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Selected Poems, 1938-1988
1991 Outstanding Academic Book of the Year-- Choice . "Friar and Mysiades deserve much credit for providing, in one volume, the first full-range sampling of this fecund, variegated, and highly original poet in English."-- The New Republic
- GenresPoetryGreece20th Century
486 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1974
About the author
Yiannis Ritsos
267 books281 followersYiannis Ritsos (Greek: Γιάννης Ρίτσος) is considered to be one of the five great Greek poets of the twentieth century, together with Konstantinos Kavafis, Kostas Kariotakis, Giorgos Seferis, and Odysseus Elytis. The French poet Louis Aragon once said that Ritsos was "the greatest poet of our age."
Yannis Ritsos was born in Monemvassia (Greece), on May 1st, 1909 as cadet of a noble family of landowners. Born to a well-to-do landowning family in Monemvasia, Ritsos suffered great losses as a child. The early deaths of his mother and his eldest brother from tuberculosis, the commitment of his father who suffered with mental disease and the economic ruin of losing his family marked Ritsos and affected his poetry. Ritsos, himself, was confined in a sanatorium for tuberculosis from 1927–1931.
These tragic events mark him and obsess his œuvre. In 1931, Ritsos joined the Communist Party of Greece (KKE). During the Axis occupation of Greece (1941–1945) he became a member of the EAM (National Liberation Front), and authored several poems for the Greek Resistance. These include a booklet of poems dedicated to the resistance leader Ares Velouchiotis, written immediately upon the latter's death on 16 June 1945. Ritsos also supported the left in the subsequent Civil War (1946-1949); in 1948 he was arrested and spent four years in prison camps.
Yannis Ritsos was born in Monemvassia (Greece), on May 1st, 1909 as cadet of a noble family of landowners. Born to a well-to-do landowning family in Monemvasia, Ritsos suffered great losses as a child. The early deaths of his mother and his eldest brother from tuberculosis, the commitment of his father who suffered with mental disease and the economic ruin of losing his family marked Ritsos and affected his poetry. Ritsos, himself, was confined in a sanatorium for tuberculosis from 1927–1931.
These tragic events mark him and obsess his œuvre. In 1931, Ritsos joined the Communist Party of Greece (KKE). During the Axis occupation of Greece (1941–1945) he became a member of the EAM (National Liberation Front), and authored several poems for the Greek Resistance. These include a booklet of poems dedicated to the resistance leader Ares Velouchiotis, written immediately upon the latter's death on 16 June 1945. Ritsos also supported the left in the subsequent Civil War (1946-1949); in 1948 he was arrested and spent four years in prison camps.
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January 5, 2023
Yannis Ritsos is a bit of an enigma.
He certainly had a life full of challenges. At the age of twelve he lost his brother to tuberculosis, then his mother died three months later of the same disease and then Yannis himself succumbed to it. His father was institutionalized in 1932 and his sister in 1936. Yannis also was in and out of sanatoriums from 1927 to 1938. Plus he was treated for cancer in 1968.
On the political stance he was a socialist, which was not in his favour. In the two civil wars he was exiled and interned in camps from 1948 to 1952. He wrote his poems on anything he could get his hands on. When the military junta took place in 1967, he was again arrested and imprisoned until 1976. A tough life for being on the wrong side of the politics.
So it comes as no surprise that his poems are raw, reflections of the human condition. As Kostas Myrsiades and Kimon Friar point out in their essays included in this book, Ritsos filled his poems with people from questionable parts of society: murderers, prostitutes and villains.
The first stone
was cast by his friends. Not that his adversaries
had to be restrained.
(the Unacceptable Man, 1968)
As many dead filled his poems as those alive:
Corpses below wooden crosses. At night
we hear their crosses, worn as wings, flying
above the castigated city.
(Third Series, 3 x 111 Tristychs, 1982)
When he wrote about heroes, drawing from Greek history, Helen, Achilles and Orestes, there was nothing heroic about them. They were flesh and blood as much as you and I, complete with flaws.
Often he wrote in third person to remove the personal to focus on the individuals. He was considered a realist but often the symbolism was buried deep. Remember, to get the words passed censors one couldn’t be too straightforward.
With the years, purely by chance, with nothing in mind, they replaced
the white of marble with the white of whitewash - a somewhat
more blinding white, of course, more on the outside - it was needed;
the words and drawings on the walls were too many.
