Η Νηπιαγωγός | The Kindergarten Teacher

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Μια τρυφερή δασκάλα

Ένα χαρισματικό αγόρι

Μια ιδιαίτερη ιστορία αγάπης

The Kindergarten Teacher tells a twisted tale of mentor and protégé, and displays Maggie Gyllenhaal’s immense talent. In this story, Gyllenhaal plays Lisa Spinelli, the titular teacher whose life isn’t exactly in crisis, but slowly stagnating.

Lisa’s home life is unsatisfying, her teenage children and husband emotionally distant. She takes the time to attend a weekly poetry class, but her work isn’t particularly good. It’s not terrible – just not great. It’s mundane, just like everything else in Lisa’s existence.

Lisa is coasting through life, until she notices that one of her students, five-year-old Jimmy, going into a kind of trance and reciting a poem that he simply shouldn’t have been capable of Continue reading

Searching a peaceful shelter…

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Where will I find peace
That puts my mind at ease
Where will I find the solace I seek
Would that help me scale happiness peak
I have searched the world
Only to find hearts so cold
People so insensitive n ruthless
My feelings seem so worthless
Tired of wandering & searching
A broken heart I was nursing
Ultimately I sought shelter in solitude
Numb with pain at the worlds attitude
Stop I Did often just to question
What actually was my intention
Tired of running away from reality
I found peace within my own entity

© Aarzoo Mehek

Τσάμικος, Μάνος Χατζιδάκις, Νίκος Γκάτσος

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Οnly if you are from Greece you will understand…..

Tsamikos Lyrics: Nikos Gatsos
Music: Manos Hatzidakis
First version: Manolis Mitsias

In the stony mountains with the flute and the clarinet on top of the holy rock now dance three brave men Nikephoros* and Digenes** and the son of Anna Komnene*** Continue reading

Time for Meditation….

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Take it easy, Sadness. Settle down.
You asked for evening. Now, it’s come. It’s here.
A choking fog has blanketed the town,
infecting some with calm, the rest with fear.

While the squalid throng of mortals feels the sting
of heartless pleasure swinging its barbed knout
and finds remorse in slavish partying,
take my hand, Sorrow. I will lead you out,

away from them. Look as the dead years lurch,
in tattered clothes, from heaven’s balconies.
From the depths, regret emerges with a grin.

The spent sun passes out beneath an arch,
and, shroudlike, stretched from the antipodes,
—hear it, O hear, love!—soft night marches in.

 

MeditationCharles Baudelaire

 

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To Kiss The Sea – Ivor Steven

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Today my friend Ivor posted a poem for our  love for sea!
He lives in Australia and there is still summer …

Thank you so much my friend!!

 

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Read his lovely poem :

A sincere thank you to Efi, of EfiSoul63,  for being the inspiration behind my poem, and our mutual love of the sea

To Kiss The Sea

I wish to be at the beach and free

Saltwater and sand are out of reach for me

Oh, to be sunbathing and swimming

To be in the surf, playing and frolicking

I’m close enough to breathe the nearness of the sea

Just across the sand dunes and through the tea-tree

I wish to be under the sea

Rolling with the waves crashing above me

Swirling and unfurling

Bubbling and frothing

I’m close enough to hear the evening sea-mist

Just outside my window, I feel the bliss of the sea’s kiss

 

https://ivors20.wordpress.com/2019/02/20/to-kiss-the-sea/comment-page-1/#comment-19522

“The Little Boy and the Old Man – Shel Silverstein

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Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”

Said the old man, “I do that too.”


The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
I do that too,” laughed the little old man.


Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”


But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”


And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
I know what you mean,” said the little old man.”

 

 

Mother to Son – Langston Hughes

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Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.

So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47559/mother-to-son
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Going for Water – Robert Frost

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The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;

Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.

We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.

But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.

Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.

A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.

* Photo by: Abdullah Evindar

Rattle of eternity

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……. On the next death
I will donate the rattle of eternity
in the first passive devil


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1600 Jan Claesz., Girl with a Rattle

…….Στον επόμενο θάνατο
θα δωρίσω τη κουδουνίστρα της αιωνιότητας
στο πρώτο περαστικό διάβολο..

