| Title | : | Diaries of Exile |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 1935744585 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9781935744580 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 138 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1975 |
| Awards | : | PEN Award for Poetry in Translation (2014) |
This long poem is a nuanced and moving account of the poet's time in exile, in which everyday events hide much that is threatening, oppressive, and spiritually vacuous. Lyrical and idyllic, these re-creations of Greek mythology justify Yannis Ritsos' reputation as one of the most honored in modern Greece.
Plagued by tuberculosis, family misfortunes, and persecution for his Communist views, Yannis Ritsos (1909–1990) spent many years in sanatoriums, prisons, and in political exile while producing over one hundred volumes of poems, dramas, and translations.
Diaries of Exile Reviews
-
Diários do Exílio, edição portuguesa das Edições do Saguão, Setembro 2022
17 de Novembro
Acendemos um lume com ramos secos,
aquecemos água, tomámos banho nus
ao ar livre. Fazia vento. Tivemos frio. Rimo-nos.
Talvez não fosse de frio. Mais tarde
ficou uma amargura. De certeza que os meus gatos,
do lado de fora da casa trancada, vão subir às janelas,
arranhar as portadas. E não seres capaz
de lhes escrever uma ou duas palavras para lhes explicar,
para que não julguem que os esqueceste. Não seres capaz.
- Diário do Exílio I
Quem pensa nas ilhas gregas, suspira decerto por férias em terreolas pitorescas e praias divinais, e não as associa a locais de encarceramento e repressão. O poeta Yannis Ritsos, porém, conheceu o lado lúgubre do mar Egeu, onde passou cerca de quatro anos, entre 1948 e 1952, em campos de reeducação pelos seus ideais comunistas.
São três os diários escritos neste exílio, mas foi o primeiro que me impressionou particularmente pelo seu registo mais diarístico do que poético, enquanto nas duas outras a poesia se sobrepõe ao relato diário.
5 de Dezembro
Rapaz com a barba por fazer, desgrenhado, banho por tomar
na chamada da manhã com nuvens por companhia
camisola grená calças desabotoadas
ainda ensonado – um pedaço do sono a desfazer-se no cabelo
uma canção amarga no bolso
vou pentear-te, vou lavar-te, vou-te apertar o cinto
vou reaver todas as palavras que me tiraram
as palavras que ninguém me sabe dar
as palavras que não posso pedir
- Diário do Exílio II
Não tenho pretensões de imaginar sequer o que é viver em cativeiro ou em isolamento, mas sinto que apesar da morte, da tortura e das condições sub-humanas destes campos de prisioneiros, a alma pode resistir pela escrita confessional, pelo companheirismo e pela beleza das coisas simples, como já vi acontecer no caso de Etty Hillesum anos antes, noutro extremo da Europa, e agora com Yannis Ritsos.
24 de Maio
Escrevemos testamentos tão bonitos
nunca abertos
nunca lidos por ninguém
porque não chegámos a morrer.
Dissemos coisas
que só se dizem uma vez
Demos coisas
que só se dão uma vez.
Grandes palavras
tão simples
como as colheres nas sacolas
dos que foram mortos.
Vimos a eternidade
reflectida de corpo inteiro
nos óculos do míope
que mataram há dois meses.
E agora, repara.
como é já não conseguires pronunciar
“n ó s”
sem baixares os olhos
sem corares.
- Diário de Exílio III
[Em havendo próxima edição, e espero que sim, ela beneficiaria bastante com uma passagem pelo spelling] -
لقد كانت رحلةً هائلة!
وهذا ما لم أتوقعه..
رغم الحاجز الذي يحس به قارئ الشعر المترجم
إلا أن في هذه المجموعة حالة خاصة تغوص في العمق الإنساني، لتتناوله كقضية حقيقية محسوسة، لم تستطع الترجمة أن تحجبه.
كحال الشعر المترجم، هناك الكثير من الحشو
الذي قد لا يبدو شعريا، وذلك بفعل الترجمة واستبدال اللغة
وغياب عامل الموسيقى اللغوية والطرب السمعي.
ولكن، هنا تظهر الحالة الشعرية التي تثيرني شخصيا!
الحالة التي تتوحد بالشاعر، وتتلبّسه تماما ليصبح ما يكتبه شعراً بما يحمله من زخم الحالة، حتى لو غابت اللغة.
كأن يقول:
" كلّ حينٍ يسقطُ نجمٌ
أو صوتٌ عميقٌ جداً،
بينما هو يستندُ على درابزين الشُّرفةِ
أو قبضةِ يدٍ (إن كانت هناك يدٌ)
خشيةَ أن ينهار داخلَ نفسه.
الأكثرُ إخلاصاً ليدهِ هي يدهُ الأخرى.
ولكن في هذه الحالة يداه مُرفقتان ضِمن دائرةٍ ليس بمقدورهِ تحمّلها.
