Monday, December 31, 2012

Χριστούγεννα








KOKKINH  ΚΛΩΣΤΗ…

Μια  φορά  κι  έναν  καιρό  σε  δρόμο  μεταλλικό  και  δύστροπο
Μια  η  φορά  κι  η  φόρα  ως  το  τέλος  του
Κι  έναν  καιρό  πολύξερο  σε  τρόμο  βολικό  και  άτροπο
Δώστου  κλώτσο  να  γυρίσει  μήπως  συνέλθει  μια  φορά
Κι  έναν  καιρό

Μια  σειρά  κι  ένα  γερό  σημάντρου  βασιλικών  εντύπωμα
Μια  η  σειρά  κι  η  φόρα  υπολογίσιμη
Κι  ένα  γερό  τρικάταρτο  σε  πρίμο  τυπικό  και  άτρομο
Βίρα – μάινα  όρτσα  φλόκο  μήπως  στεριώσει  μια  σειρά  
Κι  είναι  νερό

Δρόμο  παίρνει  δρόμο  αφήνει  βρίσκει  σπηλιά  γυαλιστερή  κι  επίπεδη
Να  πάρεις  τ’  άτι  που  πετά  ή  ό,τι  μένει
Στο  λόγο  πάνω  ύλες  ακατέργαστες  καινές
Ανείπωτες  κενές  συμβάσεις  ίσως  πληρώματα  ωρών
Και  κείνη  η  ακτίνα  ήλιου  απ’  όμοιές  της  
Ετεροθαλείς  δεσμίδες – θαύματα  
Έκπτωτα  μανταλωμένη

Μια  κυρά  κι  ένα  νερό  και  τώρα  διπολικό  και  τρίκορφο
Μια  η  Κυρά  κι  η  Κόρη  ίσαμ’  ύστερα
Κι  ένα  πυρρό  ανήξερο  νταμάρι  μυθικό  κι  άθυμο
Πάνω – κάτω  δώθε – κείθε  μήπως  σταυρώσει  αληθινά
Σ’  ένα  χορό

Μια  δορά  κι  ένα  Μωρό  μια  μέρα  πληθωρική  κι  ανήκουστη
Μια  η  δορά  με  δώρα  αναγνωρίσιμα
Κι  ένα  Μωρό  απαράλλαχτο  πιο  πέρα  φυσικά  κι  αγνώριστα
Είναι  και  πάντα  ον  λιμνάζει  μήπως  σκεπάσει  μια  Κυρά  
Κι  έναν  καιρό.  




A RED THREAD

Once upon a time on a metallic and wayward road
One the time and the impulse up to the end
And a lettered period upon a convenient and torpid terror
Spin it to whirl in case it comes round at last
Just for once

One row and a robust imprint from a chime of basil leaves
One the row and the impulse considerable
Along with a tough three masted ship in a typical and fearless prime
Set sails furl sails windward in case it fixes on a row
And there's water

It hits the road, leaves way behind, reaches to a sparkling and even cave
You should take the flying horse or whatever rests 
Upon the speech new raw materials
Untold void conventions maybe hour supplements
And that sunbeam by its similar
Stepsister bundles
overthrown and locked

One lady and a water and now bipolar and tri-peaked
One the Lady and the Daughter up to later
And a fermented ignorant quarry being legendary and sad
Up and down, here and there, in case it truly crosses
Upon a dance

One hide and a Baby on an abundant and incredible day
One the hide carrying recognizable presents
And a Baby identical a little further naturally and unknowably
Is and always being it overflows in case it covers a Lady
And a time







Saturday, October 27, 2012

A light distance


(Z.K)


I'll see again
The same glow
If it's a rare light
The day is breaking
Or its root is misleading me
I think it's passing me to tomorrow
I get sea-frothed while transcending 
Both the red and gold
I hope to everything white there
At the posts where life's mischief ambushes
I turn back
My crooked road, your curves I'm following
And I'll arrive




Z.K.



Creative Commons LicenseΑυτό έργο χορηγείται με άδεια Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Ελλάδα.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Not a right - a privilege



Is it so heavy a task
to offer me a drop from your flask
now that I found myself
in the middle of this desert?

Is it so perilous a case
to offer me your arms to embrace
now that I fell off my shelf
in the middle of this paddle?

Is it so dump a choice
to offer me a shelter from noise
now that I have no defence
in the middle of this crowd?

It is so gallant an act
to offer me your sincere fact
now that I fight the waves
in the middle of this sound!





Z.K.



Creative Commons LicenseΑυτό έργο χορηγείται με άδεια Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Ελλάδα.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Refuge



(Z.K.)