Μαρία Ροδοπούλου

 

 

An Old Abandoned House – Kay Whitaker

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An old abandoned house,
White frame, stands on the hill
And looks down here on me.
A feeling always still Lingers about its walls
Each time I look around.
The windows, vacant, stare.
There never is a sound. And yet it seems to live.
Its memories float inside
In rooms I cannot see,
A former life to hide Of some time in the past
When children’s voices called
Where grasses now stand still
And dead tree limbs are sprawled. I wonder on the house,
The life that once was there.
But it stands silent, mocking me,
Continuing to stare.

Κράτα το

RESCUER’S ARE ANGELS

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Yes, rescuers are angels
You cannot see their wings
They keep them neatly folded
As they do their caring things.

 

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Hate for Sale by Neil Gaiman

Hate for sale. All the very best 
Hate for sale. Vintage stuff.
Do my cries excite your interest? 
Lovely hate. Your life is rough.
Buy my hate. You’ll come right back for more. 
Hate for sale. Enough to start a war.
Hate the rich, the brown, the black, the poor. 
Hate is clean. And hate will make you sure.
Hate for sale. You’ll feel superior.
Hate for sale. You’ll make the news.
Hate the families who come here fleeing war. 
Hate the gay. The trans. The new. The Jews.
Don’t need to care who you detest 
Hate makes you feel a whit less scared 
To know that your group is the best 
And burn to ashes all the rest
Who will not face the real test
But showed up naked, unprepared
To be sent back, or drowned, or hurled 
back into the abyss. Your world
will be so safe, so clean, so great.
And all you needed was some hate.
Hate for sale. All the very best 
Hate for sale. Vintage stuff.
Do my cries excite your interest? 
Hate for sale. Never enough.

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Neil Gaiman has this powerful and insightful offering for us to reflect upon, with his words being spoken by Peter Kenny, and animated by Anna Eijsbouts.

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Scars Of War -Elizabeth Fontaine Grieco

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You say your calling was the Marines,
But yet your life remains apart at the seams.

You say the life of a soldier
Is what saved you from yourself,
But vivid dreams continue to haunt you
to reveal remanants of the torture,
You had to inflict.
How does the act justify the means?

You say, your honor was stolen from you!
But who stole it from you?

You say, it was the politicians in the end,
that left you scorned.

You say we fought in a senseless war,
In the end you were left feeling void,

Void of any human compassion. How could my
Countrymen have abandoned us?

Why were we such an embarrasment to them?
Our politician’s and leader’s had us believing that
it was our war as well as theirs. What enemy?
Who’s enemy? Their enemy or ours? Was it easier to forget
Those brave men who selflessly gave of themselves
For their country?

You say again, how could they have abandoned us?
No recongnition, no bands playing, just a few
Surviving pictures that tell the story of the
Suffering and the innocence we left beind,
Only to realize that it will continue to burn
In our minds and leave us scared for an eternity!

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The Choice Is Mine – Abimbola T. Alabi

 

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*Merab Gagiladze
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Life may not let me choose my lot,
But whether I’d be happy or not…
That is my choice.

To leave hurtful memories behind
Or allow them to bother my mind…
The choice is mine.

To fret over a mistake when it’s done
Or learn from it and move on…
The choice is mine.

To be bothered by all that people say
Or ignore them and go my own way…
The choice is mine.

To hide my feelings, pent up, unspoken,
Or say my mind and ease the burden…
The choice is mine.

To enjoy what I’ve been able to gain
Or ungratefully regard it with disdain…
The choice is mine.

Sometimes I won’t get to pick my lot,
But whether I’ll be happy or not
Will always be my choice.

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Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/the-choice-is-mine

Sailing midst the clouds – Et cetera

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© Ivan Wong

He feels the clouds envelop him
As he sails across the sky
He rows his boat into the new world
And waves this world goodbye
His best clothes on and new hat up
He lets out a triumphant cry
He gazes at the distant world
And then at the mackerel sky
He’s up, he won, he defeated the world
All he had to do was try

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The Holiday Prayer –Spencer Betz

 

The sidewalks and the roadways
Have now become my home
Since misfortune somehow found me
I’ve been wandering alone

The coldness and the darkness
Of every passing night
Leads me to a shelter
That for tonight feels alright

You’d not think it’s perfect
It’s loud and space is tight
But if they have a bed for me
It’s perfect for this night

I’m tired, cold and hungry
My body’s wracked with pain
But I’m just a broken spirit
Not a person gone insane

So look at me this Christmas
And thank your lucky stars
That you have what you do have
And don’t bare all these scars

And if the moment strikes you
That to give is to receive
Then you are that one person
That helps me to believe

