, the memory comes to me now, they polemicized around the phrase: “The round table is square”. For the Italian thinker, the phrase would sum up to a total absence of meaning, illogical, while the German critic saw it as true, aesthetically and grammatically valid, caring little that logically impossible. Vossler, like so many others, before and after him, realized that the poet is the one who creates realities. Poets are creators of worlds. Therefore, in the poems translated by Eric Ponty, a musician, as well as a poet, he follows the Wagnerian advice that the poet does nothing but stimulate the understanding, leading the reader to make new combinations on the subject already known by means of sensory perception.

If, as Ponty tells us in one of the translated poems, “In My Mother’s Arms /newborn festivity / error permitted / two legs just to walk” it is equally true that we should listen to what poets have to say (few decipher the world better than poets, neighbors to philosophers). Eric Ponty, at the height of his creative force, has much to tell us through these translations as he did with Manolis-a Canadian Greek poet who’s credit is The Second Advent of Zeus a masterful piece.

 

“…for his sustained reflection, for a lyrical voice, and an invitation to see life not as a barren subject, but as a complex dynamic that has its own extraordinary design and imago of truth” as Ilya Tourtidis tells us, it is urgent that we listen to Manolis’ voice through the translation of the poet-translator Ponty, one of the most talented of his time.

 

 

 

João da Penha, a journalist and retired professor, collaborated in cultural publications such as Encounters with Brazilian Civilization, Cult and Tempo Brasileiro. Author, among other books, of What Is Existentialism (Brasiliense, 2011, 17. ed.) And Philosophical Periods (Ática 2000, 4. ed.), Translated for magazines and newspapers poems by Russians Sierguêi Iessiênin and Alieksandr Blok, and short stories By José María Argüedas, Júlio Cortázar and Gabriel García Márquez, published in The first short stories of ten masters of Latin American narrative (Paz e Terra, 1978). How to read Wittgenstein. São Paulo: Paulus, 2013.

 

 

Tasos Livaditis/Translated by Manolis Aligizakis

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ΠΑΡΑΛΕΙΠΟΜΕΝΑ ΜΙΑΣ ΕΠΟΧΗΣ

 

Έτσι από όνειρο σε όνειρο έφτασα κάποτε στη ζωή μου.

Κουβαλούσα τα χειρόγραφα μιας μεγάλης εποχής, πήγαινα να

τα θάψω στον Ειρηνικό.

Τώρα με μια παλιά ρομβία πρσπαθώ να ξαναφέρω πίσω τα χρόνια

αλλά δυσκολεύομαι και προσθέτω και λίγο αλκοόλ,

μια γυναίκα θηλάζει το μωρό της μες στο γαλάζιο απόβραδο —

κάποτε θα σκοτωθώ και θ’ ακουστεί ο θείος λόγος.

 

 

 

SEASON’S LEFTOVERS

 

Thus from dream to dream at some time I got caught up

with my life. I carried hand written documents of a great

season I was to throw them into the Pacific Ocean.

Now with an old street organ I try to bring back the years but

it’s hard to do so and I add some alcohol

a woman nurses her baby in the light-blue evening —

someday I’ll be killed and the divine word will be heard.

 

 

TASOS LIVADITIS, translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad, Vancouver, 2014

www.libroslibertad.com

www.manolisaligizakis.com