Poems by Thodoris Vorias (english translation: Maria Andreadelli)
Αγγλική μετάφραση (από την Μαρία Ανδρεαδέλλη)
1.
Shoes
(Παπούτσια)
Who eliminated the people
from the street?
Shoes have remained in the
pavements
By habit, they copy
the movement, they walk
They are led to the pedestrian
crossings,
stop at the traffic lights
and then they keep on.
The entire city chrap-chroup
Chrap chroup
swallowed the language of noise.
No-one had anything
to say beforehand.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
2.
In the exile
(Στην εξορία)
You took the world
to suck it in one piece
and found yourself exiled
with a cigarette in the balcony
Not here, only there
in the streets the exile will smash you.
The stone throwing didn't move consciences
The fists hurt you, they enlarged the wall
The posters faded, you expected them to scream
not even the signs did they yell on the wall,
they were covered with advertisements
The verses engraved you
wrinkle by wrinkle I measure your poems
You took your eyes,
you kept them in the small box of your eyeglasses
You took your hands you folded them
with the flag in the drawer
You took your ears and you sealed them,
in the exile, you said, one does not need many.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
3.
Angels
of murder
Angels of murder
in the nights of love,
pull the cast-off clothes
under your feet.
They slide inside them,
kill
your last breaths.
You blaze and melt
over your dead clothes,
trickle into the eyes
that stare at you through the sleeves,
through the ruptured zippers.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
4.
Red circle
As if I'm watching you
staining a red circle on the wall.
staining a red circle on the wall.
The ochre is getting dislodged,
the colours
that the tenants had dyed on through the years
are spilling.
The adhesive of the old posting
is gushing out of the circle
along with all the sperm which was giving birth to ideas.
You are trying to understand
what you've done to the wall;
history is constantly being poured
on the pavement, on the asphalt.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
5.
When the moon is full
When the moon is full
it finds its way to slip on the Earth
In the midnight it washes its hair in the river
it pours itself in the sea and swims
it rolls on the tearful cheeks
of the girls.
At home
you pour water on your doorsteps
so as the moon can climb
till your front door.
Last night it took me
to the top of the rocks, called Meteora
to travel Kalampaka.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
6.
In the castle of Platamonas
Outside the embrasures
the clouds are heard
they recount piratical gatherings
they suspended deep red as they are
reflecting the blood that is about to be spilled
The sea has become dark
it stole the colour
from the look of the sentry
The ground
before it holds its breath
-a few moments before the battle-
it smells origan
it shouts in the soul of the soldier,
Defend me!
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
7.
Behind
the Neptunium
At nights
the captivated of love
are led behind the Neptunium.
Half naked
they surrender themselves
to sighs and cuddling
in the dark locker rooms
At those moments
some shadows detach themselves from others
and are nourished
by the leftovers of desire
They drug their loneliness with whispers
with a drowned sound of a kiss
with a heavy breath
or a jerk of excitement.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
8.
It did not want to watch the sea
(Δεν ήθελε να δει τη θάλασσα)Tonight
the loneliness of the stars
does not flare into the sky.
Since this morning the White Tower
in the fog
does not want to watch the sea
You stepped outside
to smoke a cigarette
but you stayed for two hours
in the cold
Silence around;
Region surrounded
by Christmas luminous bobwires
The maid of night, Solitude,
is getting engaged to the scattered verses…
you can see them
they gathered around the pale moon
they daze it
they drug it
and it blurs.
9.
Full moon courses
(Δρομολόγια με την πανσέληνο)
Can you see that man with the gun?
He means to die.
He looks for bullets in his pockets
as if he’s looking for a lighter.
Can you see the other one?
He puts his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket
and he pulls his heart out.
He stares at it under the moonlight
and hands it over to the policeman
to verify the data.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
10.
The world slipped into the abyss
(Γλίστρησε στην άβυσσο ο κόσμος)
The world slipped into the abyss
and the sun didn’t manage to save it.
The dove brought
a rag of darkness
and a baby’s cry.