I believe that I will conquer
All that fate has dealt to me
And I’ll never give up trying
I believe in humanity

So while you sit with family
Gathered ’round your Christmas tree
And open Santa’s presents
I hope you’ll think of me

If there’s one gift you can give me
I will tell you what I’d like
It’s not a giant castle
It’s not a brand new bike

A prayer is all I ask for
A prayer that asks the Lord
To bless those here beside me
The broken, beat, the poor

Ask that He please hear you
In your Christmas prayer
And bless all souls who suffer
So lost and in despair

For myself, I ask you nothing
Except this one small prayer
So won’t you take a moment
Bow your head and show you care

 

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https://www.thoughtco.com/holiday-prayer-for-the-homeless-700482

Travel – Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

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The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I’ll not be knowing;
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.

Κράτα το

Hydra: a pilgrimage to Leonard Cohen’s Greek island retreat

The tiny Greek island that so enchanted Leonard Cohen in the 1960s still captivates today.

 


photos Efi 2018

Greece is a good place
to look at the moon, isn’t it?
You can read by moonlight
You can read on the terrace
You can see a face
As you saw it when you were young

Cohen wrote the poem Days of Kindness about his girlfriend and muse Marianne Ihlen, and their years spent here.

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https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2016/dec/04/hydra-greece-leonard-cohen

Spires of the fireweed.. Ian Emberson

Fireweed is a bush that takes on a bright red colour in autumn

Spires of the fireweed on the fretted sky –
Tints of magenta on tranquility,
Do you feel nurture for the life within,
The burst of bloom that yields your progeny.
Do you have sense of flowering’s fleeting glow,
Bearing its part in continuity
To charge the seed and rip its casing wall
And float its fluff upon the autumn wind?…

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https://www.inspirationalstories.com/poems/spires-of-the-fireweed-ian-emberson-poem/

 

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Peer sharing….

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Photo : Ferit Temur

Intentional Peer Support

If I could write a poem about hope
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about connection, worldview, mutual responsibility, and
moving towards not away from.

If I could write a poem about social justice,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about inclusion of vast and different personal stories, our views, cultures,
values, experiences, knowledge, uncommon and common sense, our ideas.

If I could write a poem about relationships,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about challenging ourselves to see and think differently
to learn and grow together.

If I could write a poem about compassion,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about acknowledging and sharing our power
while still daring to be powerful.
It would be about sensitivity, self definitions and self determination.

If I could write a poem about listening differently,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about tuning into one another,
suspending what we think we know
in order to discover what we didn’t
It would be about a commitment to be patient
with the process of relating and each other.

If I could write a poem about community,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about prioritizing our relationships
in the family and in our communities
as we define our families, as we remain apart of community.

If I could write a poem about vision,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about a new vision of interacting with peers
forgetting what we don’t want, envisioning what we do,
living well in the present, and creating a better tomorrow.

If I could write a poem about Intentional Peer Support,
It would be about social change
I’d call it social change.

Selina Welborn

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“The whole universe is in a glass of wine”

A poet once said, “The whole universe is in a glass of wine.” We will probably never know in what sense he meant that, for poets do not write to be understood. But it is true that if we look at a glass of wine closely enough we see the entire universe.

 

Ένας ποιητής είπε κάποτε: «Το σύμπαν όλο βρίσκεται μες σ’ ένα ποτήρι κρασί». Και ίσως ποτέ να μη μας είναι σαφές τι εννοούσε ακριβώς μ’ αυτή του την κουβέντα, γιατί, ως γνωστόν, οι ποιητές δε γράφουν για να τους καταλάβουμε εμείς.

Είναι όμως αλήθεια πως αν κοιτάξουμε ένα ποτήρι κρασί από πολύ κοντά θα δούμε όλο το σύμπαν μέσα.
Continue reading

The Blessed Damozel – Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 

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The Blessed Damozel” is perhaps the best known poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti as well as the title of some of his best known paintings. The poem was first published in 1850 in the Pre-Raphaelite journal The Germ. Rossetti subsequently revised the poem twice and republished it in 1856, 1870 and 1873. [1]

The poem was partially inspired by Edgar Allan Poe‘s poem “The Raven“, with its depiction of a lover grieving on Earth over the death of his loved one. Rossetti chose to represent the situation in reverse. The poem describes Continue reading

Tom Noddy’s Bubble Magic

Εγώ αγαπώ τους ανεπαίσθητους κόσμους,
τους αβαρείς και αβρούς,
σαν σαπουνόφουσκες.
Μ’ αρέσει να τους βλέπω να ζωγραφίζονται
από ήλιο και πορφύρα, να πετάνε
κάτω από το γαλανό ουρανό, να πάλλουν
κι αμέσως να σπάνε…
Ποτέ δεν κυνήγησα τη δόξα…

Never have I aimed for glory,
nor endeavored that my story
be for Memory destined.
I have loved my worlds appeasing,
subtly fleeting, gently pleasing,
all with bubbles of a kind.

