Tasos Livaditis//Τάσος Λειβαδίτης

 

ΚΑΠΟΤΕ το σπίτι ξεχειλίζει απ’ την απαντοχή, και δεν έ-
χουμε πού να σταθούμε, βγαίνουμε τότε στον κόσμο, όπως την
πρώτη φορά, κλαίγοντας, ενώ ο ορίζοντας πέρα, με την άκρα
εγκατάλειψη, μας κλείνει μες στο μυστικό, ώσπου το βράδυ
μια άρπα ακούγεται σ’ ένα σπίτι ακατοίκητο. Είναι η ώρα
του μεγάλου ονειροπόλου, που εδώ και αιώνες, χωρίς ποτέ να
χάνεται, πηγαίνει πάντα προς το χαμό.

 

SOMETIMES the house would overflow of expectation
and we have no place to stand; then we go out to the world
like the first time crying while at the far end the horizon with
its intense abandonment hides us inside the secret, until
at night a harp is heard from the uninhabited house. It’s
the time of the great dreamer who for centuries has never
disappeared yet always walks toward oblivion.
~Tasos Livaditis-Selected Poems, translated by Manolis Aligizakis, Libros Libertad.ca
~Τάσος Λειβαδίτης-Εκλεγμένα Ποιήματα, μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη.

~www.libroslibertad.ca

ΦΥΛΛΑ ΦΘΙΝΟΠΩΡΟΥ/AUTUMN LEAVES

ΦΘΙΝΟΠΩΡΟ

Στα κλαδιά του δέντρου

θρόϊσμα φύλλων

προσδιορίζουν

απαλή προσγείωση

κάτω απ’ τις σόλες μου

παιγνίδι γελαστό  και κρύφιο

γκρίζο ομιχλώδες

πρωινό Οχτώβρη

που φέρνει

το χαμόγελο

αναμονή

φλογερού Απρίλη

νεκρανάσταση

φιλοσοφία φύλλων

εξήγηση

προορισμός

αρμονία

AUTUMN

In tree branches

rustle of leaves

definition of fall

soft landing

under my soles

secretly played game

grayish, foggy

October morning

prompts smile

anticipation

of fiery April

resurrection

philosophy of leaves

exegesis

harmony

purpose

~ΦΥΛΛΑ ΦΘΙΝΟΠΩΡΟΥ/AUTUMN LEAVES

~ΜΑΝΩΛΗ ΑΛΥΓΙΖΑΚΗ/MANOLIS ALIGIZAKIS

~Ανέκδοτη Συλλογή/Unpublished Collection

Tasos Livaditis-Selected Poems #2/Τάσος Λειβαδίτης-Εκλεγμένα Ποιήματα #2

Μυστική Πύλη

Φτερούγες σάλευαν κάτω απ’ τά έπιπλα, καί στό βάθος

ο σκοτεινός καθρέφτης έκανε τά παιδιά ν’ αρρωσταίνουν συχνά,

γιατί δέν ήθελαν νά μεγαλώσουν,

η μητέρα έκλαιγε καί μέ παρακαλούσε νά κατέβω, μά εμένα

ήταν η μοίρα μου νά περπατάω στό ταβάνι, μιά μάχη δική μου,

μητέρα, όπου πάντα ο νεκρός ήμουν εγώ.

Γι’ αυτό ήξερα καί τών ουρανών τή μυστική υπόγεια πύλη.

 

Secret Gate

Wings stirred under the furniture and at the end of the hall

the dark mirror made the children often sick, because they

didn’t want to grow up,

mother cried and beg me to come down, but my fate was

to walk on the ceiling, my own battle, mother, where I was

the only dead.

For this I knew the subterranean secret gate of the skies.

Δημιουργία

Καθόταν έξω στά χωράφια καί σχεδίαζε πάνω στό χώμα

πουλιά. Μά τά πουλιά ζητούσαν ουρανό. Τότε σχεδίασε

γύρω τους τήν αιώνεια θλίψη.

Καί τά πουλιά πέταξαν.

Creation

He would sit out in the fields and draw birds

on the soil. But the birds yearned for the sky. Then

all around them he drew the infinite sorrow.

And the birds flew away.

Νύχτα

Μιά πόρτα τή νύχτα πού τή βλέπουν μόνο οι τυφλοί,

τό σκοτάδι κάνει τά ζώα ν’ ακούνε μακρύτερα,

κι εκείνος τρίκλιζε, όχι απ’ τό πιοτό,

μ’ απ’ τήν απελπισμένη κίνηση ν’ ανέβει

στόν πύργο, πού χάσαμε κάποτε.

 

 

Night

There is a door in the night that only the blind see,

darkness makes the animals hear better,

and him, staggered, not from being drunk

but from his futile effort to climb

up to the tower, we once had lost.

Ενοχή

Τί ζητούσαν, λοιπόν, σέ τί είχα φταίξει, εμένα

τό μόνο μου έγκλημα ήταν ότι μπόρεσα νά μεγαλώσω

κυνηγημένος πάντα, πού νά βρείς καιρό, έτσι έμεινα

εύπιστος κι αγκάλιαζα τό κρύο σίδερο τής γέφυρας.

Ενώ απ’ τό βάθος, μακριά, μέ κοίταζε σάν ξένο

η πιό δική μου ζωή.

