Τούτη εποχή / του εμφύλιου σπαραγμού
δεν είναι εποχή για ποίηση /και άλλα παρόμοια:
σαν πάει κάτι να γραφή /είναι ως να γραφόταν
από την άλλη μεριά / αγγελτηρίων θανάτου
γι' αυτό και τα ποιήματά μου
είν' τόσο πικραμένα
(και πότε — άλλοτε — δεν ήταν)
κι είναι — προ πάντων —
και τόσο λίγα.
Ν. Εγγονόπουλος "ΕΛΕΥΣΙΣ", 1948
"Α, δεν μ' αρέσει το πολύστιχον αυτό,
εκφράσεις τοιούτου είδους
μοιάζουν κάπως σαν λιποψυχίες
ίσα ίσα τώρα περιμένω κι απαιτώ
να σηκωθούν οι ποιητές
να γράψουν ποιήματα φλεγόμενα
να μπουν οι στίχοι τους στα οδοφράγματα
να βάλουν στο έργο τους όλη τη δύναμή τους"
έτσι είπε και το δάχτυλο κουνούσε
και χίλιες σκέψεις μου περνούσαν απ' το νου
"καλά τα λέει" σκεφτόμουνα
κι ύστερα "μπα, ανοησίες"
κι αμέσως πάλι "έχει δίκιο το παιδί"
μα όλα αυτά είχανε λίγη σημασία
γιατί εν τέλει όποιο κι αν είναι το σωστό
πώς να γράψει κανείς αυτές τις ώρες
χωρίς να φρακάρει
το πληκτρολόγιο
απ' το χώμα
Λες έχω αμπέλια και χωράφια και σπίτια και γης. Κουράδες έχεις. Κανένας άνθρωπος δεν έχει γη. Η γης έχει εμάς και σπάει κέφι μαζί μας, άσε που την ενοχλάμε κάθε λίγο σαν κοτόψειρες. Δύναμη; Μπούρδες. Ίδρωσες να κάνεις μια πολυκατοικία 46 διαμερίσματα και πλακώνει ένας σεισμός και στην κάνει λιάδα. Πήρες παρασήματα και χειροκροτήματα και ζήτω και έρχεται αδερφάκι μου ένα τόσο δα μικρόβιο από συνάχι και σε κάνει μια πτωματάρα χωρίς να το καταλάβεις. Έβαλες παρά στην μπάντα και διέταξες κόσμο κάντε έτσι ρε μερμήγκια ασήμαντα, και σε πιάνει ένα κόψιμο και είσαι ρεζίλης στην λεκάνη του καμπινέ. Κάνεις το δυνατό κι έτσι και πιάσει μια παγωνιά τρέμεις σαν παλιόσκυλο και από την άλλη μεριά, μια μολόχα, ένα χορταράκι ασήμαντο, κάθεται όλη νύχτα και τρώει τους αέρηδες και το χιονιά και το πρωί είναι φρέσκο και δεν τούγινε τίποτα. Πούν’ η δύναμή σου ρε φιόγκο κάτου από τούτο εδώ το Σύμπαν που μας πλακώνει με το βάρος του; Πούναι τα μεγαλεία σου και το τουπέ σου; Μια ανάποδη να πάρουνε τα πράματα, στα λεφτά, στα πολιτικά, στην υγεία, στα όλα που την βασίζεις, πας, ξεγράφτηκες και μήτε που θέλουνε να σε θυμούνται οι άλλοι. Πέθανες και περάσανε πενήντα χρόνια και μήτε κανένας ξέρει αν υπήρξες και αν έκανες και σε φοβηθήκανε και σε λογαριάσανε.
Νίκος Τσιφόρος “ΤΑ ΠΑΙΔΙΑ ΤΗΣ ΠΙΑΤΣΑΣ”
19-12-2012, 22:45
menumission
Saul Bellow - Seize the Day
“With me,” said Dr. Tamkin, “I am at my most efficient when I don't need the fee. When I only love. Without a financial reward. I remove myself from the social influence. Especially money. The spiritual compensation is what I look for. Bringing people into the here-and-now. The real universe. That's the present moment. The past is no good to us. The future is full of anxiety. Only the present is real–the here-and-now. Seize the day.”