فيمدُّ يديه على وسعهما
كما لو أنّه على وشكِ احتضانِ شخصٍ ما
أو لموازنةِ نفسهِ
وهكذا، مثل راقصٍ على حبلٍ، ينظر أمامه مباشرةٍ ويسند نفسه بسهولةٍ على عُمقه."
لقد كانت هذه القراءة بوقتها تحديداً. -
Under the lukewarm water of night I held
the hand of sleep and the sense of forgetting
the texture of the blanket and of the wall.
If you lift the sheet
you won’t find me.
Try to find me – don’t you understand?
I’m deeper in.
*
And suddenly
a memory of birds
that sank into the unknown.
*
How easily every single thing can be crushed.
[...]
We’ve gotten used to the sleepless nights
to sleep shattered like broken windowpanes
*
Strange weather – almost like summer.
Sunshine hangs in sheets from the bare-branched almond
trees.
Scattered clouds in the bright sky like large censored
postcards -
Of course all this doesn’t make a poem
And here I toss it onto the page like a useless stone on the stones
That will maybe someday help to build a house
Stunning poems written in wretched conditions. The poet was imprisoned at numerous locations (seemingly each one worse than the last) after the Greek Civil War just after WWII. Conveniently the Nazis had constructed numerous installations ready to be repurposed to postwar realities. The author found the key to survival was to keep busy, so he wrote letters and fashioned this diary of verse. I found it profoundly moving and human. -
In October 1944, the German army which had been occupying Greece retreated. During the war, the Greek government and the army had themselves retreated from Greece when the Germans first arrived, however, the Greek resistance, which was predominately communist, harassed the occupiers from their camps in the mountains as well as in the cities. When the country was finally liberated, the Greek government returned with George Papandreou as Prime Minister sharing power with the left in a government of national unity.
Unfortunately, it had been decided beforehand in Yalta by the leaders of the USA, Great Britain and The Soviet Union when they divided up Europe, that Greece was not going to be allowed to fall under the influence of the communists. So in 1946 while the rest of Europe was celebrating the peace after WW2 and trying to get back on their feet, Greece had entered another period of misery as civil war erupted. The British backed the most reactionary of the Greeks and he leftist parties of the KKE, ELAS and EPON were outlawed. Military tribunals were set up all over the country. Thousands of leftists were executed. 50,000 were imprisoned and tens of thousands were exiled to remote islands. One of the political prisoners sent to a remote island was my father. Another one, Yannis Ritsos (1909-1999), a prolific and greatly acclaimed poet, author of DIARIES OF EXILE, translated by the great Karen Emmerich and Edmund Keeley.
Ritsos was imprisoned first during the civil war, and then during the regime of the Colonels, another horribly dark period of Greek history. Much of the poetry on which his worldwide reputation now rests was written during this period. This volume includes three diaries in poetry written between 1948 and 1950.
Other than one censored letter per month, Ritsos was not allowed to write while in prison. But whenever he managed to evade the surveillance of the guards he quietly wrote his poems. He wrote on toilet paper, on paper saved from cigarette boxes, any scrap he could find. He hid his poems in bottles which he buried in the earth, some he smuggled out of prison. In these poems he confronts his tormentors who tried to force him to resign his political ideas so that he might go free. They are mostly vignettes, impressions and unexpected juxtaposed images which produce a mesmerizing effect on the reader. They alternate between despair and the stubborn hope that freedom will triumph and art will redeem.
Archipelago Books is an independent non-profit press which deserves more of our support in these difficult times. They publish world literature, classic and contemporary, mostly in translation (amazingly, four of the books in their catalogue belong to Greek literature). And the physical tomes are just so beautiful! I am so grateful for this moving book, my first encounter with the poetry of Ritsos. -
Όλα ξεχάστηκαν πριν ειπωθούν,
Κι η σιωπή δεν είναι καταφύγιο . -
Ο φρουρός κάθεται πίσω απ’ το σύρμα
με τα πέτα της χλαίνης σηκωμένα.
Προχτές πρόσεξα τα χέρια του
είναι χοντρά και δυνατά
θάχε κρατήσει τη σημαία σε μια δική μας παρέλαση.
Τώρα κάθεται πίσω απ’ το όπλο του
σαν πίσω απόναν τοίχο.
Πίσω απ’ τον τοίχο κάθεται η άνοιξη –
δεν μπορεί να τη δει.
Εγώ τη βλέπω και χαμογελάω
κι είμαι λυπημένος
που δεν μπορεί να τη δει.
Εγώ που μούχει δέσει σαν μαύρο μαντίλι
τη σκιά του ντουφεκιού του γύρω στα μάτια
θέλω να δει την άνοιξη και να χαμογελάσει. -
Under the lukewarm water of night I held
the hand of sleep and the sense of forgetting
the texture of the blanket and of the wall.
If you lift the sheet
you won’t find me.
Try to find me – don’t you understand?
