Dialogue with Poetry: Fourteen Poems by Nikiphoros Vrettakos

Nikiphoros Vrettakos, one of the major lyrical poets of contemporary Greece, has been producing poetry of excellence since 1929, when he published Under Shadows and Lights, his first book of verse. He won the National Award for Poetry in 1941 for The Grimaces of Man and, ten lears later, was awarded the First National Award in Poetry for Poems 1929-1951. He fought in the Second World War, and played an important role in the underground movement during the Nazi occupation of his country, At this writing, his publicationsnot counting fiction and his masterful study of The Odyssey of Nikos Kazantzakisnumber about thirty volumes of poetry. The verse of Vrettakos has been translated into most European and many Asian languages. In recognition of his total oeuvre, Vrettakos was given the Kostas Ouranis Award in 1976, when Afternoon Heliotrope was published. The poems in this present group, whose title I've taken from one of the works, are Vrettakos's attempts to understand the form and function of poetry. Most of the preoccupations of Vrettakos can be seen in these fourteen short lyrics. By focusing on the role of poetry, however, Vrettakos enables us to become, through a reading of these works, witnesses to what he believes is the centrality of the poet's mission. The mystery of the world is beautiful, profound, and eternal. But not everyone sees this, as is made clear by the poet's constant return to the topic. 'While "God" is not a frequent word in the Vrettakos lexicon (the sun may, perhaps, be a stand-in for Him), the attributes of mystery can also be considered qualities of the divine. There are many reasons why the beautiful, the profound, and the eternal are ignored by what Vrettakos calls "the illiterate 59

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children of [the} century." Disoriented by the world wars, "The Muddy Rivers" he had written a major poem about (1950), men need to be reminded again about the "strange face the world has," or, lulled by the petty cares of peace, they will become overwhelmed and spiritually deadened by routine. Though unmistakably present and tangible in the poet's terms, the love (agape) which permeates the world is often forgotten by men, who can also be ignorant of the centrality of their existence. "Without man the Sun's light/is not fulfilled," he says, stating without ambiguity, the co-functioning of man and creation. As the human being can try to reflect, in his or her own small way, the agape that, like the sun's rays, permeates the universe, so through poetry can we enter into "communion" with the divine principle. This is done by praising God, as the Psalmist did. In Vrettakos's terms, poetry is not like prayer; poetry is prayer. It is not public prayer, as is the codified form of the liturgy, but the personal and free insight into the "flood" of light that overwhelms him. "What can I do," he asks, "with so much leftover sky?" The table on which a poet writes his prayer, though it is often a humble kitchen or workshop table, is similar to the altar of a priest celebrating the liturgy. My chest has been wounded on this table, almost rooted, with its corners jutting into my bonesPayment for the holy gift of bread, payment for the water that the cloud has wrung, payment for the mountain and the sun that I see. The role of the poet is to remind his fellows, who are apt to be lulled by everyday routine, of the ultimate mystery on which the world's beauty and grandeur rest. "It is two months now," he informs us in one of his shortest poems, "I do nothing else./ My hands are in ceaseless motion./ I unload sky onto the spirits of men." Without the poet's insistence on life's mystery, we might tend to let it slip by us unobserved and uncelebrated. Since he does not use traditional liturgical forms, Vrettakos

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confronts his reader with poetic structures that seem deceptively simple and "free," and with material that, at first glance, appears conventional. Ironically, in seeming to be easily comprehensible, his verse becomes as difficult for the ordinary reader as the work of more complex Greek poets. In breadth of vision, however, and in consistence of theme, Vrettakos is fully the equal of the best poets working in the language. Thomas Doulis

JOURNAL OF THE HELLENIC DIASPORA

XOPIE AIAAEIMMA Have -abpoc Sob !Avec. lib xam &XXo 'CITCOTS. T2c xipta, vou 6pCaxovtac csi dcacixonn xtrtion: Lescpopubvca obpavb ari4 cpuxk ..abv civOpthnwv.