“Well,” said Wilhelm, his earnestness returning. “I know you are a very unusual man. I like what you say about here-and-now. Are all the people who come to see you personal friends and patients -Coo? Like that tall handsome girl, the one who always wears, those beautiful broom-stick skirts and belts?”
“She was an epileptic, and a most bad and serious pathology, too. I'm curing her successfully. She hasn't had a seizure in six months, and she used to have, one every week.”
“And that young cameraman, the one who showed us those movies from the jungles of Brazil, isn't he related to her?”
“Her brother. He's under my care, too. He has some terrible tendencies, which are to be expected when you have an epileptic sibling. I came into their lives when they needed help desperately, and took hold of them. A certain man forty years older than she had her in his control and used to give her fits by suggestion whenever she tried to leave him. If you only knew one per cent of what goes on in the city of New York! You see, I understand what it is when the lonely person begins to feel like an animal. When the night comes and he feels like howling from his window like a wolf. I'm taking complete care of that young fellow and his sister. I have to steady him down or he'll go from Bra2fl to Australia the next day. The way I keep him in the here-and-now is by teaching him Greek.”
This was a complete surprise! “What, do you know Greek?”
“A friend of mine taught me when I was in Cairo. I studied Aristotle with him to keep from being idle.”
Wilhelm tried to take in these new claims and examine them. Howling from the window like a wolf when night comes sounded genuine to him. That was something really to think about. But the Greek!
[...]
But Tamkin said, “Why do you let her make you suffer so? It defeats the original object in leaving her. Don't play her game. Now, Wilhelm, I'm trying to do you some good. I want to tell you, don't marry suffering. Some people do. They get married to it, and sleep and eat together, just as husband and wife. If they go with joy they think it's adultery.”
When Wilhelm heard this he had, in spite of himself, to admit that there was a great deal in Tamkin's words. Yes, thought Wilhelm, suffering is the only kind of life they are sure they can have, and if they quit suffering they're afraid they'll have nothing. He knows it. This time the faker knows what he's talking about.
Looking at Tamkin he believed he saw all this confessed from his usually barren face. Yes, yes, he too. One hundred falsehoods, but at last one truth. Howling like a wolf from the city window. No one can bear it any more. Everyone is so full of it that at last everybody must proclaim it. It! It!
The first tree she saw on landing was a palm, which delighted her. They went to a big empty hotel standing at the corner of a vast square, and ordered lunch. When they had finished dessert, Jeanne got up to go and wander about the town, but Julien, taking her in his arms, whispered tenderly in her ear:
"Shall we go upstairs for a little while, my pet?"
"Go upstairs?" she said, with surprise; "but I am not at all tired."
He pressed her to him: "Don't you understand? For two days—"
She blushed crimson.
"Oh, what would everyone say? what would they think? You could not ask for a bedroom in the middle of the day. Oh, Julien, don't say anything about it now, please don't."
"Do you think I care what the hotel-people say or think?" he interrupted. "You'll see what difference they make to me." And he rang the bell.
She did not say anything more, but sat with downcast eyes, disgusted at her husband's desires, to which she always submitted with a feeling of shame and degradation; her senses were not yet aroused, and her hus[Pg 67]band treated her as if she shared all his ardors. When the waiter answered the bell, Julien asked him to show them to their room; the waiter, a man of true Corsican type, bearded to the eyes, did not understand, and kept saying that the room would be quite ready by the evening. Julien got out of patience.
"Get it ready at once," he said. "The journey has tired us and we want to rest."