I’m deeper in.. -
Quotes:
November 5
I know that many consider me an enemy.
But those who love me are more
And they are better.
I am indebted to both.
But I still can’t find the word
That would suffice for both them and me. Which is how
I know my debts are multiplying.
How could my song reach that far
If I didn’t get there first?
November 6
The words are narrow, our beds are narrow --
You can’t turn onto your other side.
Well then - must we really be so sad
In order to love one another?
November 9
Tonight we learned that we have to be happy
In order to love one another.
And then
The masquerading mouse would take fright and go hungry all night.
November 9 - Evening
Whatever they say, we know
That bread is always bread and what’s right is right.
November 11
And they don’t know who loves them and whom they love
And the inner silence of the turtle still has no meaning.
November 12
Everything has stopped like a murdered man’s watch.
November 13
Of course all this doesn’t make a poem
And here I toss it onto the page like a useless stone on the stones
That will maybe someday help to build a house -
Diaries in Exile is actually three diaries, the first two written from The Kontopouli camp on the island of Limnos. Kontopouli was a makeshift detainment centre, originally used by the Germans as warehouses during the occupation of Greece. They housed around a 150 men, many of whom would be transferred to Yaros & Makronosis, where life would be a lot harsher. By the time Ritsos began the second diary he had been detained for over a year, having faced beatings and forced labour whilst living on meagre rations, this would impact on his writing, which became sparser, focusing on the relentless sameness of his existence. The last Diary was written on Makronosis, where he had been sent in 1949 - a desert island, entirely cut off from the mainland and inhabited only by guards and prisoners. This wasn't just a detention facility it was a re-education centre, which at it's height held around 20,000 men, women & children, its sole aim was to transform the prisoners into loyal citizens, having to sign "Declarations of repentance". On Makronosis prisoners were crammed into already overcrowded tents and were made to carry stones from one spot to another without reason for hours on end, regardless of the time of day or year, without water or footwear and letters were reduced to postcards being highly censored. On Makronosis prisoners were routinely tortured, driven mad and executed.
The poetry in these diaries weren't the only poems Yannis Ritsos wrote whilst in exile, regardless of the harshness of his detention, he constantly wrote. In fact even under the unremitting hell of Makronosis, he found a means to write on whatever scrap of paper he could lay his hands on, including the linings of cigarette packs, which he then hid or buried in bottles in the ground. What stands the Diaries apart from his other works are their nature, part poem, part diary, part letter to the outside world, all normal correspondence from camp were never wholly private, having to pass through the censors scrutiny. With the poetry Ritsos could write as he pleased, although he could be never certain if they'd ever be seen by others.
This would remain so for quite a while as his books were banned until 1954 and in 1967, when army colonels staged a coup and took over Greece, he was again deported, then held under house arrest until 1970. His works were again banned - despite being banned from publication until 1972, he continued to write and paint. He died in Athens on the 1th November 1990. During his lifetime, he published 117 collections of poetry, novels and theatre plays and is said to be Greece's most widely translated poet. He was unsuccessfully proposed nine times for the Nobel Prize for Literature and in 1975 was awarded the Lenin Prize for Peace.
Nowadays Yannis Ritsos's name is amongst the five great Greek poets of the twentieth century, sharing that title with Konstantinos Kavafis, Kostas Kariotakis, Giorgos Seferis, and Odysseus Elytis, and this volume translated by Karen Emmerich and Edmund Keeley and published by Archipelago books justifies his inclusion, and as Peter Levi said:
"in their directness and with their sense of anguish, are moving, and testify to the courage of at least one human soul in conditions which few of us have faced or would have triumphed over had we faced them," -
مختارات:
"تحتَ كلَّ كلمةٍ
ثمَّةَ شخصٌ ميَّتٌ."
————————-
"الكلماتُ الَتي وَجَدْناها ذاتَ يومٍ جميلةٌ
تضاءلتْ مثلَ صدريَّةِ رَجُلٍ عجوزٍ في صُنُدوقٍ كَبيرٍ.
مثلَ غُروبِ أعتمَ عَلَى زُجاجِ النَّوافِذِ."
——————-
"الوجوهُ تتغيَّرُ عندِما تنظرُ إليها
وربَّما أنتَ تتغيَّرُ أيضًا ـ لأنَّكَ تنظر ُفي يديك.
فتدركُ أنهما اعتادَتا على هذِهِ المهامِ
على هذهِ الأيَّامِ، على هذهِ الشراشِفِ
إنَّهما تَعرِفانِ خَشَبَ الطاولةِ، تعرفانِ المصباحَ
تتحركانِ بالطريقةِ نفسِها بيقينٍ كبير.
فهُما لا تَتَفاجَأنِ أبدًا."
——————————————
"الزمنُ بالنسبةِ لي لحسابِ مَدَاخِيلي وإنفاقي.
لم أكنْ جيَّداً في الحسابِ أبداً. صرتُ أخلطُ.
