Κυριακή, 28 Μαΐου 2017

Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady: Pull my daisy

Pull my daisy
tip my cup
all my doors are open
Cut my thoughts
for coconuts
all my eggs are broken
Jack my Arden
gate my shades
woe my road is spoken
Silk my garden
rose my days
now my prayers awaken

Bone my shadow
dove my dream
start my halo bleeding
Milk my mind &
make me cream
drink me when you’re ready
Hop my heart on
harp my height
seraphs hold me steady
Hip my angel
hype my light
lay it on the needy

Heal the raindrop
sow the eye
bust my dust again
Woe the worm
work the wise
dig my spade the same
Stop the hoax
what’s the hex
where’s the wake
how’s the hicks
take my golden beam

Rob my locker
lick my rocks
leap my cock in school
Rack my lacks
lark my looks
jump right up my hole
Whore my door
beat my boor
eat my snake of fool
Craze my hair
bare my poor
asshole shorn of wool

say my oops
ope my shell
Bite my naked nut
Roll my bones
ring my bell
call my worm to sup
Pope my parts
pop my pot
raise my daisy up
Poke my papa
pit my plum
let my gap be shut

Σάββατο, 13 Μαΐου 2017

Aνδρέας Εμπειρίκος: Καρπός Ελαίου

Eπάνω από την δοσοληψία των μιασματικών υδάτων
      μιας νόσου που κατεδικάσθη οριστικώς
H άχνα της υγείας μεσουρανεί και μέλπει
H πίστις της περιπετείας δεν χαλαρώθηκε
Tα μάτια της είναι πράσινα και κατοπτρίζονται μέσ'
      στα νερά της νεότητος
Ένας νέος συναντά μια νέα και την φιλεί
Aπό τα χείλη τους αναπηδούν οι λέξεις μεθυσμένες
Όλη η ζωή τους μοιάζει με λειβάδι
Eπαύλεις εδώ κ' εκεί κοσμούν την πρασιά του
Nεότης νεότης τι ωραία που είναι τα μαλλιά σου
Tα χαϊμαλιά σου τα στολίζουν άνθη μυγδαλιάς που ανθεί
      σε χώρα πεδινή
Oι θρίαμβοι των καισάρων περνούν καμιά φορά απ' αυτή
      τη χώρα και παρασύρουν τα νερά των κήπων
Oι γυναίκες των κηπουρών γυμνώνουν τα στήθη τους
      και τους παρακαλούν
Mια σειρά μαργαριταριών στάζει σε μια χοάνη
Kάθε μαργαριτάρι είναι μια σταγών και κάθε σταγών
      είναι ένας δράκος
Tο κάστρο του κατέρρευσε και τώρα παίζουν τα παι-
      δάκια μέσ' στους ίσκιους
Tα θρύψαλλα του καθρέφτη της πυργοδέσποινας είναι
      κι' αυτά πετράδια
Που ρίχνουν στον πετροπόλεμο τα παλληκάρια.


Christopher Marlowe: The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe: Hero and Leander

The First Sestiad 


On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might;
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offer'd as a dower his burning throne,
Where she could sit for men to gaze upon.
The outside of her garments were of lawn,
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
Her wide sleeves green, and border'd with a grove,
Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies;
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reach'd to the ground beneath;
Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves,
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives;
Many would praise the sweet smell as she past,
When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast;
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And beat from thence, have lighted there again.
About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone,
Which lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone.
She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they took delight
To play upon those hands, they were so white.
Buskins of shells, all silver'd, used she,
And branch'd with blushing coral to the knee;
Where sparrows perch'd, of hollow pearl and gold,
Such as the world would wonder to behold:
Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,
Which as she went, would chirrup through the bills.
Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd,
And looking in her face, was strooken blind.
But this is true; so like was one the other,
As he imagin'd Hero was his mother;
And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And with still panting rock'd there took his rest.
So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun,
As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,
Because she took more from her than she left,
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft:
Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer'd wrack,
Since Hero's time hath half the world been black.

Margarita Engle: Peering Up From Mud

       The Glass Frogs

you can't see us
not like those golden frogs
flashing their beauty
because we're not here
pretend we're not here
you can't eat us
we'd taste like clear air
we're transparent

until night when stars pass through us
moonlight flows into us
we start to sing
we need to sing
we love to sing


Margarita Engle: Tula [“City life is a whirl of poetry readings”]

City life is a whirl of poetry readings
and forbidden tertulias, gatherings
where young and old, rich and poor,
male and female, dark and light—
runaway slaves and freed ones,
former masters and former
servants—all take turns
sharing secret verses
rooted in startling
new ideas.

Each evening, I go home
with a mind that glows
in the light of words,
which leap
like flames...


Margarita Engle: Tula [“Books are door-shaped”]

Books are door-shaped
carrying me
across oceans
and centuries,
helping me feel
less alone.

But my mother believes
that girls who read too much
are unladylike
and ugly,
so my father's books are locked
in a clear glass cabinet. I gaze
at enticing covers
and mysterious titles,
but I am rarely permitted
to touch
the enchantment
of words.

All are forbidden.
Girls are not supposed to think,
but as soon as my eager mind
begins to race, free thoughts
rush in
to replace
the trapped ones.

I imagine distant times
and faraway places.
Ancient warriors.
Fantasy moves into
the tangled maze
of lonely confusion.

Secretly, I open
an invisible book in my mind,
and I step
through its magical door-shape
into a universe
of dangerous villains
and breathtaking heroes.

Many of the heroes are men
and boys, but some are girls
so tall
and clever
that they rescue other children
from monsters.


Πέμπτη, 11 Μαΐου 2017

Jean-Luc Godard: Pierrot le fou

Διονύσιος Σολωμός: Πρὸς Κύριον Γεώργιον Δὲ Ῥώσση εὑρισκόμενον εἰς τὴν Ἀγγλία

Τοῦ πατέρα σου, ὅταν ἔλθῃς,
Δὲ θὰ ἰδῇς παρὰ τὸν τάφο·
Εἶμαι ὀμπρός του, καὶ σοῦ γράφω,
Μέρα πρώτη τοῦ Μαϊοῦ.

Θὰ σπορπήσουμε τὸ Μάη
Πάνου στ᾿ ἄκακα τὰ στήθη,
Γιατὶ ἀπόψε ἀποκοιμήθη
Εἰς τὸν ὕπνο τοῦ Χριστοῦ.

Ἦταν ἥσυχος κι᾿ ἀκίνητος
Ὡς τὴν ὕστερη τὴν ὥρα,
Καθὼς φαίνεται καὶ τώρα
Ποὺ τὸν ἄφησε ἡ ψυχή.

Μόνον, μία στιγμὴ πρὶν φύγῃ
Τ᾿ Οὐρανοῦ κατὰ τὰ μέρη,
Ἀργοκίνησε τὸ χέρι,
Ἴσως γιὰ νὰ σ᾿ εὐχηθῇ.