The rain has started falling           A bird flew heading towards the refuge

The machines stopped working                The kids are tucked in their tiny world


A day of celebration    A shelter for dawn      A water possibly timeless


At the end a beginning                          And a blue lightning in the white sky


Life’s a balloon                          Which keeps blowing like a sail to the wind


Homemade bread                       Empty ovens look like open mouths waiting


An electric earth        A modern universe               A huge open wound


As much of reinforcement                                            May consolation bring


Give me nothing from pockets                            Only accept to grant me
      
From your heart a spring     Time is freedom to love      In truth its premise






Καταφύγιο


Άρχισε η βροχή Ένα πουλί πέταξε για το καταφυγιο

Οι μηχανές σταμάτησαν Τα μικρά παιδιά λουφαξανε στον κόσμο τους

Μια μέρα γιορτινή Μια σκέπη αυγινη Κι ενα νερό που ισως να 'ναι αθάνατο

Κάθε τέλος κι αρχή Και μια αστραπή γαλάζια στο λευκό ουρανό

Μπαλονι η ζωή Που όλο φουσκώνει σαν πανι στον άνεμο

Σπιτικό το ψωμί Κάπου άδειοι φούρνοι χασκουνε σα στοματα

Μια γη ηλεκτρονική Συμπαν μοντέρνο Κι ανοιχτή η πληγή

Οση ισχύ κι αν φέρει Τωρα η παρηγοριά

Τίποτα μη μου δώσεις απο την τσεπη σου Μονο δέξου να μου χαρισεις

Πηγη απ' την καρδια Ο χρονος ελευθερία ν' αγαπάς Στην Αληθεια η ριζα του




Z.K.




Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Day cycle



 It was morning. The sunrise was planting colors on the soil. Before that, it had varnished the floors at the castle of oblivion. The last star grabbed the glass from the sun's hands, in order to prevent the splinters from injuring eyes. 


 It was noon. By the comma which split your phrase up, I perceived your inclination adhering on the clouds and combing the metal barricades. 


 A fountain I had build up, a dedication to heavens, saturated the lanes. However, the tap was muffled by the scent of jasmines and lilies. A whole garden for an "I wonder" thrown by the loner from the alley on the other side. Yet, it seemed worthless to the uninformed ones: they mistook it for an orchid! Initiation on a dome of yours, Spring, I discovered. And I covered that WHY with bands from the mass of your joy.


 It was afternoon. The sun and the moon, both full, were celebrating the meeting. Now, this summer will leave its reply on the little hand. The bowl of the sky will be refilled. The evening approached, but its darkness would never fall heavily on bodies and eyelashes. And we were lulled again by a vivid revelry, dating back to ages, while at the same time the enraged storm was migrating stirring the waters. It thought nobody was able to hold on. But it got deceived by the will, which now carries back the sunrise on its hands with a smile!



Z.K.




Creative Commons LicenseΑυτό έργο χορηγείται με άδεια Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Ελλάδα.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Ode to my blender



(Z.K.)



Oh you, handy and convenient appliance!
Even when you demonstrate defiance,
you are my favorite machine!

Oh, you’re always ready to process what’s eatable,
and, though your whirl could not be beatable,
you make my mind follow your spin!

Oh you, my whimsy and indispensable companion!
Milkshakes and sorbets to grace with a fanion
you help me offer to our guests!

Oh, how much I appreciate our partnership!
Without you, what fertile relationship
would open tracks for my quests?

So now, let me humbly grab the chance to praise you.
I don’t intend to tease or to amaze you;
just to say: Happy to have you!

And, though I cherish dearly all my kitchen tools,
I can’t deny that, above all those jewels,
I really, thoroughly love you!





Z.K.





Creative Commons LicenseΑυτό έργο χορηγείται με άδεια Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Ελλάδα.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Fall Back




Brisk weather
autumn still
snatched my pencil
drained my quill

Inkless scripture
nameless bite
whipped my fingers
How to write?

Sharply timid
yielded in
dreadful copies
of a grin

Whipped by tides
of a thought
Ahead unknown
nestled a knot

Coward mind
turned its back
Will stayed there
opened track

Now standing 
on a hill
tasting sunlight
through the chill

It’s a promise
I won’t run
I’ll step gently
on your fun





Z.K.



Creative Commons LicenseΑυτό έργο χορηγείται με άδεια Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Ελλάδα.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Progressing


(Ζαφειρια Κωστοπουλου)



Προχωρώντας


Ηλιαχτίδα πέρασε μέσα

απ' το συμπαγές γαλάζιο τ' ουρανού

Εγια-μολα, εγια-λεσα,

σ' αυτοσχέδιο νερό αόρατου κρουνού

κι έδεσε λιμάνι η καρδιά.