أعرفُ أن الكثيرينَ يرونَني عدوَّاً.
ولكنَّ الذينَ يحبُّونني أكثرُ
وأفضلُ.
أنا مدينٌ لِكليهِمَا.
ولكن ما زلتُ لا أستطيعُ العثورَ على الكَلِمةِ
التي تكفي لي ولِكليهما. مَا الطريقةُ؟
أعرفُ أنَّ دُيوني تتضاعَفُ.
كيفَ يُمكنُ لأُغْنِيَتي أنْ تَبْلُغَ ذَلِكَ البَعيد.
إن لمْ أصِلْ إلى هُنَاك أوَّلا؟
غَداً أو في اليوم الذي يليهِ سنتحدَّثُ ثانيةً. الآنَ
أَنا أراقبُ تغيُّرَ لونِ المساءِ على صَفْحتي.
غصنٌ يخدَّشُ خدَّي بِظفرِه.
حَتَّى ذلكَ الحينِ، لا تزالُ للبهجةِ جُذورٌ."
———————————
"رَأينَا الليلةَ الماضيَّةَ بأعينِنا
الذينَ أضاءَوا بعضَ الفوانيسِ الصغيرة على الخَزَانة.
مَا جَدوى الكتابةِ لنا الآن.
هذه الليلة تعلَّمْنا من جديدٍ.
بعضَ الأشياءِ التي لا يمكنُ للقَلَمِ تعليمُها.
تَعلَّمنا الليلةَ أنَّنا يَنْبَغِي أن نكونَ سُعداءَ
أطفأنا المصابيح على عجل
ليحبَّ بَعضُنا البعض.
أطفأنا المصابيحَ على عَجَلٍ واضْطَجعنا
لأنَّنا كنَّا سعداءَ جِدَّاً أنَّ لَدينا
مَا يلجمُ أَسْنانَنا كي لا نصرخَ."
———————————
"كلُّ الأيدي التي صافَحَت يَدي هي القَسَمُ،
الذي لا يُمكنُ للمطرِ أن يمحوهُ.
أنا الأمُّ لِعددٍ لا يُحصى من الأطفالِ.
أجلسُ في المَطر وأنادِي : «أطفالي أطفالي»
وأنا طفلُ الأطفالِ، وبحاجةٍ
لأن أخفضَ قَامتي أكثرَ،
حتَّى أتمكَّنَ من دُخُولِ خيامِ «مودروس»
ثمَّ أنهضُ إلى علوَّ عيونِهم،
وأمسحُ المطرَ من حُدودِهم
بالسهولةِ نفسِها التي تُصبحُ فيها الشمسُ والمطرُ أورَاقاً."
* مودروس: مدينة في جزيرة(ليمنوس) في اليونان
——————————————
"هذهِ الليلةُ أمَّي ـ قالَ،
دثَّرِيني بشعركِ الأسودِ
المليءِ مثلي بنجومِكِ
نعيشُ إذلالَ
عَدَمِ الموتِ.
(كانَ يتحدَّثُ إلى نفسِهِ، مُواجِهًا الجِدَارَ.
لكنَّهُ تحدَّثَ بوُضوحٍ
ربَّما يأملُ أن أحَداً ما يَسمَعُ.)"
- معسكر اعتقال السجناء السياسيين كونتوبولي، ليمنوس، 1948 ـ 49
- —————————————-
"أرحتُ فَمِي على ذِاكراكِ
أقمتُ طقوسَ اليقظةِ للألمِ والمُتعةِ
بينَ أربع شُموع
من السُّطُورِ الْمُطْفأة."
————————————-
"أراحَ جبينَهُ
على طاولةٍ عليها خَبْزٌ
هادئاً كتمثالٍ
بين المجدِ والموتِ."
—————————
لَدَى القَمَرِ
العديدُ من الغُرفِ غَيرِ المُؤجَّرةِ.
أَلِهَذَا السَّببِ ؟
أَلِهَذَا؟
—————————
"أريدُ أن أمنحَ الأشياءَ معنى لا تمتلكُهُ.
رجلٌ بذقنهِ
طاولةٌ ليست شجرةً.
مقبضُ البابِ كان دَافِئاً
مرَّةً مثلَ اليدِ
ولكن في تلكَ الليلةِ والتاليةِ
كان القمرُ بالتلعثُمِ نفسِهِ."
————————————-
كُلّ شيء نُسِيَ قبلَ أن يُقالَ.
والصمتُ ليسَ مأوى.
——————
في الليلِ تجمَّعَ أولئكَ القَتلَى
مَعَاً تحتَ الأحجَارِ
وفي عُلَبِ سَجائرِهِم بعضُ الملاحظاتِ
بعضُ القصاصاتِ الورقيَّةِ المخربشةِ محشورةٌ في أحذِيتِهِم بعضُ النجومِ المحظورةِ في عيونِهِم.