H rirKAH rEOITA
ell =pat& pou p.eyaXthvec, &nu); pipa. Esnapvcic Tbv 64ov-coc 'CU 7LOXVCE(O4, to 6ouvec nob nopc6aXXouv to npoicrceci trig, xo noXXac acrcpa. Rept%Aztec ecdpa-coos notallok, xthpoK xat xu6va spur k ecvunoXdyccrac. Ai Oa cptiyw vovig inb tor)-co -c6v %balm viacc. OXocac v' anoOrpteckno 6p.,ala flou. "Ext.) vac to -cgcvof.viicnch Na Siaco asX(6oc. "Ext.) v2c nposxtefvw SpOfcoug np6c to Xa-cop.sta, vac qncgal avcifteaa obpavob xal y js Iva Scx8 flou. Na cpTcdco) [Lac yippa, 6xc tor) inflow). 6n0.4 mini) tor) Mnpabalcv, -co0 E6pdrca Oat cirriXthato tb I6acpoc. Oat aTspubaco -cat TO,oc vr); atixoat othbvec nivel) anb -c6 xpavo pou.

O KOEMOM Kr H HOIHZ11 `AnXec nplima-ca Va. CH ..cot4 sty= cppowaofilvn xipc aou. Mc& Siaini ii7tb xpthfc,wca arb 6go tor) xpdvou. "AXXcoa-cs, Gyps% ncbc creb 6a0oc etvat no/nol; Mac ydpn -urn npamdc-nov Tor) o ciwnOLVTOC. ylin a npiEscg, yi5fni at` 666107), ai cpcbc, ai xapcic, ecXXayec, nopeta, as xtrricryl.
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Tah

Cwt
a' Iva aithvco xaepicFccovoc

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crth xpdvo.

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6Xo Tby x6ap.o.

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WITHOUT PAUSE
It is two months now. I do nothing else. My hands are in ceaseless motion: I unload sky onto the spirits of men.

THE HIGH BRIDGE

My heart grows like the day. It surpasses the city's horizon, the mountains that encircle its suburbs, and many stars. It surrounds unseen rivers, regions, and unnumbered powers of light. I will not leave this world early. I have so much matter to store in my speech. I must order it. Must bind pages. Extend roads toward the quarries, create my own river between heaven and earth. I must build a bridge, but not like that of Brooklyn, Eurotas, or the Thames I will raise the earth. I will support its arches twenty centuries beyond my own time.

THE WORLD AND POETRY

All things are simple. Their order is cared for by your hand. A cluster of colors in the vase of time. Otherwise, what do you think is the essence of poetry? It is the pollen of things in the universe. The pollen in acts, the pollen in pain, in light, in joy, in changes, in journey, in motion. Life and the spirit in an eternal reflection within time. What do you think, then? In essence, poetry is a human heart burdened by all the world.

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TA zrNOPA KAI OI ETPATIQTEZ

XpetriCovcat of a-cowry ins; ?tat vat tpOtave 'cat ativopa. v& 157cip xouve of atpaTainec. T& ainopa xpetaCorcat alivopa xt' ot aTpwctikac 'sat vat SouXsta tour of ye:pot atpt ouv v& xavouv .co0 )1Atou xt'
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TO ANOIPMA THE IMPTAM

. Aotn6v, Tb a-cepitopa sivat etyann. Si O& niast l'uov6 -cpayouSclwcag. ET& ndata pou ax6v1 5A Tat gOrli. noug Tok ndvoug. l-r4v %61).71 pou crcarcn. Mtaavotro -rip, n6p.ca. 1-cb 66.0o; v?) TCaxt. Kai (Tact pyrcipa pou. Ttvga-cat OpOta, otcpvtaCe-cat, Tpixet. AtnAthyti) Tat xipta pou ytipto aTok 6)1,,ouc MC. Plxvo) navto atb at4Oos vric. . . . Adc pou ptat toikpa xX671; v& xotp7i9t7) Lids pou ayto aou xipt, v& ypdaki) gva notripa. "Oxt XiEL4. 'Oxt mat Xietg! M' Iva pot) soOlpot. Haps Ithpa -cat bixa xoupotapivot pm) Sax-cuAa, xpipaai Ta OT 61) TOIXO GTErixiOUVE. KOIT4L lTiCouv gpvto, ayipa, A5n71, xat Odaaaaa.
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BORDERS AND SOLDIERS

Soldiers are needed to guard the border. Borders are needed so that soldiers may exist. Borders and soldiers so that laws of the sun and poetry will not be allowed to fulfill their task.