A slight smile crept over the waiter's face, and Jeanne would have liked to run away; when they came downstairs again, an hour later, she hardly dared pass the servants, feeling sure that they would whisper and laugh behind her back. She felt vexed with Julien for not understanding her feelings, and wondering at his want of delicacy; it raised a sort of barrier between them, and, for the first time, she understood that two people can never be in perfect sympathy; they may pass through life side by side, seemingly in perfect union, but neither quite understands the other, and every soul must of necessity be for ever lonely.
[...]
Jeanne could not speak, her heart was too full, but she took Julien's hand and pressed it, feeling that she must love something or some one before all this beauty; and then, leaving this confusion of forms, they came upon another bay surrounded by a wall of blood-red granite, which cast crimson reflections into the blue sea. Jeanne exclaimed, "Oh, Julien!" and that was all she could say; a great lump came in her throat and two tears ran down her cheeks. Julien looked at her in astonishment.
"What is it, my pet?" he asked.
She dried her eyes, smiled, and said in a voice that still trembled a little. "Oh, it's nothing, I suppose I am nervous. I am so happy that the least thing upsets me."
He could not understand this nervousness; he despised the hysterical excitement to which women give way and the joy or despair into which they are cast by a mere sensation, and he thought her tears absurd. He glanced at the bad road.
"You had better look after your horse," he said.
They went down by a nearly impassable road, then turning to the right, proceeded along the gloomy valley of Ota. The path looked very dangerous, and Julien proposed that they should go up on foot. Jeanne was only too delighted to be alone with him after the emotion she had felt, so the guide went on with the mule and horses, and they walked slowly after him. The mountain seemed cleft from top to bottom, and the[Pg 71] path ran between two tremendous walls of rock which looked nearly black. The air was icy cold, and the little bit of sky that could be seen looked quite strange, it seemed so far away. A sudden noise made Jeanne look up. A large bird flew out of a hole in the rock; it was an eagle, and its open wings seemed to touch the two sides of the chasm as it mounted towards the sky. Farther on, the mountain again divided, and the path wound between the two ravines, taking abrupt turns. Jeanne went first, walking lightly and easily, sending the pebbles rolling from under her feet and fearlessly looking down the precipices. Julien followed her, a little out of breath, and keeping his eyes on the ground so that he should not feel giddy and it seemed like coming out of Hades when they suddenly came into the full sunlight.
They were very thirsty, and, seeing a damp track, they followed it till they came to a tiny spring flowing into a hollow stick which some goat-herd had put there; all around the spring the ground was carpeted with moss, and Jeanne knelt down to drink. Julien followed her example, and as she was slowly enjoying the cool water, he put his arm around her and tried to take her place at the end of the wooden pipe. In the struggle between their lips they would in turns seize the small end of the tube and hold it in their mouths for a few seconds; then, as they left it, the stream flowed on again and splashed their faces and necks, their clothes and their hands. A few drops shone in their hair like pearls, and with the water flowed their kisses.
Then Jeanne had an inspiration of love. She filled her mouth with the clear liquid, and, her cheeks puffed out like bladders, she made Julien understand that he[Pg 72] was to quench his thirst at her lips. He stretched his throat, his head thrown backwards and his arms open, and the deep draught he drank at this living spring enflamed him with desire. Jeanne leant on his shoulder with unusual affection, her heart throbbed, her bosom heaved, her eyes, filled with tears, looked softer, and she whispered:
"Julien, I love you!"
Then, drawing him to her, she threw herself down and hid her shame-stricken face in her hands. He threw himself down beside her, and pressed her passionately to him; she gasped for breath as she lay nervously waiting, and all at once she gave a loud cry as though thunderstruck by the sensation she had invited.
Άρχισε η παιδιάστικη και χαριτωμένη οικειότητα των ερωτευμένων, άρχισαν τα ανόητα γλυκόλογα, άρχισαν τα υποκοριστικά για κάθε γωνία, καμπύλη και φωλιά των κορμιών τους που απολάμβανε τα φιλιά τους.