وفوقَهَمُ تزدادُ السماءُ اتساعاً
تزدادُ اتساعَاً وعُمقاً
لا تَتعبُ أَبَدَاً."
————————————-
كتبت كيتي:
هاجَ الوردُ في حديقتِكَ
الأقحوانُ الأصفرُ والأبيضُ،
الطويلُ مثلُكَ.
غسلنَا النوافِذَ والثريَّا
غُرفتُكَ تعبقِ برائحةِ الصابونِ
لاطفتُ ملابِسَكَ وكُتُبَك.
آهٍ كيتي
نحنُ هنُا
على حافَّةِ منديلِنا
مقيَّدينَ بإحكامٍ كعُقدَةِ عَهدِنا للعَالم."
——————————————————
"هُنا حيثُ تعبتَ حتَّى الألَم
العزلةُ أكثرُ يقيناً.
ولا يمكنُّك أن تُخفي عن عَينيكَ
امرأةً عاريةً
جاثيةً وسطَ غُرفةٍ
والدرفاتُ مغلقةٌ
تَنتفُ صَفراً جميلاً
تجرَّبُ ريشَهُ على قبَّعتِها
أمامَ المرآةِ على الخَزَانةِ القَديمة.
حركاتٌ طفيفةٌ، طفيفة
تراقبُها.
طفيفةٌ جداً
إنَّكَ تَعرفُ: الليلُ يأتي
وستكونُ غاضِبَاً جداً."
—————————————-
كتبنا الكثير من الوصايا اللطيفة
لم تفتح أبداً
وڈور
لا أحد قرأها
لأننا لم نمت.
قلنا أشياء
أن الشخص يقول مرة واحدة فقط.
أعطينا أشياء
أن الشخص يعطي مرة واحدة فقط.
كلمات عظيمة
بسيطة جداً
مثل الملاعق في حقائب الظهر
لأولئك القتلى.
رأينا الأبدية
معكوسة رأساً على عقب
في نظارات الرجل حسير النظر
المقتول قبل شهرين.
وفكر فقط كيف سيكون الأمر
إن لم يكن ممكناً أن تنطق
(نحن)
دون أن تنزل عينيك
ودون خجل."
________________
عودةُ الهارب
كَانَ يَشْعرُ بِالْقَلَقِ في الأيَّامِ الأَخِيرَةِ ،
كَمَا لَوْ أَنَّهُ خَفِيرٌ هَاربٌ
تَركَ المدينةَ بِلا حِراسة.
لفترة طويلةٍ
ظَلَّ يَخْشَى أَنْ يَكْتَشِفُوا انشقاقَهُ
وبأنَّ المدينةَ ربَّما سقَطَت بسببِ خَطَئِه.
هاربًا مُتواريًا في الأدغالِ لمْ يكُنْ قادِرًا على رؤيةِ الجدرانِ ، سِوى تخيَّلِ هَضَبةٍ مِنْ عَواقبَ مُخيَّفةٍ للمواطنينَ
المتروكينَ بِلَا حِمَايةٍ.
وقبلَ كلَّ شيءٍ لِنَفْسِهِ.
فِيما بعدُ، عَلمَ أَنَّ المدينةَ لم تسْقُطْ،
وأَنَّ أَحَدًا لَم يُلَاحِظْ غيابَهُ وأنَّهم لَم يَبْحثُوا عَنهُ بِالمرَّةِ.
ولم يُدرج اسمُهُ في قوائِمِ النَّاجينِ، أو في عِدادِ اَلْمَفْقُودِينَ.
سَكِينةٌ كبيرةٌ تنتشرُ حولَهُ بِلَا جَدوى.
والآنَ، هَذَا مَا عَذَّبهُ تَحْدَيدًا
السكينةُ التي طَالَمَا حَلَمَ بِهَا.
عِنْدَ الغَسقِ، أَحَسَّ حولَ مِأواهُ
بِآلافٍ من اَلظلالِ التي تمرُّ مثلَ اَلْقِطَطِ الضالَّةِ بين الشوكِ في ساحةِ الملعبِ المَهجورةِ.
وفي خِزَانةِ ملابِسهِ
أحسَّ بالبدلاتِ المُعلَّقة المُترهلةِ، مثلَ الملابسِ المسلوخةِ من الجُثَثِ.
ثمَّ شدِّ أحزمةَ الرَّصاصِ على شَكْلِ صليبٍ حولَ صَدْرِهِ
كَأَنَّهُ يؤمَّنُ على صرَّةِ تجهيزاتهِ المهمَّة.
ثمَّ ظَهَرَ في نُقْطَةِ الحِرَاسةِ في الوقتِ المحدَّد تمَامًا.
—————————
العقاب
يوماً ما، يَنتقمُ الزمنُ
نيابةً عن جميعِ الناسِ الساخطين،
يوماً مَا
الثرثارونَ الجميلونَ ذَوو الشَعورِ المُجعَّدَةِ
والشواربِ السوداءِ يعاقبونَ.