«Cantares», του Antonio Machado και του Χουάν Μανουέλ Σερράτ

Tom Noddy’s Bubble Magic has been featured on televisions shows all over the world over the years. In some early performances Tom used cigarettes but that was long ago and he has developed a handheld fog generator whose fuel is food grade glycerin.

An episode of a BBC mathematics programme focused on the math of minimal forms and they asked if I could contribute. We set up in a small theater and exchanged ideas. They filmed the results and edited it beautifully into their programme. I’m very pleased with this one.

 

http://tomnoddy.com/video.html

 

Unforgettable – A Walk with Alzheimers

 

Do not ask me to remember,

Don’t try to make me understand,

Let me rest and know you’re with me,

Kiss my cheek and hold my hand.

I’m confused beyond your concept,

I am sad and sick and lost.

All I know is that I need you

To be with me at all cost.

Do not lose your patience with me,

Do not scold or curse or cry.

I can’t help the way I’m acting,

Can’t be different though I try.

Just remember that I need you,

That the best of me is gone,

Please don’t fail to stand beside me,

Love me ’til my life is done.

– Owen Darnell

Maurice Carême – Τhe cat and the sun

The cat opened its eyes
And the sun flooded in.
The cat then closed its eyes
And the sunlight stayed in.

That is why at twilight,
When the cat comes awake,
I can see in the night
Two sunny bits of lake.

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«Η γάτα άνοιξε τα μάτια,
Ο ήλιος μπήκε μέσα.
Η γάτα έκλεισε τα μάτια,
Ο ήλιος έμεινε μέσα.
Γιʼ αυτό, το βράδυ,
Όταν η γάτα ξυπνάει,
Διακρίνω στο σκοτάδι
Δυο κομμάτια ηλίου.»

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Κράτα το

“Blessing the boats”

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May the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

—Lucille Clifton

 

Photos : gefi63

ΣΠΟΡΑΔΕΣ ΝΥΜΦΕΣ – Sporades “sirens “

Kαλό Φθινόπωρο συνταξιδιώτες μου!!!

Good Autumn My Travel Companions

 

Σποράδες νεραϊδόμορφες , νύμφες του Αιγαίου ,
άρπα τετράχορδη ουράνιας μελωδίας ,
διθύραμβε του έρωτά μας , του πηγαίου .
Νησιά των οραμάτων μας , εξωτικά μου ,
άστρα του νου μας και νεφέλες χορωδίας ,
παρακαλώ σας , ταξιδέψτε τα όνειρά μου .

….Sporades , nymphs of the Aegean Sea,
harp quartet of heavenly melody,
he dares our love, the source.
Islands of our visions, exotic,
stars of our minds and chorus clouds,
please, take my dreams.

 

Continue reading

Who Am I, Without Exile? – Mahmoud Darwish

 

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…..

Water

binds me

to your name …

Nothing takes me from the butterflies of my dreams

to my reality: not dust and not fire. What

will I do without roses from Samarkand? What

will I do in a theater that burnishes the singers with its lunar

stones? Our weight has become light like our houses

in the faraway winds. We have become two friends of the strange

creatures in the clouds … and we are now loosened

from the gravity of identity’s land. What will we do … what

will we do without exile, and a long night

that stares at the water?…..

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Care ……. Craig Santos Perez

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My 16-month old daughter wakes from her nap
and cries. I pick her up, press her against my chest

and rub her back until my palm warms
like an old family quilt. “Daddy’s here, daddy’s here,”

I whisper. Here is the island of Oʻahu, 8,500 miles
from Syria. But what if Pacific trade winds suddenly

became helicopters? Flames, nails, and shrapnel
indiscriminately barreling towards us? What if shadows

cast against our windows aren’t plumeria
tree branches, but soldiers and terrorists marching

in heat? Would we reach the desperate boats of
the Mediterranean in time? If we did, could I straighten

my legs into a mast, balanced against the pull and drift
of the current? “Daddy’s here, daddy’s here,” I

whisper. But am I strong enough to carry her across
the razor wires of sovereign borders and ethnic

hatred? Am I strong enough to plead: “please, help
us, please, just let us pass, please, we aren’t

suicide bombs.” Am I strong enough to keep walking
even after my feet crack like Halaby pepper fields after

five years of drought, after this drought of humanity.
Trains and buses rock back and forth to detention centers.

