Fotis Isago Konstantinou Zoubos

 Χθες στη μακρινή Πρετόρια γεννήθηκε το 6ο στη σειρά εγγόνι μας ο Fotis Isago (Μέλλον) Zoubos του Κωνσταντίνου.

Ας είναι γερός και καλότυχος!

Ποίηση

 I took my Power in my Hand

by Emily Dickinson

I took my Power in my Hand—
And went against the World—
‘Twas not so much as David—had—
But I—was twice as bold—

I aimed my Pebble—but Myself
Was all the one that fell—
Was it Goliath—was too large—
Or was myself—too small?

Αυτονόητο ή όχι

Είμαι βέβαιος ότι επειδή δεν παρακολουθώ πολύ στενά την ειδησεογραφία θα μου έχει ξεφύγει η ανακοίνωση συμπαράστασης των Πρυτάνεων των Ελληνικών Πανεπιστημίων προς τον Πρύτανη του ΑΠΘ σχετικά με τις απειλές που δέχεται ακόμη και για τη ζωή του.

Ποίηση

RAIN

by Raymond Carver

Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.

Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

Ψαθόπυργος

 Στα 18 χιλιόμετρα από την Πάτρα είναι ο Ψαθόπυργος, εκεί που με βρίσκει το τέλος του πολύ δύσκολου 2021.

Πολλές ευχές για μια καλή καινούργια χρονιά!

Με δυο φωτογραφίες από τον Ψαθόπυργο, η μια με τα πατρινά μας εγγόνια!

Ποίηση

 Σ Τ’  Α Σ Τ Ε Ι Α  Π Α Ι Ζ Α Μ Ε

του Μανόλη Αναγνωστάκη

—

Στ’ αστεία παίζαμε!
Mέσα στη μέθη του παιχνιδιού σάς δώσαμε και τις γυναίκες μας
Tα πιο ακριβά ενθύμια που μέσα στην κάσα κρύβαμε
Στο τέλος το ίδιο το σπίτι μας με όλα τα υπάρχοντα.
Nύχτες ατέλειωτες παίζαμε, μακριά απ’ το φως της ημέρας
Mήπως πέρασαν χρόνια; σαπίσαν τα φύλλα του ημεροδείχτη
Δε βγάλαμε ποτέ καλό χαρτί, χάναμε χάναμε ολοένα
Πώς θα φύγουμε τώρα; πού θα πάμε; ποιος θα μας δεχτεί;

Δώστε μας πίσω τα χρόνια μας δώστε μας πίσω τα χαρτιά μας
Kλέφτες!
Στα ψέματα παίζαμε!  

Μουσική: Mary Story Lowlands away

 

Ποίηση

FIRE AND ICE

by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Μουσική Πρόταση: Lola Marsh - She's a Rainbow

 

Ποίηση

 Για κάποιο λόγο αυτή είναι η εποχή της Ποίησης....

I GO BACK TO THE HOUSE FOR A BOOK

by Billy Collins

I turn around on the gravel
and go back to the house for a book,
something to read at the doctor’s office,
and while I am inside, running the finger
of inquisition along a shelf,
another me that did not bother
to go back to the house for a book
heads out on his own,
rolls down the driveway,
and swings left toward town,
a ghost in his ghost car,
another knot in the string of time,
a good three minutes ahead of me—
a spacing that will now continue
for the rest of my life.
Sometimes I think I see him
a few people in front of me on a line
or getting up from a table
to leave the restaurant just before I do,
slipping into his coat on the way out the door.
But there is no catching him,
no way to slow him down
and put us back in sync,
unless one day he decides to go back
to the house for something,
but I cannot imagine
for the life of me what that might be.
He is out there always before me,
blazing my trail, invisible scout,
hound that pulls me along,
shade I am doomed to follow,
my perfect double,
only bumped an inch into the future,
and not nearly as well-versed as I
in the love poems of Ovid—
I who went back to the house
that fateful winter morning and got the book.