(Whitewash, 1970)
He wrote in two forms: the short poems, some of them only three lines long, and the long poems, these were typically based on the Greek myths. Personally I favoured the long poems, especially a cycle of ten monologues written in the 1960s-70s. Ritsos wrote about heroes, drawing from Greek history, Helen, Achilles, Orestes, and even the saints. And there was nothing heroic about them. They were flesh and blood as much as you and I, complete with flaws.
There the saints kept vigil one by one; in the morning
the leanest with the thick black moustache
waved the large white sheet, the shroud of Jesus,
beckoning to the cabin boy skimming by the sea’s edge in his small motorboat
just as he rounded the pier, he pissed calmly into the sea.
(Belfry, 1972)
The masterpiece, in my consideration, is Helen, the woman who launched a thousand ships. In this case, Helen is two hundred years old, living on her memories while her servants have sold off the furniture. She ponders sleep,
I’m afraid I’ll never wake again. I stay up, listening to
the snoring of the servants from the living room, the spiders on the walls,
the cockroaches in the kitchen, the dead snoring
with deep breaths, as though sound asleep, calmed down.
Now I’m even losing my dead. I’ve lost them. They’re gone.
(Helen, 1970)
Yet not all gloom. There is play,
A painter one afternoon drew a train.
The last carriage cut away from the paper
and returned to the car barn all by itself.
Precisely in that carriage sat the artist.
(Abstracted Painter, 1959)
On Cavafis, the great poet,
He who died was, in truth, remarkable,
unique; he left us an excellent standard by which
to measure ourselves and, above all, to measure
our neighbour-no one higher than that,
Very short; another skinny; a third
as tall as a man on stilts; not one
of any value, of any value at all. Only we can make proper use
of this standard- but what standard do you mean?
of this Nemesis, of this Archangel’s sword
Which we’ve already sharpened, and can now,
Set them up in a row and cut off their heads.
(Twelve Poems for Cavafis, XII. Evaluation, 1963)
And love,
The poems I lived on your body in silence
will ask me one day for their voices, when you have gone.
But I will no longer have a voice to speak to them. Because you have
always been in the habit
of walking barefoot through the rooms, then huddling in the bed,
a tangle of down, silk, and savage flame.
(Erotica, IV, 1980-81)
A beautiful, haunting enigma.
A special thanks to Paula, who recently reviewed another book Diaries of Exiles by Ritsos. I thought I had read that book only to discover this book, unread after thirty years.
Ritsos died in 1990, two years after the publication of this book.
He certainly had a life full of challenges. At the age of twelve he lost his brother to tuberculosis, then his mother died three months later of the same disease and then Yannis himself succumbed to it. His father was institutionalized in 1932 and his sister in 1936. Yannis also was in and out of sanatoriums from 1927 to 1938. Plus he was treated for cancer in 1968.
On the political stance he was a socialist, which was not in his favour. In the two civil wars he was exiled and interned in camps from 1948 to 1952. He wrote his poems on anything he could get his hands on. When the military junta took place in 1967, he was again arrested and imprisoned until 1976. A tough life for being on the wrong side of the politics.
So it comes as no surprise that his poems are raw, reflections of the human condition. As Kostas Myrsiades and Kimon Friar point out in their essays included in this book, Ritsos filled his poems with people from questionable parts of society: murderers, prostitutes and villains.
The first stone
was cast by his friends. Not that his adversaries
had to be restrained.
(the Unacceptable Man, 1968)
As many dead filled his poems as those alive:
Corpses below wooden crosses. At night
we hear their crosses, worn as wings, flying
above the castigated city.
(Third Series, 3 x 111 Tristychs, 1982)
When he wrote about heroes, drawing from Greek history, Helen, Achilles and Orestes, there was nothing heroic about them. They were flesh and blood as much as you and I, complete with flaws.
Often he wrote in third person to remove the personal to focus on the individuals. He was considered a realist but often the symbolism was buried deep. Remember, to get the words passed censors one couldn’t be too straightforward.
With the years, purely by chance, with nothing in mind, they replaced
the white of marble with the white of whitewash - a somewhat
more blinding white, of course, more on the outside - it was needed;
the words and drawings on the walls were too many.
(Whitewash, 1970)
He wrote in two forms: the short poems, some of them only three lines long, and the long poems, these were typically based on the Greek myths. Personally I favoured the long poems, especially a cycle of ten monologues written in the 1960s-70s. Ritsos wrote about heroes, drawing from Greek history, Helen, Achilles, Orestes, and even the saints. And there was nothing heroic about them. They were flesh and blood as much as you and I, complete with flaws.
There the saints kept vigil one by one; in the morning
the leanest with the thick black moustache
waved the large white sheet, the shroud of Jesus,
beckoning to the cabin boy skimming by the sea’s edge in his small motorboat
just as he rounded the pier, he pissed calmly into the sea.