Yet what if we didn’t make landfall? What if here
capsized? Could you inflate your body into a buoy

to hold your child above rising waters? “Daddy’s
here, daddy’s here,” I whisper. Drowning is

the last lullaby of the sea. I lay my daughter
onto bed, her breath finally as calm as low tide.

To all the parents who brave the crossing: you and your
children matter. I hope your love will teach the nations

that emit the most carbon and violence that they should,
instead, remit the most compassion. I hope, soon,

the only difference between a legal refugee and
an illegal migrant will be how willing

we are to open our homes, offer refuge, and
carry each other towards the horizon of care.

 

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Morning in the Burned House

 

For those who don’t understand,
For those who remember,
For those who can’t forget….

Για τις ψυχές των συνανθρώπων μας που χάθηκαν τόσο άδικα και για όσους απέμειναν καλή δύναμη μέσα από την καρδιά μας!

For the souls of our fellow human beings that have been lost so unfairly and for those who have left good strength through our hearts!

In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
yet here I am.

The spoon which was melted scrapes against
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.

Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
mother and father? Off along the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,

their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,

every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,

the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud
rises up silently like dark bread.

I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.

I can’t see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything

in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
including my own body,

including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,

bare child’s feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts

and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent!

 


Μargaret Atwood

More than 80 people have been killed after Greece’s worst wildfire in a decade hit the small resort of Mati, 18 miles east of Athens.

The fire broke out on the afternoon of 23 July, with strong winds causing the fire to spread quickly towards the beach. Continue reading

ΧΑΛΙΛ ΓΚΙΜΠΡΑΝ – “…Εγώ ο άνθρωπος , τέλος δεν έχω…”

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“…με ρωτάς πώς γίνηκα τρελός. Να πως: Μια μέρα, καιρό πριν γεννηθούν πολλοί θεοί ξύπνησα από ύπνο βαθύ και ανακάλυψα πως όλες οι μάσκες είχαν κλεφτεί -και οι εφτά μάσκες που είχα φτιάξει και είχα φθείρει μέσα σε εφτά ζωές…

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    …Για πρώτη φορά ο ήλιος φίλησε το γυμνό μου πρόσωπο και η ψυχή μου φλογίστηκε από αγάπη για τον ήλιο και δεν ήθελα τις μάσκες μου πια  τώρα….και μέσα σε έκσταση φώναξα: Ευλογημένοι οι κλέφτες που έκλεψαν τις μάσκες μου. Έτσι γίνηκα τρελός” .

How I Became a Madman

You ask me how I became a madman. It happened thus: One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen—the seven masks I have fashioned and worn in seven lives—I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting, “Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves.” Continue reading

Volcanoes of the soul

Volcanoes of the soul are poured into the body.

Letters with a privacy recipient.

Protests

rushing with lava hot, to capture their marks.

Signs indelible, seals, remember

trips to islands uninhabited.

And you, a charmer in the wave

without any choice

from a  Pyrrhic victory

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Ηφαίστεια της ψυχής, ξεχύνονται στο σώμα.

Επιστολές με παραλήπτη απόρρητο.

Διαμαρτυρίες

ορμούν με λάβα καυτή, ν’ αποτυπώσουν τα σημάδια τους.

Σημάδια ανεξίτηλα· σφραγίδες, θύμησες

ταξίδια σε νησιά ακατοίκητα.

Κι εσύ, γητευτής στο κύμα

δίχως άλλη επιλογή

από μια Πύρρειο νίκη.