Βιρα τις άγκυρες τώρα

μέσα στο τραγούδι του μικρού βοριά.


Μάινα την ψυχή που πήρε φόρα

κι έσκισε τα σύννεφα

σαν τη μαχαιριά

που της πέταξε πολλαπλή η χίμαιρα.


Μ' "ευχαριστώ" τελειώνει το τραγούδι

μ' "ευχαριστώ" αρχίζει πια να ζει

μεσα στα φύκια μια πνοή

που ήταν σταματημένη.

Στο τέλος βρήκε την αρχή.



Progressing


A sunbeam got through 

the solid blue of the sky.


Stretch the sails, furl the sails,


on a makeshift water 


from an invisible fountain.


Hearts tied ropes on dock then.




Up anchors now,


in the song 


of the apparent wind.


Govern the soul 


which got impulsive


and tore the clouds


like a rocket heading


to a marvelous universe.


Set it to a steady orbit.




Phrasing “thanks” the song fades out


Phrasing "thanks" a new life begins


for a breath taken


within the sparks 


from a prolific friction: 


in the end it found a start.




Z.K.


(written in 1989)


Monday, August 27, 2012

Where rivers stream a-gleam


(Courtesy of the choir conductor, vocal insructor 
and hobbyist photographer Scott Inglis-Kidger)


Where rivers stream a-gleam


Sending my bits of time

up and far away
along the sky-river of wonder
wishing I had this chime
once left upon a ray
some naughty steps next to a thunder.

Degrading a routine
staring at the herder
reflecting lambs that know no fancy
conducting stimuli glean
feeding from the barter
conversing leaves about being chancy.

Whistling my thoughts to concentrate.
Well, such little strolls intoxicate!






Z.K.


(written in 2012)

 




Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Word Play








Word Play

If I’m a leaf
I can’t be stiff
and I’ll come flying on your cliff...

If I’m a tune
Upon a dune
I’ll lay my marginal tribune.

If I’m an end
to what extend
time would interfere to mend?

If you’re a bird
and I’m a nerd
what kind of language would be heard?









Z.K.


(written in 2012) 



 


Saturday, August 4, 2012

Marine Days


(Z.K.)

Θαλασσινές Μέρες

Χορεύεις μπάλο με την ακρογιαλιά και τους μικρούς όρμους, κλέβοντας τα κύματα απ' η θάλασσα, αφήνοντάς την νερό κοιμισμένο αφού αιχμαλώτισες την εγρήγορσή της στα πόδια σου.
Και μετά;

Marine Days

You dance Ballos along the seashore and the little bays, stealing waves from the sea, leaving it an idle water, since you’ve captured its restlessness on your feet.
And then?

(Z.K.)

Τσακώνεις τα μελτέμια που σκαλώνουν στ' αρμυρίκια, τα μαντηλοδένεις στη μέση σου και στέλνεις τα μαλλιά σου στη ρότα τους, πέρα, πάνω απ' το χουζουρεμένο σώμα του νησιού.
Και μετά;

You grab the etesian winds, which get caught on the shore trees, you tie mantles around your waist and you send your hair to their route, away, beyond the sprawling body of the island.
And then?

(Z.K.)


Κόβεις την ακύμαντη θάλασσα μ' αιχμηρές απλωτές ή την αγκαλιάζεις με διάπλατες χεριές, χορεύοντας μέσα της κάθε τόσο την αρμονία των ψαριών.
Και μετά;

You cut the waveless sea stretching sharply or you hug it with a wide-open embrace, dancing every now and then the harmony of the fish.
And then?   



(Ζ.K.)


Κάθεσαι το βράδυ στο γεφυράκι και χτίζεις τον ορίζοντα με ευθείες ματιές και καμπύλες σκέψεις. Ή ακόμα, καλλιεργείς στις φωτοβραγιές πάνω στα νερά επιθυμίες κι ελπίδες, ενώ δίπλα σου η ζωή συνεχίζεται...

Και μετά;

You sit on the tiny bridge in the evenings and you built an horizon with straight gazes and curved thoughts; or yet, you cultivate wishes and hopes along the light beds on the water surface while beside you life goes on.
And then?




(Th.K.)