(Belfry, 1972)
The masterpiece, in my consideration, is Helen, the woman who launched a thousand ships. In this case, Helen is two hundred years old, living on her memories while her servants have sold off the furniture. She ponders sleep,
I’m afraid I’ll never wake again. I stay up, listening to
the snoring of the servants from the living room, the spiders on the walls,
the cockroaches in the kitchen, the dead snoring
with deep breaths, as though sound asleep, calmed down.
Now I’m even losing my dead. I’ve lost them. They’re gone.
(Helen, 1970)
Yet not all gloom. There is play,
A painter one afternoon drew a train.
The last carriage cut away from the paper
and returned to the car barn all by itself.
Precisely in that carriage sat the artist.
(Abstracted Painter, 1959)
On Cavafis, the great poet,
He who died was, in truth, remarkable,
unique; he left us an excellent standard by which
to measure ourselves and, above all, to measure
our neighbour-no one higher than that,
Very short; another skinny; a third
as tall as a man on stilts; not one
of any value, of any value at all. Only we can make proper use
of this standard- but what standard do you mean?
of this Nemesis, of this Archangel’s sword
Which we’ve already sharpened, and can now,
Set them up in a row and cut off their heads.
(Twelve Poems for Cavafis, XII. Evaluation, 1963)
And love,
The poems I lived on your body in silence
will ask me one day for their voices, when you have gone.
But I will no longer have a voice to speak to them. Because you have
always been in the habit
of walking barefoot through the rooms, then huddling in the bed,
a tangle of down, silk, and savage flame.
(Erotica, IV, 1980-81)
A beautiful, haunting enigma.
A special thanks to Paula, who recently reviewed another book Diaries of Exiles by Ritsos. I thought I had read that book only to discover this book, unread after thirty years.
Ritsos died in 1990, two years after the publication of this book.
April 14, 2019
"Yapraklarla gizlenmişti yüzün.
Birer birer kopardım yaprakları sana yaklaşmak için.
Son yaprağı kopardığımda, sen gitmiştin. Sonra
bir çelenk ördüm kopan yapraklardan. Kimsem yoktu
verebileceğim. Ben de çelengi alnıma yerleştirdim."
“Bir çelenk” (s130) sanırım ipucu vermiştir şairimiz hakkında. "Veciz Sözler"i okuduğumdan beri aklımdaydı Ristos. Bugüne kısmetmiş tanışmak. Çok memnun oldum Ege'nin öte yakasındaki usta :) Cevat Çapan kitabın başında Ristos’un şiirinden bahsetmiş. (o varken bana laf düşmez) Önce çevirileri için ona teşekkür edelim, sonrasında ondan dinleyelim Ristos şiirini,
“Yannis Ristos’un toplu şiirlerine baktığımız zaman, onun bu uzun süre içinde epik, lirik, dramatik tekniklerden yararlanarak tanıklık ettiği, görünüşte yalın, ama gerçekte karmaşık olayları bazen kısa, bazen uzun şiirlerle dile getirdiğini görürüz. Bu süre içinde sözcüklerin insanlar arasında en etkili iletişim aracı olduğu inancını hiç yitirmemiş, evrensel gerçekleri anlatmanın en başarılı yolunun bireysel yaşantıyı duyulara ulaştırabilecek metaforlardan yararlanma ustalığını hiç elden bırakmamış, yaşama tutkusunu hiç eksiltemeden yaratıcılığını sürdürmüş olması onun en belirgin özelliğidir. (8)”
Kitabın sonunda da kendisiyle yapılmış güzel bir söyleşi de mevcut. Kendisinin Türk okurlara mesajı :))
“Dostluk ve sevgi, bu güzel şeyler nasıl sağlanır? Birbirimizi tanıyarak kuşkusuz. Ve bunun en güzel bir biçimde yapacak olanlar sanatçılardır. Çünkü sanatçılar bir toplumu en güzel biçimde ortaya çıkarırlar, gösterirler. Birbirimizin ozanlarını okumalıyız örneğin. Biz Yunanistan’da Türkleri nasıl tanıyoruz, nereden öğrendik? Nazım Hikmet’i okuyarak. Onun çizdiği Türkleri tanıdık. Sonra Yaşar Kemal’in Türkiye’sini biliyoruz. Aziz Nesin’in insanlarını tanıdık. Böyle tanıyacağız birbirimizi böyle seveceğiz.” (280)
"Birbirimizi tanımak", "sevmek", bunlar ne kadar hüzün verici ifadeler aslında. Ya! biz yıllarca iç içe yaşamış aynı türküleri çığıran, aynı dansları eden, yedikleri içtikleri aynı olan, aynı sözcüklerle konuşan (4600 civarı ortak sözcük & yüzlerce deyim ), aynı sudan içen, aynı suda çimen bu coğrafyanın insanlarıyız. Biz zaten birbirimizi tanıyorduk. Artık arada sınır var demeyle, siyasi düşmanlıkla kopmaz o bağ, kopmamalı, Ege'nin öteki yakasına selamlarımla 🤗🤗🤗🤗
(Söyleşide şiire ve şiirlerinde kullandığı dile dair güzel anektodlar da var. Söyleşiyi ve sözcük araştırmasını yapan kişi Herkül Millas, ona da bir teşekkür etmeyelim mi?)