THE DOOR'S OPENING

..Therefore, the firmament is love. It will never crumble ..." I return singing On my feet there is dust from all nations. From all the suffering. Dust on my hair. I half-open the door. The fireplace is in the distance. Next to it is my mother. She snaps up, startled, and runs. I dose my hands on her shoulders. I press my forehead against her breast. "... Give me a tuft of grass ... so that I may sleep . .." Give me your blessed hand so that I may write a poem. Not with words. No more words ! With a kiss. Take my ten tired fingers now, hang them on the wall to dry. Look. They drip solitude, wind, pity, and sea.

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0 ANOPQ HOE 0 KOEMOM KI H HOIHZH 'Avis'mak yet ai 6pro. igepa. KoaxtYcacc pi; acv xocpacdc pou nek 86xwg Tby ayOporico Siv etym. itAipsc Toi3 Xcou TO op&c. sEyCo' Td)pcc, nocTecCoyucc plc ecnb Taal Sccthysta. Tby %balm), plc itb agyccnlonace4ouv uz npetyp.aTa, ytyoncct 63tdczpvccc, ytvovtac Sceccpccyccviva itnopa ecp0p6aco Ay Tech Toy a' gycc p.ou 7C0111p. HcapyovTot; tic& asAlacc O& 6eclw a' sales; TO cpcbc.

H ETOIMAMIA TOT

TUNOT

BAint) ecniyw p.ou niTc adcv ecntOccycc axiSccc YO: acas6ouye lac6yoc yupot nob pacepSetioyucc pi Tex yeapcx Tfic
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MntipC4, 7C6te Icpuye

Acv nscpget noi!) 6pixac. '01ZW; of niTpec.

T' ecyptp.tcc, piTipcc, .Tccso ncicyTcc nekcpavcc. Mxkocai p,e p.n6Xtcc aou p.6yo. DAY nacpcKet. 'Anode) %6G7ZOU tJACICG 1.1,0U 'xot)G. Mouatx.h. Thv canctx p.oucroc4 LOU. `Tnecpxad Etiv xoppt nocp8tac p.ou gycc Scdaztp.p.a 1)A.cou auyTTIpei robs aptynco6c poi) ecAXenecAX-fiXq =Msg. 'Ac noy@. netpecCec. Tt 132c Etna n6yoc; TtnoToc. Mac 6no.K TO xt6yc nob nccrbyet, t. y6xTcc. 'EccyccnextCoyuK 6 Acoc TO np(ol TO xpuab cpXecouT6 Tou, Tby Autbyec.

1 war] p.ccc; TOLE& ve ma&

Dialogue with Poetry

MAN, THE WORLD, AND POETRY I dug up all the world to find you. I sifted the desert in my heart; I knew that without man the sun's light is not fulfilled. While now, gazing at the world through such clarity, through you things focus, become distinguishable, transparent now I can express its order in one of my poems. Taking a page I will set light in straight lines.

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PREPARATION FOR SLEEP I see something like improbable forms stirring before me naked branches that entangle with the nerves of light. Mother, when did we lose our home? Wrap me well. The rain does not matter. Like the rocks. The beasts, mother, were always proud. Cover me well. With your kerchief only. It does not matter. I hear sounds somewhere within me. Music. My eternal music. I exist At the peak of my heart an interval of sun sustains my pulsations with repeated sparks. Let me suffer. It does not matter. What is pain? Nothing. It is like the snow that freezes at night. The sun, playing once more its golden flute, melts it in the morning.

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EHMEPQMA ITO

lona

Amu gym atlyeemc ecn6 Eivo p.sycasto. Tac scc &ups% s-cip incapb1 eivocc 8Xoc Kdctc &if OiXccoacc, &re' toy tAco steTcb csivoc, xdc-cc Scfccsou; xc' ece ttg viirsocg -ct5 atocxero. Stay neeecvco tb at OCXEIO tou ElOt necpet tb cpetig, Odaocaacc, Tb Sing, .tb cpsyy&pc x' g8cli crct Aiorl Vou Odc p.eNst ncac Kt' cent 11 (1)uxii atb attOog tcou erxoc pipet, T' oapavo0 clrOLac (saw g7COM tot pip], 06,xec ecyetic71 axopTccout 1TetYCO CFA yt.
.