ذوو الأجسادِ المفتولةِ العضلاتِ، والأَيدِي الضَّخمَةِ، وَالأَساورُ الجِِلديَّةُ على
أرساغِهِم اليُسرَى
الذينَ في السُفنِ أو محطَّاتِ البنزينِ بغليوناتِهم الطويلةِ الذينَ يرقصونَ ليالي السبتِ رَقصَةَ «زيمبيكيكوس» الحزينةِ بالجُفُونِ المُجهَدةِ وبالسكَّينِ
الذينَ ساعاتُهم من الذَّهبِ ولا يتحقَّقونَ أبداً من الزمن. سيُعاقبونَ.
الشحمُ سيتدلَّى مِن بطونِهم. وتدريجياً تتساقطُ شعورُهُم
مِن أفخاذِهِم وسيقانِهم.
تغادرُ السُفنُ. ولا تقلُّهُم.
ليلةً مَا
بلمحةِ عينٍ حولاءَ شاحبةٍ
وسطَ ساحةٍ مُضاءةٍ بِالكَامِلِ
يَرونَهُ عابراً
هو الذي ما زالَ يَحتفظُ
بالابتسامةِ الصادقةِ الجميلةِ بمرارةٍ أكثر.
الحياةُ والأغنياتُ
نَسوها كلُّهم وَهوَ يَصفرُ وَحدَه.
أسوأُ مِن هذا كُلَّهِ
أنَّهم لا يَفهمونَ عقابَهم القاسي
ولَهَذا
يَشِيخونَ أسرعَ وأكثرَ
في بيوتِهم الوسخةِ مَعَ
العناكبِ القَدِيمةِ.
——-——————-
مُتحف الفاتيكان
"دَافِنشي، ورافائيل، ومايكل أنجلو - كيفَ نَقَشُوا السَّماواتِ العُظمَى في الوجهِ البشريَّ، في الجسدِ البشريَّ
أظافرَ القَدَمينِ وأظافرَ اليَدَينِ، والأوراقَ، والنُّجومَ، والحَلَماتِ، والأَحلامَ، والشَّفاهَ
بالأحمرِ والأزرقِ الفاتحِ الملموسِ ولا يُصَدَّقُ.
ربَّما مِن تلامُسِ هذينِ الأصبعينِ وُلِدَ العالمُ مِن جديدٍ. المسافةُ بينَ هذينِ الأصبعينِ ما زالت تَقِيسُ بِدقَّةٍ جاذبيةَ الأرضِ ومَدَاهَا.
لا أَستطيعُ تحَمُّلَهُ ـ قالَ ـ
الكثيرُ من الجمالُ والكثيرُ من القَدَاسةِ الشرّيرة.
سَأَخرجُ إلى الشرفةِ البيضاءِ وأدخَّنُ خمسَ عشرةَ سيجارةً بالتتابعِ،
متَعَجُّباً مِن مَشهدِ رُوما مِن الأعلى
ناظراً إلى الحَافِلاتِ الكبيرةِ في الأَسفَلِ
وَهيَ تُنزِلُ مجموعاتِ السيَّاحِ أمامَ المُتحفِ
كاسِرَاً بأصابعي في جيب بنطالي
حفنةً مِن المسواكِ المسروقِ، كَما لو أنَّني أَكسرُ كُلَّ الصُّلبانِ الخشبيَّةِ حيثُ صُلِبت كُلُّ الرغباتِ البشريَّة."
—————————-
القبول
"مُنهزِماً أمامَ الأزرقِ الفاتحِ
يَتكئُ برأسهِ على رُكَبِ الصَّمتِ
مُتعباً جدَّاً من الحياةِ
مُتعباً جدَّاً من الشبا��ِ
غارقاً بِنَارِه
والطحالبُ تتحركُ تحتَ إبطِه -
موجةُ اليومِ لَم تَجد صلابةً
ولا حتَّى على حَصَاةِ فِكرِه.
في النهايةِ،
كَانَ مُستعدَّاً للحبَّ
وللموتِ."
_____________________ -
stunningly beautiful. simple but never shallow.
-
Serpil Güvenç | Kardeş Ülkenin Yoldaş Ozanı: Yannis Ritsos
https://haber.sol.org.tr/yazar/kardes...
Artık hiçbir şeyi saklayamıyoruz.
Burada her şeyin içi dışına çıkıyor
yatmadan önce çıkardığımız kirli bir çorap gibi
ve ayaklarımız çıplak, yüzlerimiz de öyle. Sf:6
Bir ağaç diktim. Yetiştireceğim.
Ne olursa olsun geri dönmeyeceğim. Sf:54
Sonunda
kopmuş ellerini
gösteriyor sana ayna
zaferini
alkışlayacak ellerin olmasa da. Sf:85
Bir gemi giderken diğeri geliyor
bir adam gelirken diğeri gidiyor
en nihayetinde ölüm nerede bitiyor?