 

Λαμπρινή Λιάτσου

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Lava from the Kilauea volcano flows into the sea, releasing multiple laze plumes

 

 

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Κράτα το

Κράτα το

Το «έσχατο έρμα» – Τέλλος Φίλης

I call you good day, you do not listen, you wear the headphones, you pass me,
I beckon good morning to you,
You ignore me behind your black glasses(…)

In the evening, you supplicate

a goodnight keystroked on the internet …


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Σου φωνάζω καλημέρα, δεν ακούς, φοράς τα ακουστικά, με προσπερνάς,

Σου γνέφω καλημέρα,
Με αγνοείς πίσω από τα μαύρα σου γυαλιά
(…)
Το βράδυ εκλιπαρείς μια πληκτρολογημένη καληνύχτα στο διαδίκτυο

 

 

http://paratiritis-news.gr/article/202339/To-esxato-erma–H-esxati-antistasi-oste-na-ginoume-anthropoi

Auguries of Innocence By William Blake

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“See the world in a grain of sand
The sky in a wild flower
Keep the infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity within an hour
Then you keep the happiness in your hands. “

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«Να δεις τον κόσμο σε έναν κόκκο άμμου
Τον ουρανό σε ένα άγριο λουλούδι
Να κρατήσεις το άπειρο στην παλάμη του χεριού σου
Και την αιωνιότητα μέσα σε μιαν ώρα
Τότε κρατάς την ευτυχία στα χέρια σου.»

(Γ. Μπλέικ)

 

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43650/auguries-of-innocence

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Hiroshima Child – Nazim Hikmet

Εγώ είμαι, εγώ είμαι που χτυπάω την πόρτα σας
Εδώ ή αλλού, χτυπάω όλες τις πόρτες
Ω, μην τρομάζετε καθόλου πούμαι αθώρητη
Κανένας μια μικρή νεκρή δεν μπορεί να δει

Εδώ και δέκα χρόνια, εδώ καθόμουνα
Στη Χιροσίμα ο θάνατος με βρήκε
Κ’ είμαι παιδί, τα εφτά δεν τα καλόκλεισα
Μα τα νεκρά παιδιά δε μεγαλώνουν.

Πήραν πρώτα φωτιά οι μακριές πλεξούδες μου
Μου καήκανε τα χέρια και τα μάτια
Όλη-Όλη μια φουχτίτσα στάχτη απόμεινα
Την πήρε ο άνεμος κι’ αυτή σ’ ένα ουρανό συγνεφιασμένο.

Ω, μη θαρρείτε πως ζητάω για μένα τίποτα,
Κανείς εμένα δε μπορεί να με γλυκάνει
Τι το παιδί που σαν εφημερίδα κάηκε
Δεν μπορεί πια τις καραμέλες σας να φάει.

Εγώ είμαι που χτυπάω την πόρτα σας, ακούστε με,
Φιλέψτε με μονάχα την υπογραφή σας
Έτσι που τα παιδάκια πια να μη σκοτώνονται
Και να μπορούν να τρώνε καραμέλες.

(μτφρ. Γιάννης Ρίτσος)

Continue reading

Robots – Manessah B.

Workforce-of-future-in-2016-and-beyond

We program metal beings
to be as human beings —
To speak like man.
To think like man.
To move like man.
To feel like man.

Yet,

in the process of teaching metal men
how to be human,
we, ourselves, have forgotten
what being human means.

We no longer speak as men.
We no longer think as men.
We no longer move as men.
We no longer feel as men.

We have become our metal creations —
robots made of human flesh.
Programmed to click buttons.
Programmed to stare at screens.
Forgetting the art of conversation.
Forgetting how to connect with other human beings.

Man made robots
and, now,
man has become that which he has made.

Couch Talks, Wisdom & A Cup of Joe

 

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«Βάλε με» – Λένα Μαυρουδή-Μούλιου

….Open your hug in there

to go to sleep and to sleep

with a sleepless nightmare,

a sleep … dreamy! …

Let me stay there

By dawn….

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….Άνοιξε την αγκαλιά σου, εκεί μέσα

να μπω να κουρνιάσω και να κοιμηθώ

με έναν χωρίς εφιάλτες ύπνο,

έναν ύπνο… ονειρεμένο!…

Άφησέ με να μείνω εκεί

Μέχρι το ξημέρωμα…….

 

 

 

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Eυπρέπεια – Γεβγκένι Γεφτουσένκο

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Με ευπρέπεια, το κυριότερο, να δέχεσαι
με ευπρέπεια όποιους καιρούς και να ‘ρθουν,
όταν λιμνάζουν οι εποχές
ή συνταράζονται μέχρι το βάθος.