MAA0r0E ME THN HOIHEH 'llp0e; Tcofrial ircUc. 0' acyccx&Xu4n; cpcctve.cocc win= put) x6xxocXo 7coU gxec Au(ilaEc. Mc& ntuxt rtg xexp3ca; 1,,ou not) Sky gycvs xtip.oc crou. Macy ivinoccrq cpX6oc c xdcasoto p.ou Scicx.cuXo. Evrxv Lath coU Siv lycys atixo; aou. Ocic tb ipouve oc5pco: liovcdritaq tbv %dap.

p p.oloccasc &mum. M' Exccp.e; )(ace;

an/Oec xoct pcac--xccl, axdpccaeg.

IIEPIMENONTAE TH

mormin

p.ouatxt nepcpiwo vdc TcAtiwo to )(iota IWO eve ?!) p.eAckvc Tt; plocc;. Na Taintco cca-coUg robs arcdpocTou; Op61160U6 TOG cdp.a.cog 1cou gico atb pitons. TO crctOo; pou TrAirycccas Tr5 TpcutiCc, ocirc; T1.; royci; Tau pcCe)p.ivo oxsa6Y, pima/live; attic x6xxoacc Iftripcop,t iftytcc; Scupsercg toff clicoticofi, zcAlpowii yepo0 7:05 Ixec a-cfcpec tb acivvecpo, TcX7ipcopil) -cop 6ouvot3 xat top t Lou itou 6Xinto. Tub; voustwil Iceptplyco. Kat TOTE 1100 cpocivetczt t. plocc TCOU nipass ^kcouvoc iltacy ixxX7Istct xcci, ttoipo4a

Dialogue with Poetry

SUNRISE AT SOUNION I am a compound of a foreign grandeur. Everything you see in my being is foreign. Something from the sea, from the sun, from you, something from the forests and from the elements of night. And when I die each element will take its like the light, the sea, the woods, the moon.. . . Here in my place there will be silence. And this my soul, which in my heart I've borne, high in the heavens from whence I fell, would have been in love dispersed upon the earth.

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DIALOGUE WITH POETRY You've come again, Poetry. You must have discovered some bone of mine that has not dissolved. A fold of my heart that has not become your undulation. An untouched vein in one of my fingers. A tissue that has not become a verse of yours. They will know of it tomorrow; viewing the world, you divided me justly. You made me a thousand and one sparks and scattered me.

WAITING FOR THE MUSIC I await the music that I may cleanse my hands of the ink of the day. To wash these invisible clots of blood from my forehead. My chest has been wounded on this table, almost rooted, with its corners jutting into my bones payment for the holy gift of bread, payment for the water that the cloud has wrung, payment for the mountain and the sun that I see. I await the music. Then it seems to me that all the day that has passed I was in a church giving out blossoms.

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TO doEITAPI K1 H OAAAEZA at6paca viittaTa au6spvacc T6 cm-rapt T.?) Odtkaaa. KaTE6afvet 6ct.Osta, Sint aTG' 'Zi; plies, T.4; atIAdtet TO xpckta, r4; 64et Tai X6pATCG. `H 64)1 aou shat gva yeyyapt. "Ext. at' iyio p.c.& OatActa= vim ttou. 'ging - Opec %LOA, apoxtopet as' atxavk, yaXatthverat civAauxri, TpetiouXtetCst. vivat gva atTaatAtvo 81xTu T6 ycbg aou Tcoi) Iticsa TOO 11 Oaactaaa 1.taXixsTat R6117101. Kat 7G6GAL Stvet; Ta),Avil at' ivarcotuan. Ham T71; 7C40010 yAuxstic atnoxpthaetc. rtoviCet natxvtata.

Tb cpsyyapt at' .11 Ocaaaaa. Tt rcapatEevo iTp6ao7to

Totnog 6 x6apto5. "Opota TCdCYW 1101) 6 Selxvilq coG XEpt00 aou =oval, craw aapATOAri oOpavo0. Kat axe7t64et T.)) 06aaaaa.
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TO ANAMETIKO gHAIOE KAI ZQH> 'HOEG apork aat atvTatiXaEz; T6 7tap6v Ili T6 pAAAov. KaTiaXuaec Ili TO; Tat TeTpdata tlou. T6ao; iToAtic oi3pav6; 7coli nsp/aaetin Tt v& T6v xdtvo.); Aoyaptgo) v& ypattino Aot1T6v T6 'Avarwastx6 T'N xapiftg. T6 HAtoc %at bap ac, Tat atypatimiaTa natSt& To0 atthva tiou. 'Eva 6t6Xto - 6ouv6, v& yugouv vipa aTbv Ttc Arcs; &yap= Oe &o a of aeXiSec 'LOU.
'