Καθώς η Ζαν κοιμόταν στο δεξί πλευρό, πολλές φορές, την ώρα που ξυπνούσε, το αριστερό της στήθος βρισκόταν ξεσκέπαστο. Ο Ζυλιέν το είχε προσέξει και είχε βγάλει αυτό το στήθος "ο κύριος Αλανιάρης", και το άλλο "ο κύριος Ερωτιάρης", γιατί το ροδαλό άνθος της κορυφής του έδειχνε πιο ευαίσθητο στα φιλιά.
To βαθύ πέρασμα ανάμεσά τους έγινε "η αλέα της μητερούλας", γιατί εκείνος το ανεβοκατέβαινε αδιάκοπα. Κι ένα άλλο πέρασμα, πιο μυστικό, ονομάστηκε "ο δρόμος της Δαμασκού", σε ανάμνηση της κοιλάδας της Ότα.
Spoiler
Quote:
Βγαίνοντας στα δεκαεπτά της χρόνια από το μοναστήρι, η Ζαν είναι γεμάτη όνειρα για τον έρωτα, γεμάτη προσδοκίες για την ευτυχία. Ο υποκόμης ντε Λαμάρ θα τη γοητεύσει με τη χάρη, την ευγένεια και τη διακριτική του τρυφερότητα. Ανεπιφύλακτα η Ζαν δέχεται να γίνει γυναίκα του. Και αμέσως μετά το γαμήλιο ταξίδι οι αυταπάτες αρχίζουν να γκρεμίζονται.
Διαβάζοντας το "καλύτερο ίσως γαλλικό μυθιστόρημα μετά τους "Αθλίους" του Ουγκώ" (Λ.Τολστόι), δεν παρακολουθούμε μόνο τη ζωή της ηρωίδας, αλλά βλέπουμε και την ανελέητη Αλήθεια της Ζωής.
Perhaps, however, I have wronged the public in limiting them to such words as ‘immoral,’ ‘unintelligible,’ ‘exotic,’ and ‘unhealthy.’ There is one other word that they use. That word is ‘morbid.’ They do not use it often. The meaning of the word is so simple that they are afraid of using it. Still, they use it sometimes, and, now and then, one comes across it in popular newspapers. It is, of course, a ridiculous word to apply to a work of art. For what is morbidity but a mood of emotion or a mode of thought that one cannot express? The public are all morbid, because the public can never find expression for anything. The artist is never morbid. He expresses everything. He stands outside his subject, and through its medium produces incomparable and artistic effects. To call an artist morbid because he deals with morbidity as his subject-matter is as silly as if one called Shakespeare mad because he wrote ‘King Lear.’
Yet genius of a sort must have existed among owmen as it must have existed among the working classes. Now and again an Emily Brontë or a Robert Burns blazes out and proves its prescence. But certainly it never got itself on paper. When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglourius Jane Austen, some Emily Brontë who dashed her brains out on the moor or mooped and mowed about the highways crazed with torture that her gift had put her to.
09-03-2013, 14:20
avatar
Frank O'Hara - My Heart
I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don't prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says "That's
not like Frank!", all to the good! I
don't wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.
Spoiler
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2Yrit1Da1I
Why is this song named "To a Poet"? Who is this poet? And who is Frank?
The omniscient Oracle of Delphi of our time, Google, has all the answers.
"You can't plan on the heart" is a quote from the poem "My Heart" by Francis Russell "FRANK" O'Hara, an American POET (1926-1966).
Here comes a simple story that would match all the lyrics:
While on tour in the United states, "she" (Klara or Johanna or a fictious character) falls in love with a person living there. She knows from the beginning she cannot stay there. When the tour is over she'll have to fly back to Europe. If she could have planned where, when and with whom to fall in love, of course she would have planned it differently, but "you can't plan on the heart". Back home (probably to Stockholm because it's so dark there in winter) she wallows in self-pity because her lover is so far away.
