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Yannis Ritsos: Selection From The Forties: Exemplary
Yannis Ritsos: Selection From The Forties: Exemplary
Yannis Ritsos: Selection From The Forties: Exemplary
MEZANYXTA
Meyikri &atpocpsyytat Sairiovta4 to ?up& T./1G yOxca,
(3111trca, TC06 xXifiouy thy incvo aou,
nock Elm ouit6; 6 iaxtoc TCOU iivel3alvat aT6 =Pave
%,613orca.; aTix Sub 'Sty wittapa;
sOrcthf3p7ig 1941
Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 59
MIDNIGHT
A great starry night showing its bear claws,
foreign footsteps stealing your sleep,
what is this shadow climbing on the ceiling
cutting the room in half ?
Footsteps, a motorcycle, the trigger's sound —
the lantern through the windowpanes,
the cockroaches in the soldiers' shoes and helmets.
What's the use of the moon's compassion now?
Some have hidden in the trunks of the night,
some have entered the coffins and travel,
some have taken the cashier's keys and surrendered their earth,
and this dog that forgot us barks again at the moon,
awakens the sentries at the distant watchtowers,
the first explosion blows up the bridge,
then the doors creak, at the corner stands the squadron,
the street lamps fall face down and the train's whistling is heard
when all five roads are closed by the bayonets.
Athens, October 1941
60 JOURNAL OF THE HELLENIC DIASPORA
POSTPONED DECISION
Old winds have replaced us on the bare plains.
Everything is so old — and this lamp lighting a faded seascape
and the bed's shadow falling obliquely on the floor
and the clothes thrown on the chair
— the dead man abandoned them down here.
And you, what are you seeking so persistently
extending your hands as if pulling the ropes of a ship gliding
into the unknown?
The wind encircles the lights of the city, torments the trees,
uproots the little grass around the telegraph poles —
large shadows pace on the cobblestones,
each man has a piece of ice in his heart,
the soldiers wrap themselves with their jackets,
the guard's feet freeze at the watchtowers.
Well, you know it. Yet what's the use of knowing?
The matches got wet too — you can't light your cigarette.
Now the smoke
stands voiceless over the kiss that burned
like the smoke staying on the horizon above the ship that
vanished.
What signal flickers over the spread-out map
in the wooden barracks? Outside the rain
lashes at the desolate camp,
smothers that bugle which had called the names one by one,
moistens the benches in the gardens. The children have no
place to sit.
62 JOURNAL OP THE HELLENIC DIASPORA
Map-al; 1942
Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 63
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Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 67
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yeac xatva Tee atiyveyce 7G0p -coxccAtat not') Si a' acpiivouv va, TeAsethascg
sou .
'Ioacoc-A5youa-cog 1942
Y emnis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 71
FYNA I KEE
1946-1947
Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 73
WOMEN
Women are very distant. Their sheets smell of goodnight.
They put bread on the table so that we won't notice they're
missing.
Then we realize we're wrong. We get up from the chair and say:
"You were very tired today," or "here, I'll light the lamp."
When we light the match, she turns gently, going
toward the kitchen with an inexplicable devotion. Her back
is a sad little mountain loaded with many dead —
the family dead, her own dead and your own.
You hear her footsteps creaking on the old planks
you hear the dishes crying in the cupboard and then
,
ArlOrEYMA
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atractOca.
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%at Tb xoptipc.
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nob Siv axotiet Ttg acxacoAoyfeG vag — xxsexaexeTat
v' aaoticset Tex, IpayotiSta !lag — tiovdtxo, p.ovaxo,
povixo, ecnostop.tiivo, aci.cpopo zataafxri '71 rat SocalwaY).
1946-1947
Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 75
AFTERNOON
The afternoon is all fallen plaster, black stones, dried thorns.
The afternoon has a difficult color made of old footsteps left
halfway
made of old buried jugs in the yard, and on them tiredness
and grass.
Two dead men, five dead men, twelve — how many, how many.
Each hour has its dead. Behind the windows
stand those missing and the pitcher with the water they didn't
drink.
And that star that fell at the edge of the night
is like the cut off ear that doesn't hear the crickets
that doesn't hear our excuses — doesn't deign
to hear our songs — alone, alone,
alone, cut off, indifferent to condemnation or justification.
1946-1947
76 JOURNAL OF THE HELLENIC DIASPORA
1949
Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 77
RECOGNITION
A stone sun traveled beside us
burning the wind and the thorns of the wilderness.
The afternoon stood at the edge of the sea
like a yellow lightbulb in a big forest of memory.
We had no time for such things — but, in any case,
sometimes we cast a glance — and on our blankets
along with the spots, the dirt, the olive pits,
there were some leaves left from the willows, some pine needles.
They had their weight too — not very much —
the shadow of a pitchfork on the stone wall, late at sunset,
the passing of the horse at midnight,
a rose color dying on the water
leaving silence behind even lonelier,
the moon's leaves fallen amid the reeds and wild ducks.
We don't have time — we don't,
when the doors become like folded hands
when the road becomes like the man who says "I know
nothing."
Yet we knew that far off at the big crossroads
there's a city with thousands of multicolored lights,
men greet each other there with only a movement of the
forehead —
we know them from the position of their hands,
from the way they cut the bread,
from their shadow on the dinner table,
the hour when all the voices are drowsy
and a big star marks their pillows with a cross.
We know them from the struggle's furrow between their
eyebrows
and above all — in the nights, when the sky grows larger above
them—
we recognize them from that conspiratorial movement
as they throw their hearts like an illegal proclamation
under the closed door of the world,
1949
78 JOURNAL OF THE HELLENIC DIASPORA
Atcgcrap.s noXti.
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1949
Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 79
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Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 83
This way the tanks — this way, this way. 'What does he point at
with that outstretched finger — policeman #44 —
ordering death with the boots — ordering death
outside Athens, outside Greece, outside the world —
what does that outstretched finger point at high up?
The lowering of the swastika on the Acropolis,
there's the Greek flag hoisted
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah.
Freedom or death
freedom or death — the people
in the open cars shouting — and the leaflets
and the people chasing the leaflets and shouting hurrah
stumbling over the tanks and shouting hurrah
hurrah, hurrah, hurrah,
freedom or death, freedom or death — the people
in the open cars shouting
freedom or death, freedom or death
the people who fought and fell
who fell and smiled
who kissed the people and smiled
who pulled the wedged bullet out of their chests with their fingers
and came back among us and fought
and fought and smiled.
84 JOURNAL OF THE HELLENIC DIASPORA
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