The world slipped into the abyss
(Γλίστρησε στην άβυσσο ο κόσμος)
The world slipped into the abyss
and the sun didn’t manage to save it.
The dove brought
a rag of darkness
and a baby’s cry.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
11.
The wind blew from the direction of Palestine
(Φύσηξε από τη μεριά της Παλαιστίνης)
The wind blew from the direction of Palestine.
The clouds brought war
into our drowsy state.
It drizzled tears first
but now it’s pouring blood.
If it starts hailing,
God bless
the night walkers
who won’t have
bulletproof umbrellas.
The wind blew from the direction of Palestine
(Φύσηξε από τη μεριά της Παλαιστίνης)
The wind blew from the direction of Palestine.
The clouds brought war
into our drowsy state.
It drizzled tears first
but now it’s pouring blood.
If it starts hailing,
God bless
the night walkers
who won’t have
bulletproof umbrellas.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
12.
The repertoire of death
(Το ρεπερτόριο του θανάτου)
Every time, death
has its own repertoire.
There are the philharmonics,
who discern the music of each bullet.
Who discern the unique march
of their own death
among the thousands, loyal
to their target, bullets.
There are also the others who sigh,
insecure for their life,
depended on the coward,
the misguided bullets,
those which preferred to be ricocheted,
on the cold concrete,
those discordant
bullets of mercy.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2019]
The repertoire of death
(Το ρεπερτόριο του θανάτου)
Every time, death
has its own repertoire.
There are the philharmonics,
who discern the music of each bullet.
Who discern the unique march
of their own death
among the thousands, loyal
to their target, bullets.
There are also the others who sigh,
insecure for their life,
depended on the coward,
the misguided bullets,
those which preferred to be ricocheted,
on the cold concrete,
those discordant
bullets of mercy.
13.
The verses are bullets
(Οι στίχοι είναι σφαίρες)
I
(Μέσα μου πόλεμος)
War inside me
the rivers of tears
and the soul on the anvil
until it learns
how to withstand the hammer.
II
During the day you shrink into the crowd,
you wither and as you look down
you get lost into the road.
At night your pencil burns-
you get dressed like a combatant, a severe wind
with a whole homeland of poems
sewn on its flag.
III
(Ιδέες τυπώνονται με φλόγες)
Ideas are printed by flames
in the streets,
swords tear the day,
words like hammers
nail it on the cross.
IV
Once you used to write poems
But now you don't even remember where you have hidden
them.
Nevertheless, the verses are bullets,
you forget them when you return to the routine
of peace;
when you unfold some cloth
they escape to the floor,
then you have a look at your heart
and they get nailed into your eyes.
At nights the bullets
sneak into your dreams
and when you tear
the on call poem
arms within.
V
You ask what the autoimmune are.
They are verses carved onto the body,
poems written during a night
malicious glances, keen words like knives
and soul whirlwinds...
like that Vardaris wind,
half north,
half rebel
striding down the Seich Sou.
At night it wiped out everything one could wipe out
and in the morning we were looking for the dreams
under our scattered leaves
and our broken branches.
VI
I know you, soldiers,
I know of shadow phalanxes
on night courses.
At night, the mountain always won
-our steps became unfamiliar,
the breath smelled of thirsty words
and the gravels
became broken bones
under our boots.
If it happened
to be touched by the one next to you
it was as if
a dead one had touched you.
VII
(Πριν μ' εκτελέσετε)
Before you executed me
you were looking at me in the eye.
You were waiting for an impalpable
nod of mine.
You had the need of an approval.
By a single nod
of the goner
the sacrificer’s conscience is relieved.
VIII
(Με τα χρόνια κύρτωσαν τα κλαδιά)
Over the years my branches have bent;
I'm afraid of the day
that they will be approachable enough,
so that they can hang
defeated soldiers.
I'm afraid of the letters
in the pockets of the hanged ones,
at nights the words will howl,
bereaved Furies will bay.
Translated by Maria Andreadelli [2023]