As a matter of fact, when the Söderberg sisters recorded this album together with the "Bright Eyes" musicians in the studio in Omaha, their younger brother Isaac fell in love with Mike Mogis daughter Stella. Klara and Johanna stated this in a radio interview.
Read more at http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/vi...bJcDykUwUTm.99
«Διέσχισε το γρασίδι στις μύτες των ποδιών του.
Ξαφνικά την είδε μπροστά του, ξαπλωμένη στο γρασίδι δίπλα στην πισίνα.
Φορούσε ένα μαγιώ τάνγκα.
Τα πλούσια στήθη της ακουμπούσαν απαλά το γρασίδι, δεξιά κι αριστερά.
Τα ατέλειωτα πόδια της ανοιχτά, ένα θαύμα της φύσης!
Αναστέναξε με τα σαρκώδη, φιλήδονα χείλη της-του κόπηκε η αναπνοή!
Ένιωσε τον ανδρισμό του να θέλει να σκίσει τα κουμπιά του παντελονιού και να ξεχυθεί ασυγκράτητος!»
James Joyce - A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
As soon as the boys had turned into Clonliffe Road together they began to speak about books and writers, saying what books they were reading and how many books there were in their fathers’ bookcases at home. Stephen listened to them in some wonderment for Boland was the dunce and Nash the idler of the class. In fact, after some talk about their favourite writers, Nash declared for Captain Marryat who, he said, was the greatest writer.
— Fudge! said Heron. Ask Dedalus. Who is the greatest writer, Dedalus?
Stephen noted the mockery in the question and said:
— Of prose do you mean?
— Yes.
— Newman, I think.
— Is it Cardinal Newman? asked Boland.
— Yes, answered Stephen.
The grin broadened on Nash’s freckled face as he turned to Stephen and said:
— And do you like Cardinal Newman, Dedalus?
— O, many say that Newman has the best prose style, Heron said to the other two in explanation, of course he’s not a poet.
— And who is the best poet, Heron? asked Boland.
— Lord Tennyson, of course, answered Heron.
— O, yes, Lord Tennyson, said Nash. We have all his poetry at home in a book.
At this Stephen forgot the silent vows he had been making and burst out:
— Tennyson a poet! Why, he’s only a rhymester!
— O, get out! said Heron. Everyone knows that Tennyson is the greatest poet.
— And who do you think is the greatest poet? asked Boland, nudging his neighbour.
— Byron, of course, answered Stephen.
Heron gave the lead and all three joined in a scornful laugh.
— What are you laughing at? asked Stephen.
— You, said Heron. Byron the greatest poet! He’s only a poet for uneducated people.
— He must be a fine poet! said Boland.
— You may keep your mouth shut, said Stephen, turning on him boldly. All you know about poetry is what you wrote up on the slates in the yard and were going to be sent to the loft for.
Boland, in fact, was said to have written on the slates in the yard a couplet about a classmate of his who often rode home from the college on a pony:
As Tyson was riding into Jerusalem He fell and hurt his Alec Kafoozelum.
This thrust put the two lieutenants to silence but Heron went on:
— In any case Byron was a heretic and immoral too.
— I don’t care what he was, cried Stephen hotly.
— You don’t care whether he was a heretic or not? said Nash.
— What do you know about it? shouted Stephen. You never read a line of anything in your life except a trans, or Boland either.
— I know that Byron was a bad man, said Boland.
— Here, catch hold of this heretic, Heron called out. In a moment Stephen was a prisoner.
— Tate made you buck up the other day, Heron went on, about the heresy in your essay.
— I’ll tell him tomorrow, said Boland.
— Will you? said Stephen. You’d be afraid to open your lips.
— Afraid?
— Ay. Afraid of your life.
— Behave yourself! cried Heron, cutting at Stephen’s legs with his cane.
It was the signal for their onset. Nash pinioned his arms behind while Boland seized a long cabbage stump which was lying in the gutter. Struggling and kicking under the cuts of the cane and the blows of the knotty stump Stephen was borne back against a barbed wire fence.