Kül ateşi örtüyor
bayrak da öldürülmüş olanı.
Galip gelen yenilen
bayrağın altında ya da bayraksız
ölü.
Hiç öğrenmeyeceksin pişman olup olmadığını. Sf:107
Bir sürü güzel vasiyetname yazdık
hiçbir zaman açılmadılar
hiç okunmadılar
çünkü biz ölmedik.
Bir kişinin sadece bir kez söyleyeceği
şeyleri söyledik
bir kişinin sadece bir kez vereceği
şeyleri verdik.
Bu kadar basit
büyük laflar
öldürülenlerin
torbalarındaki kaşıklar gibi.
İki ay önce öldürülen
miyop adamın gözlüğünde
boydan boya yansıdığını gördük
sonsuzluğun.
Ve düşün
artık "biz" kelimesini
gözlerini yere çevirmeden
yüzün kızarmadan
söyleyemiyorsun. Sf:123 -
Ποιητική συλλογή του Γιάννη Ρίτσου από την περίοδο που ήταν εξόριστος στην Μακρόνησο.
Το έργο χωρίζεται σε τρία ημερολόγια με ατιτλα ποιήματα που γράφονται σε σχεδόν καθημερινή βάση, από την παραμονή ως την αποδέσμευσή του. Τα έργα του ξεκινούν παρατηρησιακά για να μετατραπούν σε έναν ισχυρό δεσμό με τους συγκρατούμενους του και την επαφή με τους δεσμώτες του.
Δεδομένου ότι τα συγκεκριμένα ποιήματα γράφονταν σε πραγματικό χρόνο μέρα με τη μέρα, είμαι συγκλονισμένη από το βιβλίο και κυρίως από την ευαισθησία και τον ανθρωπισμό ενός προσώπου που είναι στην εξορία. Βλέπουμε τη σκέψη του να προχωρά και να εξελίσσεται κάθε μέρα, να επισκέπτεται σκέψεις που έκανε τους περασμένους μήνες και να τις συνθέτει, μαθαίνουμε για τους συγκρατούμενους του και τι τους συνέβαινε στο στρατόπεδο.
Παρότι στο 2ο ημερολόγιο που τα ποιήματα του είναι πιο αφαιρετικά γραμμένα ένιωσα ένα χασιμο, όταν το βιβλίο τελείωνε δε μου είχε μείνει κανένα τέτοιο συναίσθημα, αντιθέτως ήμουν ιδιαίτερα συγκινημένη.
Το ποίημα της 26ης Μαΐου είναι το προσωπικό μου αγαπημένο. -
January 25
For a moment we took refuge
against the latrine wall.
The wind was cutting.
An old man stared at a cloud.
I looked at him smiling
in the light of that cloud—so peaceful,
so far removed from desire and pain—
I was jealous.
Old people agree with the clouds.
And it’s taking us a long time to get old.
-Yiannis Ritsos **
Diaries of Exile ** Read in Port Sudan, Sudan (August 2021) -
✨10/10✨
Sürgüne giden bir şairin orada günlük tutar gibi her gün şiir yazması, sürgün kampında neler yaşadığını okumamız harikaydı! Bayıldım! Sadece tek bir satırla gözlerim doldu. Kesinlikle tavsiye ederim. -
Bir bulutu
geyiğe benzetmek istiyorum.
Yapamıyorum.
Zamanla güzel yalanlar
azalıyor. -
"Dudaklarımı hatırana dayadım
acı ve haz yüzünden gece uyanık kaldım
sönmüş mısraların
dört mumu arasında." -
"a stunning sunset
so violet, so gold, so rosy.
We stood there. We watched. We
talked
alone, alone, tossing our voices into
the wind
so as to tie things together, to
unbind our hearts."
- Ritsos, November 6 -
"January 26"
I want to compare a cloud
to a deer.
I can't.
Over time the good lies
grow few.
Remarkable, really, that a poet as prolific as Ritsos could maintain such a focused intensity of mourning watchfulness as he does over these poems. Remarkable, that is, until you consider the circumstances which led to the poems being written. But not all are uncompromising as "January 26", and some give shape to striking images and concepts. The following is from "November 13":Things are simpler than we thought
so much so that we are sometimes startled; we stand
looking and smiling precisely there where we pressed our nails into our palm.
And in that image is a figure universally recognizable for all its dumb-founded credulity, smiling until the pain in its hands recalls it back to life. -
There is something to Ritsos here that is to Frank Stanford's Shade and to Merwin's Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment. As to what that is, read them in tandem and see it in the spaces that form between the texts and in the spaces between the words that form and meld into that negative space that is really always already affirmative. All three are from about the first half of the '70s, and I am sure the diffusion could not have been deliberate, though I see an ouroboros from Stanford ('73) to Ritsos ('75 and in Greek) and back to Merwin ('73)—particularly in the latter two watch for doors. And watch, still always, for Stanford's fixation, matched almost as emphatically by Ritsos, on the Moon.