Προσπαθείς να χορτάσεις το λευκό, τα κόκκινα ή μπλε πορτοπαράθυρα, τις ασβεστογραφίες στα σοκάκια και στις αυλές, το μάτωμα της θάλασσας σε κάθε ηλιοβασίλεμα, την τολμηρή αρχιτεκτονική, το καστανόξανθο βουνό με τις ξερολιθιές και τους ανεμόμυλους (ή τ' απομεινάρια τους). 
Και μετά;
Μετά τι;

You try to get satiated by the white colour, the red or blue doors and windows, the lime drawings on the alleys and yards, the sea bleeding during every sunset, the bold architectural shapes, the light maroon mountain with the dry-stone fencing around it and the windmills (or even their remnants).
And then?
Then what?



(Th.K.)


Μετά φεύγεις, παίρνοντας για ψυχή ένα νησί, ενώ εκείνη έχει ξεμείνει εκεί, να προλάβει να καθαρθεί με αλάτι, νερό, ήλιο κι αέρα και να ξαναγίνει όπως σου δόθηκε από την αρχή.

Then you leave, taking an island as your soul, while your  real one has remained there, to take its time and refine 
through salt, water, sun and wind, to revive and become as it was given to you from the beginning.


Z.K.


(written on Kythnos island, in 1999)




Sunday, July 29, 2012

Poetry equipment



 Poetry equipment

Rules and norms on poetry (metrics, rhymes, structure...), terms and labels (romantic, modern, post-modern...): handy torches for the studious explorers with artistic curiosity...Pas mal! A steadfast initiative.

      All well-intentioned, willing interns in literature would need some equipment – let's say a pair of glasses or a hat, in order for them to be efficiently protected while making their acquaintance with the bright (lime?)light of poetry. The sticks of analysis would support their toddler steps into this road of intellectual and/or, existential discoveries.

However...would they really keep on walking with the whole lot of this stuff, even with that bat for the bushes, in the pocket of their bag? How would they pursue their march carrying all these bundles of scrutiny, without finding themselves at the hindrance of intimidating hesitation in front of a single log, fallen upon their route? Just before – or exactly at – the point where the road of poetry transcends into their personal “road less traveled”, would they be able to track it down effectively, when they have already become, more or less, heavy-footed, short-sighted observatory machines? Even if this wouldn't be the case, even if they had maintained some fresh glance on things, how much of their eyesight would have been left unrestricted, so that they could assume their creative perspective (either as poets or as critics)?

“Because, it happens sometimes in poetry: the ignorant one captures more efficiently the potentials which a stress of the language provides and dares to attempt them, when the other one, the profound connoisseur, has his own reasons to resist” (Od. Elytis).

It's here that we could attempt to pose the forthcoming question: consequently, what should the poet choose to be? A “daredevil” or a steady “connoisseur”?

A seemingly profound question; it would be nice, though, to underline the main controversies which such a question consists of: Should a poet “should”? Or even, would a poet “would”? Is there a “best attitude” for a poet? Does the verb “choose” correspond to the way a poet follows during the procedure of poetic creation? If it does, to what extend? And, last but not least: is a “daredevil” who isn't also a “connoisseur” (or vice versa) really, authentically, a poet?

As we all may be able to realise, this is the second stage that we, poetry travelers, usually encounter, after our first “induction” period of time. This is where we commonly meet the Sphinx of the poetry world, which throws its “riddles” to us, offering us the chance to transit from the pleasantly casual level of a simple visitor to the more responsible, painstaking and yet rewarding level of a permanent resident. Those who abandon their equipment there, in front of this Sphinx, are more likely to undo the “monster” with their answers, and eventually free to proceed and dwell in poetry. These ones are often the most capable of determining their poetic flow than being determined by it, as they have the ability to handle the reins with originality without being reined by external forms – and without, on the other hand, getting troubled by them when in use.

All in all, poetry is a route of sequenced creating and re-creating life using the fundametal constructive elements of speech: words. In a wider scope, poetry is generally creating (from texts to meals, or even connections and relationships) - and then it becomes a life itself. As William Blake's quote suports: "I must create a system or be enslaved by another man's; I will not reason and compare: my business is to create"

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to withdraw, in order to resume my march and solve my personal poetic “riddles”.


Z.K.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Summertime




(Zafiria Kostopoulou, 2011)


Summertime

One or two traveling clouds hitched to the yoke of the wind.
They're passing by and leaving...
It's queer and heavy, the yoke of the wind.



One or two stories planted in the flowerpot of memory.
They're blooming and scenting...
It's fertile and soft, the soil of memory.


One or two steps away, an umbrella undergoes the battle for shade.
It's opening and opening...
It evaluates pensively the cost of current wages.
 





Z.K.


(written in 1997)