Ben aradan çekilip, sizi Ristos’la başbaşa bırakayım:
Neredeyse Eksiksiz (271)
Biliyorsun, ölüm diye bir şey yok, diyor adam kadına.
Biliyorum, evet, artık öldüğüme göre, diyor kadın.
İki gömleğin de ütülendi, çekmecede,
sadece küçücük bir gül benim özlediğim.
Aynı Yıldız (70)
Islanmış parlıyor damlar ay ışığında. Kadınlar
şallarına sarınıyorlar. Evlerine koşuyorlar saklanmak için.
Biraz daha oyalansalar eşikte, onları ağlarken yakalayacak ay.
O adam her aynada, çıplaklığı içine kapatılmış
bir başka saydam kadın olmasından şüpheleniyor
- sen ne kadar uyandırmak istesen de onu, o uyanmayacak.
Bir yıldızı koklayarak uyuya kalmış o kadın.
Adamsa uyanık yatıyor koklayarak aynı yıldızı.
Çıplak (143)
Burada, karmakarışık odamda
toz.tutmuş kitaplarla
ölü ve dalgın bakışlar,
bu duraksayan gölgeler arasında,
bir ışık sızıntısı;
o gece durup
çırılçıplak soyunduğun yerde.
Son İstek (240)
Şiire, aşka ve ölüme inanıyorum, diyor,
işte bu yüzden ölümsüzlüğe de inanıyorum.
Bir dize yazıyorum, dünyayı yazıyorum; ben varım; dünya var.
Bir ırmak akıyor serçe parmağının ucundan.
Yedi kere bu ırmak gökyüzünün mavisi. Yeniden
ilk gerçek oluyor bu arılık, bu benim son dileğim.
Görülmemiş Bir Çiçek Açma (243)
Haykırmak istiyordu - daha fazla dayanamayacaktı.
Sesini duyabilecek kimse yoktu orada;
kimse duymak istemiyordu. Kendisi de korkuyordu sesinden,
içinde boğuyordu sesini. Patlamak üzereydi susuşu.
Birden,
havaya uçtu gövdesinin parçaları. Özenle, sessizce,
toplayacaktı bu parçaları,
hepsini bir bir yerlerine yerleştirecekti delikleri
kapamak için.
Ve rasgele bir gelincik, bir sarı zambak bulursa,
onları da toplayacak,
kendisinin bir parçasıymış gibi gövdesine
yapıştıracaktı -
böyleydi, delik deşik, görülmemiş bir şekilde çiçek
açıyordu işte.
August 1, 2014
The Third One
The three of them sat before the window looking at the sea.
One talked about the sea. The second listened. The third
neither spoke nor listened ; he was deep in the sea ; he floated .
.Behind the window panes, his movements were slow, clear
in the thin pale blue. He was exploring a sunken ship.
He rang the dead bell for the watch ; fine bubbles
rose bursting with a soft sound - suddenly,
' Did he drown?' asked one ; the other said : ' He drowned.' The
third one
looked at them helpless from the bottom of the sea, the way one
looks at drowned people.
The three of them sat before the window looking at the sea.
One talked about the sea. The second listened. The third
neither spoke nor listened ; he was deep in the sea ; he floated .
.Behind the window panes, his movements were slow, clear
in the thin pale blue. He was exploring a sunken ship.
He rang the dead bell for the watch ; fine bubbles
rose bursting with a soft sound - suddenly,
' Did he drown?' asked one ; the other said : ' He drowned.' The
third one
looked at them helpless from the bottom of the sea, the way one
looks at drowned people.