Guilt

Then, what they searched for, what was I guilty of, I, who’s

only crime was that I grew up; always chased,

where could one find time, for this I stayed gullible and

I always hugged the cold railing of the bridge.

While at the far end, far away, my true life stared at me

as though seeing a stranger.

~Τάσος Λειβαδίτης, ‘Διασπορά’

~Tasos Livaditis, ‘Diaspora’

~Translation Manolis Aligizakis

The Art of Words

Dr Dimitri Karalis

There is no difference between a precious stone and a common stone in their building structure, except only in the rearrangement of their particles. The carbon in the charcoal and diamond, for instance, is the same, except for the different arrangement of their molecules, namely the crystallization. Yet… how far apart are they in beauty and value compared to each other. The pearl and the seashell have also identical structural synthesis; yet the pearl is superior in beauty and as cosmetic value. Similar situations we observe also in human beings. Two humans have the same ideas and words to speak and write, yet one produces literature and the other platitude. Why does this happen? What element made them differ so widely?

The secret lies only in the presentation of their thoughts. A finer and more compendious process has gone on in the one case than in the other. The words are fused and knitted closer; in some way heightened and intensified so lyrically like the sounds of Aeolian harp. Philosophising literature, offers joy, enthusiasm, knowledge and creative excitement to a mature reader. Such enviable writing remains an indelible and inexhaustible source of mental inspiration to ever-searching humanity.

Paging through famous literature biographies and essays on virtue like that of ancient writer Plutarch; we feel mentally and spiritually wealthier by reading his celestial treasures. Justly the French thinker ‘Michel Mountain’ called him the ‘physician of the soul’. Real profound literature is not written to project egoistic and vanity, but to love and be loved. A skilful writer never leaves his readers where he finds them initially, but enriches and inspires them to a higher spiritual platform. ”Do not read books that your soul dislikes them,” said Shakespeare,” you wasting your time to receive no benefit.” Books written with a deeper soul, are recognised instantaneously by reading only a few words anywhere amongst the pages. ”There are three types of books like our food,” said Francis Bacon,”1. Those we eat (read) and immediately spit out as unsuitable food (knowledge). 2. Those that we eat (read) pleasantly and fall short to nourish (educate). 3. Those that require slow chewing (reading) to extract their nourishing substances well”.

When we read advanced spiritual works, like that of Neo-platonic writer ‘Synecious’, we discover that he is in love with divine truth as he writes. Every word is loaded with mystery and exquisite celestial music, which brings our soul to ecstasy, like walking in Eleusinian ancient mysteries. We revive the ancient celestial ceremonies again, as if we lived in those practising days too. This is the supreme aim of literature, to extend our vision higher with the majestic truth which they contain. Without the truth, as a captain in a writing ship, no soul will follow our literal journey. Here exactly we find the soulful and un-soulful writings. From here, we collect lexical ambrosia to groom our thoughts and words with celestial glory. Do not publish this letter, said the Greek writer Kazantzakis, to the Athenian editor ‘Prevelakis’, because I did not put soul into it. Many writers have experience in these kinds of moments, when they write egocentrically.

One word to write wrongly, and immediately our souls interrupt the flow. Like the unskilful musician, who plays false a note in an orchestra, and is interrupted instantaneously by the maestro to restore the lyrical harmony. Who writes literature then, our selves or some outside power? Could it be that we become an instrument for the spirit to deliver a message to humanity? Naturally, not all writing is spiritually endorsed; because all depends on the spiritual level of the individual. A hill has a better view over the landscape than a flat valley, but only on the mountain noetic peak is one nearer to indigo sky and to mysterious glimmering stars.

How does one become spiritually aware to write well, is the question? Here is what the philosopher Emerson’ has to say on the subject.

If, never the less, God has called any of you to explore truth and beauty, be bold, be firm, be true. When you shall say that as others did, so will I. I am sorry for my early visions; I must eat the good of the land and let learning and romantic expectations go until a more convenient season. Then dies the spiritual man in you; then once more perish the buds of arts, prose, poetry and science, as they have died already in a thousand and thousands of men. The hours of that choice, is the crisis of your history; and see that you hold yourself fast by the intellect. Bent to the persuasion which is flowing to you from every object in nature, to be its tongue to the heart of man, and to show the besotted world how passing fair is wisdom.

Be contained with a little light that it is your own. Explore and explore. Be neither chided nor flattered out of your perpetual inquiry. Neither dogmatise nor accept another’s dogmatism. Why should you renounce your right to traverse the star-lit desert of truth, for the premature comforts of an acre, house, and barn? Truth also has its roof, bed, and board. Make yourself necessary to the world, and mankind will give you bread. ”

You will not fear that I am enjoying too stern an asceticism. Ask not, of what use is a scholarship that systematically retreats? Or who is the better for the philosopher who conceals his accomplishment and hides his thoughts from the waiting world. Hide his thoughts! Hide the sun and the moon! Thoughts are all light, and publish themselves freely into the universe. It will speak, though you are dumb by its own miraculous organ. It will flow out of your actions, your manners, and your face. It will bring you friendship and impledge you to truth by the love and expectations of generous minds. By virtue of the laws of nature, which is one and perfect, it shall yield every sincere good that is in the soul, to the scholar beloved of earth and heavens.