— Admit that Byron was no good.
— No.
— Admit.
— No.
— Admit.
— No. No.
At last after a fury of plunges he wrenched himself free. His tormentors set off towards Jones’s Road, laughing and jeering at him, while he, half blinded with tears, stumbled on, clenching his fists madly and sobbing.
While he was still repeating the CONFITEOR amid the indulgent laughter of his hearers and while the scenes of that malignant episode were still passing sharply and swiftly before his mind he wondered why he bore no malice now to those who had tormented him. He had not forgotten a whit of their cowardice and cruelty but the memory of it called forth no anger from him. All the descriptions of fierce love and hatred which he had met in books had seemed to him therefore unreal. Even that night as he stumbled homewards along Jones’s Road he had felt that some power was divesting him of that sudden-woven anger as easily as a fruit is divested of its soft ripe peel.
Δεν μπορώ
η αγχόνη τα δέντρα μου εξουθένωσε
και τα μάτια μαυρίζουν.
Δεν αντέχω
και τα σταυροδρόμια που ήξερα έγιναν αδιέξοδα.
Σελδζούκοι ροπαλοφόροι καραδοκούν.
Χαγάνοι ορνεοκέφαλοι βυσσοδομούν.
Σκυλοκοίτες και νεκρόσιτοι κι ερεβομανείς
κοπροκρατούν το μέλλον.
Όπου και να σας βρίσκει το κακό, αδελφοί
όπου και να θολώνει ο νους σας
μνημονεύετε Διονύσιο Σολωμό
και μνημονεύετε Αλέξανδρο Παπαδιαμάντη.
Οδυσσέας Ελύτης, Άξιον εστί ΙΑ' (απόσπασμα)
16-04-2013, 21:39
ikonoklast
Quote:
Β’ φάση, προτού πεις πως το `χω χάσει,
λέω το ραπ που είναι βατό για να μπορείς να δώσεις βάση
Δίχως παύση, το κρατώ ζωντανό πάση θυσία
όπως κρατάει ζωντανό το πολυτονικό η Εστία
Είπες κάτι; Φίλε μου δεν αλλάζω μονοπάτι
Μωραϊτίδη μνημονεύω και Παπαδιαμάντη
Αρτέμης Ευθύμης, Έτσι είναι γιατί έτσι πάει (απόσπασμα)
17-04-2013, 02:47
rat_poison
ε βρε σπύρο
γαλανόλευκο σουρεαλισμό με χριστιανική εσάνς σαν του οδυσσέα πού θα βρεις;
και άλλα πλάσματα του σκότους που κάνουν σεξ με σκυλιά αν κατάλαβα καλά και τρων νεκρούς ή κάτι τέτοιο (κάτω ο γαλαζοαίματος κελ θουζάντ, επονομαζόμενος και lich king, φανερά αδυνατισμένος, συνέχισε έτσι Κελ, είσαι κούκλος!) http://fc03.deviantart.net/fs70/f/20...ta-d334wqs.jpg
Oποιαδήποτε ομοιότητα ανάμεσα στην ποιητική παρομοίωση των γειτόνων εξ ανατολάς με νεκροζώντανα πλάσματα του σκότους και στις απόψεις του ελύτη, των σπιθαίων και των λοιπών oμοιδεατών καρνάβαλων είναι ξεκάθαρα συμπτωματική
Και σ' αυτόν τον πίνακα, που τα λόγια του νομπελίστα ποιητού με τόσες έντονες εικόνες έχουν σχεδόν ζωγραφίσει μπροστά στα μάτια μας, έρχεται η μεγαλειώδης αντίθεση.
Μπροστά στο σκότος, το φως
Μπροστά στο δράκο, η λόγχη του Αη-Γιώργη
Μπροστά στους undead, οι θύμησες της Ελλάδας του Ελύτη http://www.pac.dfo-mpo.gc.ca/science...nticsalmon.jpg