July 27, 2020
Ritsos'u ilk defa okudum. Muhteşem bir ozan, beni çok etkiledi. Dizelerindeki acı, umut, yoksulluk ve betimlemeleri çok tanıdıktı, duygusal bir bağ kurdum. Sanki çeviri değil de ana dilinden okuyormuşum gibi hissettim. Cevat Çapan iyi ki çevirmiş.
October 1, 2018
كَانَ يَشْعرُ بِالقَلَقِ في الأيَّامِ الأَخِيَرةِ،
كَمَا لَو أنَّهُ خَفِيرٌ هَاربٌ
تركَ المدينةَ بِلا حِراسة.
لفترة طويلةٍ
ظَلَّ يَخْشَى أنْ يَكْتَشِفُوا انشقاقَهُ
وبأنَّ المدينةَ ربَّما سقَطَتْ بسببِ خَطَئهِ.
هارباً مُتوارياً في الأدغالِ لمْ يكُنْ قادِراً على رؤيةِ الجُدرانِ،
سِوى تخيِّلِ هَضَبةٍ مِنْ عَواقبَ مُخيَّفةٍ للمواطنينَ المتروكينَ بِلا حِمَايةٍ.
وقبلَ كلِّ شيءٍ لِنْفسِهِ.
فِيما بعدُ، عَلمَ أنَّ الْمَدينةَ لم تسقُطْ،
وأنَّ أَحَداً لمْ يُلاحِظْ غيابَهُ وأنَّهمْ لمْ يَبْحثُوا عَنهُ بالمرَّةِ.
ولمْ يُدرجْ اسمُهُ في قوائِمِ النَّاجينِ، أو في عِدادِ الْمَفْقُودِينَ.
سَكِينةٌ كبيرةٌ تنتشرُ حولَهُ بِلا جَدْوى.
والآنَ، هَذَا مَا عَذَّبهُ تَحْدَيداً
السكينةُ التي طَالَمَا حَلمَ بِها.
عِنْدَ الغَسقِ، أحسَّ حولَ مِأواهُ
بآلافٍ من الظلالِ التي تمرُّ مثلَ القِطَطِ الضالَّةِ بينَ الشوكِ
في ساحةِ الْملعبِ الْمَهجورةِ.
وفي خَزَانةِ ملابِسهِ
أحسَّ بالبدلاتِ المُعلَّقة المُترهِّلةِ، مثلَ الملابسِ المسلوخةِ من الجُثَثِ.
ثمَّ شدَّ أحزمةَ الرَّصاصِ على شَكْلِ صليبٍ حولَ صَدْرهِ
كَأنَّهُ يؤمَّنَ على صرَّةِ تجهيزاتِهِ المهمَّة.
ثمَّ ظَهَرَ في نُقْطَةِ الحِرَاسةِ في الوقْتِ المحَّددِ تَمامَاً.
العينان مغمضتان
عارية تماما
على السّجاد الأحمر
تنتظر
أن ينزع حذاءيها
و جوربيها
ليدلك صدرها
بقوة بقوة أكبر
بقدميه العريضتين
أثينا 22.1.80
*
ترجمة هشام فهمي
يدك
أو فقط
أصابعك الثلاث
التي تحمل الفنجان
تظهر
كل جسدك
عاريا
أقفل العينين
كي لا ترينه
كي لا ترحلي
زوالا يمرّ ال��برّد
بالحي
سأردّ له
السكاكين الاثني عشر
أثينا 11.11.80
*
ترجمة هشام فهمي
أصابع اليد
أصابع القدم
قضبان
بين الأصابع الخمسة
أربعة فروج
عشرون و ستّة عشر-
قبل أن تتوصّل
إلى القيام بالجمع
منيّـك يرشّ
شفاه التمثال
أثينا 8.11.80
*
ترجمة هشام فهمي
كَمَا لَو أنَّهُ خَفِيرٌ هَاربٌ
تركَ المدينةَ بِلا حِراسة.
لفترة طويلةٍ
ظَلَّ يَخْشَى أنْ يَكْتَشِفُوا انشقاقَهُ
وبأنَّ المدينةَ ربَّما سقَطَتْ بسببِ خَطَئهِ.
هارباً مُتوارياً في الأدغالِ لمْ يكُنْ قادِراً على رؤيةِ الجُدرانِ،
سِوى تخيِّلِ هَضَبةٍ مِنْ عَواقبَ مُخيَّفةٍ للمواطنينَ المتروكينَ بِلا حِمَايةٍ.
وقبلَ كلِّ شيءٍ لِنْفسِهِ.
