Poetry by Yannis Ritsos

[umbertino]

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yiannis_Ritsos

 

 

DESOLATION

Sadness hung in the air. Bare branches
beyond the window’s bars, and you alone by the window.
Night crossed in front of the door. It left
like a beloved woman—a woman
held around the waist by someone else.

And the moon, like a turned off bulb, quiet,
in the turn of the road, above the drugstore.

 

 

 

INDESCRIBABLE

The evening, the trees, are pensive. So are the rocks.
And the voices. It’s as if they’ve returned home
and locked the door behind them. Behind the door,
a naked woman stands in front of a big mirror.

You know and smile. You don’t see anything. If you’d been singing,
maybe you could’ve reached her. As soon as you try to sing,
your lips lose the shape of their smile.

 

 

 

UNCERTAIN

Where the land ends, the sky begins—he said—
Where the sky begins, sorrow ends.

He was alone, he wasn’t sad,
because he could look at the clouds,
because the clouds were rosy,
because he found them beautiful.

Later, between the night’s fingers,
a star looked him in the eye. It didn’t believe him.

 

 

 

CONSCIOUSNESS

Evening fell softly, softly, upon the road,
like the heap of warm clothes on the floor
the worker changes out of Saturday evening.

 

 

 

SUSPICION

So you have to get used to—he said—
their finding endless evidence against you,
but don’t deny anything. Your denial
will, first of all, undo you.

And they are very strict about your every mistake.
They even suspect your compliance,
your enthusiasm, your tranquility.

Then what should be done? Oh, yes, you’re to take up—he said—
as little space as you can. But, again,
modesty seems secretive to them.
Some conspiracy is sensed in the afternoon’s reverie
when you smile at the star that remains faithful to you,
when you stand up straight behind some memory,
or behind that chair on which love just sat
and caress the chair’s back. What can we do?—he said,
and covered his whole face with the newspaper.

 

 

 

A CHILD

He broke his sling that killed birds.
Now, in the evenings, a star shines on him.
His silence looks at our empty hands.

Maybe he thinks he’ll need the sling again.

 

 

 

 

WEALTH

On summer nights, when the dew comes down,
you hear sharp air ringing your sleep
as if passing quietly, grazing
your invisible flocks of sheep in the sky—
yes, they are your flocks,
you, who never had a sheep—
so certain and tame and solid are they
that, in the morning, when you wake,
when you are doing the cheapest work,
when you are forced into the cheapest talk,
they obtain the meaning and weight
of the unknown, your conscious wealth.

 

 

 

 

COURAGE OR IGNORANCE?

He said: “Birds go against the wind
not out of spite, or because they’re in a fighting mood,
or because they’re hyperactive—
and not simply out of vanity—but so as not to get their feathers untidy.”
*******The others were taken aback and were silent
like the guilty who didn’t think of it,
like the guilty who see that it may be true,
like the guilty who could and did believe. They bowed, then,
and in a way they got their hair unkempt. Fortunately it was dark
and no one saw anyone else’s movements, not even the one
who was talking and remained
upright, magnificent, preened. At that moment
the moon stuck its ear to a pane of glass.
The silence was distinct. And they moved apart.

 

 

 

 

ECONOMIES

His logic was well angled like an elbow
that lifts cautiously to protect a face from a blow,
like a wall he leans his gun against to steady his aim
(because maybe he fears the trembling of his hands)
or like deep wrinkles between eyebrows, giving, in this way,
dead aim to a kiss or to a bullet.

Strange man―and when he’d gone, he still
insisted upon being present. And when he wasn’t present
he insisted he was waiting. There are, yes, many economies
within which to buy bullets.

 

 

 

[umbertino]

 

There's a fantastic poem by him  which I casually found ( translated in Italian of course) that I'm trying to get in its English translation but it's a difficult task as it's untitled...

 

I deem it one of his most beautiful...Hope to find it

[umbertino]

This is not the one I am looking for....It's still beautiful anyway....

 

 

Let me come with you. What a moon there is tonight!

The moon is kind – it won’t show

that my hair turned white. The moon

will turn my hair to gold again. You wouldn’t understand.

Let me come with you…

When there’s a moon the shadows in the house grow larger,

invisible hands draw the curtains,

a ghostly finger writes forgotten words in the dust

on the piano – I don’t want to hear them. Hush.

 

from “Moonlight Sonata”

[umbertino]

 

https://theculturetrip.com/europe/greece/articles/the-best-poems-by-yiannis-ritsos-you-should-read/