Dialogue with Poetry

THE MOON AND THE SEA
With invisible threads the moon governs the sea. Submerging deep, she binds it at the roots, changes its color commands its waves. Your aspect is a moon. I, too, have a sea within me. At times it rolls, becomes unfathomable, calms uneasily, trembles. As though your light were a steel net in which the sea was totally snared. But still you give it repose and serenity. Upon it play sweet shadings. It fills with sport. The moon and the sea. What a strange face the world has! Likewise, the index finger of your hand passes over me like the sky's vault. And covers the sea.

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THE READER:

SUN AND LIFE

You came yesterday and exchanged the present with the future. You flooded my notebooks with light. What can I do with so much left-over sky? I propose, therefore, to write the Reader of Joy. San and Life for the illiterate children of my century. A mountain-book whose pages would wander toward the sun by day and among the stars by night.

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H EIIIKH HOIHEH
KC gym; 'xoc rovevto; lAto 5sC ecycinTi etym. Iva ffnoc. Mac pdc acpcapa a' cadma %/nal. Kat Tb cp.SAAo &vbc Urcpou of tpAvcag nob atpicpowcat ripe) rinb Iva IlOpto cputbg auptpaxtbnag TO OTO tinetpo et= gym gnoc. KocOthg T24 7Cptirc6vca, 6op.,6ap3it ouve Tb row) Eat 6ott6cipbcCE Tip 4>uxA Lou Tb %pa-co; .c6v ilAitov TOO Oao %Mt aAxwas azily 5tapati [Lou 7CO.viitImAcc casOtocca Ictipxyza, cp@g, xoposTp66tAouq. '0Arx Saoc 61i7to) ytvoy-cocc LEaa Lou cp06yyot, xat nc& aiy ttoti Oyu TITCOUG. Ilfbc %at pa Ti vac &pEuvist) Tb xptivo, Tb x@po, TYj rtga *C'; warts, v' clnAtbaw ciptep.ob; atb psyciAo -cpazic Lou; "en.ce ytvoysat cpedyyot. Lou L vei nap& vac cpuailEto ecXcappec &XX& cettbvca, ackv Ivan eGyipCZ; TptarcelsouXXou, a' 8Xo Tbv 'Axdpri %at /IL& a-caydva &yin.% gvcc 6c6X10 sty' gvoc 17co.

H ANAMONH KAI TO ONEIPO

ICOCT6ct;(0 Tip &pa, Sy eivat vdc peetc. rupya Tb At CVO n6pToc, %at nalpvto
Tb nrxino 6c6Xto to Siy Xist tinovx.

aa,cpva,, nob Sca6c*.o, ecncarztvet dc'sgapcetpoc ripto Lou, yaia4st eivencciaenTa "Exec.; Frei alb BOWATCO )(to* vdc XTUTCtilOSCC. YrIscUnotta,r, 8p0cog. Tb 6c6Xfo ac& xipm Lou gxaas 8Xe; Ti; aEaiSsS TOU gym nbrAo '0Acc "(Norm, Steccpava. lIporveic obpallo0 asb xecpdat coy.

Dialogue with Poetry EPIC POETRY

An epic is a song full of sun and love. It is a sphere in eternal motion. The leaf of a tree and the sheaths that circle about a molecule of light, binding it together in the infinite, are an epic. As the protons bombard the atom, my soul bombarded the dominion of the suns of God and raised waves, light, swirling dances of feeling high in my heart. Everything I see becomes sound and nothing else remains within me. How and with what will I search for time, space, the mass of matter, to spread numbers on my large table ? Everything becomes sound. I have but to blow softly but forever, like the breath of a rose, toward all the world. Even a drop of love in a book is an epic.

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EXPECTATION AND THE DREAM

I glance at the time; you are not due. I turn the key in the door and take the first book that says nothing. And suddenly, as I am reading, the air around me softens, becomes impalpably blue. You have entered the room without knocking. I stand up. The book in my hands loses all its pages and falls. Everything becomes transparent. You advance with a veil of sky on your head.