Ποίηση

BEiNG BORING

by Wendy Cope

‘May you live in interesting times.’ –Chinese curse

If you ask me ‘What’s new?’, I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it’s better today.
I’m content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion–I’ve used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last.
If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.

I don’t go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don’t need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I’ve found a safe mooring,
I’ve just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.

Ποίηση

 Mπάνιο στην πισίνα

Γέμισε η πισίνα με κολυμβητές
σώματα δυνατά, αξιέραστα
γλίστρησα ανάμεσά τους για ν΄απολαύσω
το σφρίγος, την αρρενωπή ομορφιά
τα γυμνασμένα μπράτσα, τα ρωμαλέα στήθη
-εγώ που μόνο το πνεύμα ήξερα να τιμώ τόσον καιρό-
κι ένιωσα ξαφνικά να εκστασιάζομαι
μπροστά στο κάλλος ενός εφηβικού κορμιού
στη θέα ενός ξανθού αγοριού
που έπιανε τα μαλλιά του μ΄ένα λαστιχάκι
λίγο πριν χαθεί κάτω απ΄τα ήρεμα νερά.

Σκέφτηκα τότε πως θα ήθελα να επιστρέψω
στα καλοκαίρια της σπαταλημένης νιότης μου
στα μισοφωτισμένα δωμάτια
στα περίκλειστα χρόνια μου
να σκίσω μανιφέστα και γραφές
και περισπούδαστα βιβλία
που ετύρβαζαν περί πολλά και τίποτα δεν μου είπαν
καθώς μια απλή επίσκεψη σε πισίνα της πόλης
έφτασε
για να μου φανερώσει
πόσο πολλά χαθήκανε στο μεταξύ
και πόσο λίγο ζήσαμε στ΄αλήθεια.

Κατερίνα Καριζώνη

Από το Περιοδικό Φρέαρ

Ποίηση

 FORGETFULNESS

by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted 
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Ποίηση

THIS BE THE VERSE

by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Μουσική Πρόταση: Pianist in tears!!!. Most moving piano performance.

 Pianist Nobuyuki Tsujii bursts into tears when he plays at Carnegie Hall his own composition "Elegy for the Victims of the Tsunami of March 11, 2011 in Japan"

Μουσική Πρόταση: The Pogues Dirty Old Town

 

Μουσική Πρόταση:Όταν η Joan Baez τραγούδησε το «Άσμα Ασμάτων» στα Ελληνικά

 

Μίκης Θεοδωράκης

Μίκης Θεοδωράκης (1925-2021)

Ο πιο μεγάλος Έλληνας συνθέτης! Δύσκολο να διαλέξει κανείς ένα από τα τραγούδια του έτσι σαν φόρο τιμής!

Θα προτιμήσω ένα από τα πολύ αγαπημένα μου.

Νύχτα μαγικιά. Με τη Μαργαρίτα Ζορμπαλά.

Νύχτα μαγικιά μια σκιά περνά,

σκέψου τώρα τη φωνή,

που σου 'λεγε, ποτέ, ποτέ μαζί.

Βάδιζα σκυφτός, ήσουν ουρανός

με των άστρων τη μουσική

μου τραγουδάς, ποτέ, ποτέ μαζί.

Μάγισσα χλωμή, το στερνό σου φιλί,

ξεχασμένη μουσική,

μια μαχαιριά, ποτέ, ποτέ μαζί.

Πολιτική

 Του έγειρε μονόπαντα ο ανασχηματισμός του Μητσοτάκη! Πίστευε ότι με τον Αποστολάκη θα κάλυπτε κάπως τον Πλεύρη και τη δεξιά στροφή!

Ποίηση

 THE VACATION

by Wendell Berry

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.

He went flying down the river in his boat

with his video camera to his eye, making

a moving picture of the moving river

upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly

toward the end of his vacation. He showed

his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,

preserving it forever: the river, the trees,

the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat

behind which he stood with his camera

preserving his vacation even as he was having it

so that after he had had it he would still

have it. It would be there. With a flick

of a switch, there it would be. But he

would not be in it. He would never be in it.