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Με ευπρέπεια, το κυριότερο, με ευπρέπεια
έτσι ώστε ‘κείνοι που μοιράζουνε τις χάρες
να μη σε οδηγήσουνε στο σταύλο
και σου βουλώσουν με άχυρα το στόμα.

Ο φόβος των καιρών φέρνει την πτώση.
Σε δειλία μη ξοδεύεις την ψυχή σου
παρά για το χαμό προετοιμάσου
του κάθε τι που τρέμεις μη το χάσεις.

Αν γύρω σου η καταστροφή ακραία
τόσο ακραία που δεν μπορούσες να προβλέψεις
θυμήσου εκείνο που μουρμούρισες μια μέρα:

“Κι αυτό ακόμα πρέπει να τ’ αντέξω”.

Κράτα το

Στο Χάρβαρντ το αρχείο του Νίκου Γκάτσου

 

Σε ντοκιμαντέρ της Καναδικής Τηλεόρασης του 1964, ο Νίκος Γκάτσος αναλύει και δικαιολογεί τον χαρακτήρα των Ελλήνων, μιλάει για τη “μνήμη του τραγικού” που κουβαλάμε ως κάτοικοι του πανάρχαιου αυτού τόπου, καθώς και για την Αθήνα της Γερμανικής Κατοχής όπου “οι άνθρωποι πέθαιναν από πείνα, γιατί ο εχθρός μας είχε πάρει τα τρόφιμα”.

 

Η βιβλιοθήκη του Χάρβαρντ, στο Κέμπριτζ της Μασσαχουσέτης, απέκτησε το αρχείο του ποιητή και στιχουργού Νίκου Γκάτσου, όπως ανακοίνωσε το ίδρυμα στην ιστοσελίδα του.

Ο Παναγιώτης Ροϊλός, Καθηγητής Νεοελληνικών Σπουδών στην έδρα Γιώργου Σεφέρη και Καθηγητής Συγκριτικής Λογοτεχνίας στο Χάρβαρντ, αναφέρει:

«Ο Νίκος Γκάτσος ήταν μία από τις σημαντικότερες μορφές της ευρωπαϊκής αβάν γκαρντ. Το μακροσκελές ποίημά του «Αμοργός», που δημοσιεύθηκε το 1943, όταν η Ελλάδα βρισκόταν υπό την κατοχή των Γερμανών και των συμμάχων τους, χαρακτηρίστηκε σχεδόν αμέσως από κριτικούς και ποιητές ως εμβληματικό έργο του ελληνικού υπερρεαλισμού… Continue reading

Συναυλία με αρχαία φόρμιγγα στο Εθνικό Αρχαιολογικό Μουσείο

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Αύριο Δευτέρα 18 Ιουνίου το Εθνικό Αρχαιολογικό Μουσείο διοργανώνει μια ιδιαίτερη εκδήλωση στην αίθουσα της περιοδικής έκθεσης «Αδριανός και Αθήνα. Συνομιλώντας με έναν ιδεατό κόσμο».

Δύο ξεχωριστοί καλλιτέχνες συμπράττουν με το κοινό για να διαβάσουν μαζί του και να ερμηνεύσουν με τη συνοδεία αρχαίας λύρας μέρη από το έργο «Μεταμορφώσεις» του Οβιδίου.

Continue reading

Wait ….. Son This is the road to hell

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Θαρθούνε μέρες που θα διαμαρτυρηθεί η σιωπή μας

και θα νοιώσουμε ότι δεν είμαστε μονάχοι σ’ αυτό τον κόσμο.

Περίμενε !

Γιώργoς Σερκεδάκης

 

She said, Son What are you doing here?
My fear for you has turned me in my grave.
I said, Mama I come to the valley of the rich Myself to sell.
She said, Son This is the road to hell.

 

 

 

 

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Μαρίνα Τσβετάγιεβα, «Το παράθυρο»

 

«Να και πάλι ένα παράθυρο, που και πάλι δεν κοιμούνται.
΄Ισως – πίνουνε κρασί, ίσως – έτσι κάθονται.

Ή απλώς – τα χέρια τους δεν μπορούν οι δυο να χωρίσουν.

Σε κάθε σπίτι, φίλε, υπάρχει ένα τέτοιο παράθυρο.

Είσαι η κραυγή των αποχωρισμών και των συναντήσεων –
εσύ, παράθυρο στη νύχτα…

Προσευχήσου, φιλαράκο, για το άυπνο το σπίτι,
για το παράθυρο με το φως!»