-
Greek book #5
February 15, 1950
Where does this barbed wire end?
Snails crawl across the clothes of the killed.
Yet we did not come into the world only to die.
Since at dawn
it smells of lemon peel.
A committed communist, Ritsos found himself on the wrong side of history during the Greek Civil War and by the fall of 1948 was rounded up and sent to a “re-education" center on the northern Aegean island of Limnos. Two of the three sections of this book of poems were written there. The third section was written in 1950 while imprisoned on the much more brutal concentration camp on Markronisos, an island just off the tip of Attica (if I visit the The Temple of Poseidon I’m going to look east and try to conjure 1950).
As with any poetry collection, I didn’t particular like each poem on its own (though many I loved). But the collection as a whole is potent. On Limnos the situation was bad (meaningless labor, scarce rations, vermin), however the poems also tell of camaraderie and a vital collective imaginative spirit. Still, there’s a slow progression from generally hopeful to a little less so as Ritsos establishes his bearings. This period spans October 27, 1948 – January 30, 1949.
By January 18, 1950, Ritsos has been relocated to the concentration camp on Markronisos and the writing gets a lot grimmer. It’s amazing throughout how much spirit is present in these simple poems though. They aren't particularly hopeful but they have an almost playful, certainly bemused, confidence that life still matters.
These poems are 70 years old but feel fresh. Ritsos was writing in extreme conditions (including having to scrounge for something to write on, and keeping the results hidden from guards). He couldn’t afford to get particularly stylish and the results are stripped down to what’s immediate, real, and universal. Subject matter is mostly what he sees and these things reappear over and over. Flies, the mail truck, birds, and barbed wire. Sunlight, nighttime, windows, and flowers. Stools, blankets, and a dog. The moon.
Verbal worry beads; passing the time and comforting the owner. -
This is my favorite of Ritsos I’ve yet encountered. The other works had shoddy translations or the poems have not aged well into our modern social consciousness. But these are tender and gorgeous. The poems in this collection are from a series of brief correspondences and journals hidden away during Ritsos’s two long periods in exile, written while he was imprisoned on torturous islands in fascist labor camps. He still found ways to write and find inspiration. Maybe he did not find ways to be inspired, but was such a remarkable person as to inevitably inspire. Every line feels heavy with the weight of the day— both his contemporary moment in Greek militarism and fascism and in his literal day of forced labor and harsh incarceration.
“Tonight when I believe everyone no one will believe me.
My lamp shines with disbelief too.” -
Yannis Ritsos es un poeta cabal. Poemas humanos, demasiado humanos. Hombre comprometido con su época, nada de apacible, donde tomar partido era un imperativo ético impostergable y que en la comodidad de una sala de estar, podría ser fácilmente cuestionable, después de todo lo sucedido en el siglo anterior. Pero más allá de cuestiones extraliterarias, esta selección de poemas dan cuenta de un arte mayor, trascendente e imprescindible. Poemas que pueden parecernos fotografías capaces de capturar el ambiente físico, natural, psicológico y social al mismo tiempo. Poesía bella y verdadera, que nos muestra la irreductible humanidad de quienes padecen, dudan, sienten y anhelan, más allá de los arraigos y desarraigos personales y colectivos.
-
Hoy hablé con un amigo. Cuando tenía -dijo- trece años
vendía naranjas y limones en el Pireo.
Tenía un amigo armenio que vendía calcetines. Los mediodías de verano
se encontraban en el puerto, detrás de los sacos
dejaban sus canastos en el suelo y leían poemas.
Luego comían algo de pan de sésamo, naranjas, y miraban el mar,
el salto de algún pez, los barcos extranjeros. Desde hoy
yo también tengo un amigo. Mi amigo
tiene olor a naranjas y puerto. En sus bolsillos
muchos silbatos de barcos nocturnos. En su mano
veo el movimiento del minutero del gran Reloj. Desde hoy
lo quiero, desabrocho un botón de su chaqueta. -
Ritsos’ poetic Diaries of Exile expresses more than silence. It expresses the color of imprisonment, the shame of living, the cruelty inflicted in the mind by barbed wire, the impossibility of the body to see beyond the individual suffering and to place in the us, the multiple and indivisible camarade of being in imprisonment with others. Still, words are the only recourse to express and to exist. Poetry, with all its struggles, breaks through.
-
***who sucked me in***
Jen of Remembered Reads on YouTube in their Recent Reads: Nonfiction & Poetry published on do 8 juli 2021
It's a collection of poetry over a big amount of time and she pointed out how it changed. Which sounds fascinating. Also I didn't know Greece had a civil war 🤦... I want to blame my education but I don't think I can. -
tragic and eloquent, though not really to my taste in poetry.
-
Amazing poems, so deep yet simple.