فِيما بعدُ، عَلمَ أنَّ الْمَدينةَ لم تسقُطْ،
وأنَّ أَحَداً لمْ يُلاحِظْ غيابَهُ وأنَّهمْ لمْ يَبْحثُوا عَنهُ بالمرَّةِ.
ولمْ يُدرجْ اسمُهُ في قوائِمِ النَّاجينِ، أو في عِدادِ الْمَفْقُودِينَ.
سَكِينةٌ كبيرةٌ تنتشرُ حولَهُ بِلا جَدْوى.
والآنَ، هَذَا مَا عَذَّبهُ تَحْدَيداً
السكينةُ التي طَالَمَا حَلمَ بِها.
عِنْدَ الغَسقِ، أحسَّ حولَ مِأواهُ
بآلافٍ من الظلالِ التي تمرُّ مثلَ القِطَطِ الضالَّةِ بينَ الشوكِ
في ساحةِ الْملعبِ الْمَهجورةِ.
وفي خَزَانةِ ملابِسهِ
أحسَّ بالبدلاتِ المُعلَّقة المُترهِّلةِ، مثلَ الملابسِ المسلوخةِ من الجُثَثِ.
ثمَّ شدَّ أحزمةَ الرَّصاصِ على شَكْلِ صليبٍ حولَ صَدْرهِ
كَأنَّهُ يؤمَّنَ على صرَّةِ تجهيزاتِهِ المهمَّة.
ثمَّ ظَهَرَ في نُقْطَةِ الحِرَاسةِ في الوقْتِ المحَّددِ تَمامَاً.
العينان مغمضتان
عارية تماما
على السّجاد الأحمر
تنتظر
أن ينزع حذاءيها
و جوربيها
ليدلك صدرها
بقوة بقوة أكبر
بقدميه العريضتين
أثينا 22.1.80
*
ترجمة هشام فهمي
يدك
أو فقط
أصابعك الثلاث
التي تحمل الفنجان
تظهر
كل جسدك
عاريا
أقفل العينين
كي لا ترينه
كي لا ترحلي
زوالا يمرّ ال��برّد
بالحي
سأردّ له
السكاكين الاثني عشر
أثينا 11.11.80
*
ترجمة هشام فهمي
أصابع اليد
أصابع القدم
قضبان
بين الأصابع الخمسة
أربعة فروج
عشرون و ستّة عشر-
قبل أن تتوصّل
إلى القيام بالجمع
منيّـك يرشّ
شفاه التمثال
أثينا 8.11.80
*
ترجمة هشام فهمي
June 6, 2018
From Papermade
This nausea
is not an illness.
It is an answer.
***
I loved this poem in particular:
Approximately
He picks up in his hands things that don't match - a stone, a broken roof-tile, two burned matches,
the rusty nail from the wall opposite,
the leafthat came in through the window, the drops dropping from the watered ower pots, that bit ofstraw the wind blew in your hair yesterday - he takes them and he'builds, in his backyard, approximately a tree. Poetry is in this 'approximately'. Can you see it?
***
The Meaning Is One
Experienced words, dense, determined,
vague, insistent, simple, suspicious -
useless memories, pretexts, pretexts,
emphasis on modesty, - stones supposedly,
residences supposedly, weapons supposedly - door handle, pitcher handle, table with vase,
made bed - smoke. Words -
you hammer them on air, on wood, on marble, you hammer them on paper - nothing; death.
You must tighten your tie. Like this.
Keep quiet. Wait. Like this. Like this. Slowly, slowly, the narrow opening, there behind the stairs, pushed against the wall.
***
Dissolution
Sometimes words come almost by themselves, like leaves of trees -
the invisible roots, the soil, the sun, the water have helped,
old rotten leaves have also helped.
Meanings can easily be attached like spider webs on leaves, or dust and drops of dew sparkling with wavering ashes.
Under the leaves, a young girl is disembowelling her nude doll ; a drop falls on her hair ; she lifts her head ; she sees nothing ; o y the cold transparency ofthe drop is dissolved over her body.
***
Stones
Days come, go, without e ort, no surprises.
The stones soak in the light and memory.
One makes a stone a pillow.
Another puts a stone on his clothes before swimming
to keep them from being blown away by the wind. Another uses
a stone as his stool
or to mark something in his eld, in the _cemetery, in the wall, in
the woods.
Later, after sunset, when you return home,
any pebble from the beach you place on your table
is a statuette - a small Nike or Artemis's dog,
and this one, on which a young man stood with wet feet at noon, is a Patroklus with shady shut eyelashes.
***
This nausea
is not an illness.
It is an answer.
***
I loved this poem in particular:
Approximately
He picks up in his hands things that don't match - a stone, a broken roof-tile, two burned matches,
the rusty nail from the wall opposite,
the leafthat came in through the window, the drops dropping from the watered ower pots, that bit ofstraw the wind blew in your hair yesterday - he takes them and he'builds, in his backyard, approximately a tree. Poetry is in this 'approximately'. Can you see it?
***
The Meaning Is One
Experienced words, dense, determined,
vague, insistent, simple, suspicious -
useless memories, pretexts, pretexts,
emphasis on modesty, - stones supposedly,
residences supposedly, weapons supposedly - door handle, pitcher handle, table with vase,
made bed - smoke. Words -
you hammer them on air, on wood, on marble, you hammer them on paper - nothing; death.
You must tighten your tie. Like this.
Keep quiet. Wait. Like this. Like this. Slowly, slowly, the narrow opening, there behind the stairs, pushed against the wall.
***
Dissolution
Sometimes words come almost by themselves, like leaves of trees -
the invisible roots, the soil, the sun, the water have helped,
old rotten leaves have also helped.
Meanings can easily be attached like spider webs on leaves, or dust and drops of dew sparkling with wavering ashes.
Under the leaves, a young girl is disembowelling her nude doll ; a drop falls on her hair ; she lifts her head ; she sees nothing ; o y the cold transparency ofthe drop is dissolved over her body.
***
Stones
Days come, go, without e ort, no surprises.
The stones soak in the light and memory.
One makes a stone a pillow.
Another puts a stone on his clothes before swimming
to keep them from being blown away by the wind. Another uses
a stone as his stool
or to mark something in his eld, in the _cemetery, in the wall, in
the woods.
Later, after sunset, when you return home,
any pebble from the beach you place on your table
is a statuette - a small Nike or Artemis's dog,
and this one, on which a young man stood with wet feet at noon, is a Patroklus with shady shut eyelashes.
***
February 24, 2021
Şiirlerinde bir ressam titizliğiyle yaşadığı dünyayı tasvir eden dile sahip. Yalın bir dil kullanmaya özen gösteriyor. Sürekli gözlemleyen yapısı sayesinde yaşamın en ince ayrıntılarından kesitler sunuyor dizeleri. Döneminin Dışavurumculuk akımını sergilediği kısa ve uzun şiirler yer alıyor kitapta.
NERDEYSE EKSİKSİZ
Biliyorsun, ölüm diye bir şey yok, diyor adam kadına. Biliyorum, evet, artık öldüğüme göre, diyor kadın. İki gömleğin de ütülendi, çekmecede,
sadece küçücük bir gül benim özlediğim.
NERDEYSE EKSİKSİZ
Biliyorsun, ölüm diye bir şey yok, diyor adam kadına. Biliyorum, evet, artık öldüğüme göre, diyor kadın. İki gömleğin de ütülendi, çekmecede,
sadece küçücük bir gül benim özlediğim.
September 10, 2020
"before sleep
she tidied up, she washed the plates,
everything is quiet. eleven o'clock.
she took off her shoes to go to bed.
she delays. she lingers at the side of her bed.
has she forgotten something that her day does not want to end?
- the house, then, is not square, nor the bed, nor the table. --
unconsciously she lifts her stocking before the lamp
to find the hole. she sees nothing. yet she is certain it is there
-- maybe in the wall, or in the mirror; -
it's through this hole she hears the night snort.
the shadow of the stocking on the sheet is a net
in cold water crossed by a blind yellow fish."
--
Original. Complexo. Um estilo de poesia confessional que nos lembra, às vezes, Robert Lowell.
Muito bonito. Multicolor. Perfumado.
she tidied up, she washed the plates,
everything is quiet. eleven o'clock.
she took off her shoes to go to bed.
she delays. she lingers at the side of her bed.
has she forgotten something that her day does not want to end?
- the house, then, is not square, nor the bed, nor the table. --
unconsciously she lifts her stocking before the lamp
to find the hole. she sees nothing. yet she is certain it is there
-- maybe in the wall, or in the mirror; -
it's through this hole she hears the night snort.
the shadow of the stocking on the sheet is a net
in cold water crossed by a blind yellow fish."
--
Original. Complexo. Um estilo de poesia confessional que nos lembra, às vezes, Robert Lowell.
Muito bonito. Multicolor. Perfumado.
March 11, 2011
great selection of Ritsos' work. it's too bad more people don't read Ritsos: his simplicity and beauty should be kitchen table conversation material.
his doxology is my favorite piece.
his doxology is my favorite piece.
June 5, 2023
İki hafta sonra bugün ilk kez karşılaştık. Hissettiğim şeyler çok karışık. O kadar anı, yaşanmışlık her tarafa baksam aklımda, kalbimde. Her şeyimi kaybetmiş gibi hissediyorum. Aşkımı, sevgimi, dostumu, yoldaşımı… Hep bir şey eksik. Seni, bizi özledim. Sürekli nasılsın diye düşünüyorum. Umarım iyisindir. Hayat devam ediyor bir şekilde ama sensizlik, bizsizlik acı veriyor. İki gün önce yanımda uyuyan, uyanan kişi karşımda bir yabancı gibi, tarifi çok zor. Sayısız şey geçiyor aklımdan ama tek bir şey söyleyeceğim: Hala seni çok seviyorum…
January 13, 2023
ritsos has a real light touch. sometimes his poems are like sunlight, but sometimes he tends towards an easy, folksy sentimentality that grows tired after a few dozen poems written in the same voice. I’d read a book of his published by Archipelago Books years back and was stunned I hadn’t heard of him before — so a few months ago I snapped this up at the library book sale. but I’m still glad I did
January 2, 2022
Ritsos'u 'Benzerlikler' şiiri ile fark etmiştim ama süzülmemiştim şiirlerine. Akova'nın metinlerindeki göndermeyi fark edince duramadım.
Pek çok güzel şiirin içinde gezdim ancak bir tanesi var ki apayrıydı! Dönüp dönüp okudum. Ritsos'u 'Benzerlikler' ile tanıdım ama 'İsmene' ile anar dururum artık.
Ritsos diyene de İsmene derim.
Şiiriniz eksik olmasın!
Pek çok güzel şiirin içinde gezdim ancak bir tanesi var ki apayrıydı! Dönüp dönüp okudum. Ritsos'u 'Benzerlikler' ile tanıdım ama 'İsmene' ile anar dururum artık.
Ritsos diyene de İsmene derim.
Şiiriniz eksik olmasın!
September 1, 2017
Just started learning about this poet and is fabulous.
July 5, 2023
In the wild wind
high, high,
from the height of the whitest gull –
freedom.
high, high,
from the height of the whitest gull –
freedom.
June 12, 2019
Ritsos’ poems speak intimately, as dreams. As in our dreams, here, too, one is a spectator. Much in his poetry speaks of the ordinary, the prosaic: thus, the two—the dream, the prosaic—are merged. There is also a strain, a tension: a shadow of war, politics, death, poverty, prison. A shadow, and not the thing. Ritsos shows rather than tells, and this means we must read patiently and kindly, in order to see the word behind the word. His poems seem to me as a kind of inventory. A reminder that the ordinary, which encompasses our lives, is mythical, and luminous with meaning.
July 26, 2021
I ran across my first reference to Yannis Ritsos while writing a play set on a mountain outside Athens which referred to him staying briefly in a now-defunct tuberculosis hospital atop that same mountain. He was described as one of Greece's greatest modern poets. So I sought out a book of history in translation.
I was never disappointed, whether reading/rereading his poems nor reading the essays by the translators at the end.
Ritsos' imagery, recurring and otherwise, grabbed me by the mind and heart. I marked my favorites to read again and again. The breadth of history that he is able to embrace and encapsulate thrills me....
This is a book that will stay on my shelf and never leave my possession.
I was never disappointed, whether reading/rereading his poems nor reading the essays by the translators at the end.
Ritsos' imagery, recurring and otherwise, grabbed me by the mind and heart. I marked my favorites to read again and again. The breadth of history that he is able to embrace and encapsulate thrills me....
This is a book that will stay on my shelf and never leave my possession.
November 6, 2008
Outstandingly - and consistently - great poems. "Surreal" - yet soulful, without the usual self-conscious affectation that can sometimes go along with so-called "magical realism". "Maturity" is my favorite of his poems.
Want to read
October 11, 2008I read portions of Ritsos in Kathleen Peirce's Voices of Eros in Poetry (Mitte Honors) class. I was floored - it is now on my "to buy" list.
May 31, 2008
This is a substantial an amazing gathering of the remarkable work of Yannis Ritsos
September 5, 2008
i've heard that Ritsos is a bit of a one-trick pony. o, even if he is ! his best poems are, simply put, just great.
June 1, 2012
Everyone should read Ritsos.
January 1, 2015
Ritsos is my least favourite Greek poet for his topics tend to be more political and less elegant than those of Kavafis, Karyotakis, Seferis and Elytis.
March 10, 2008
Poetry that is very, very Greek. Ritsos is an aquired taste.
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