CHRISTÓFOROS LIONTAKIS
Christóforos Liontakis (en griego: Χριστόφορος Λιοντάκης) (nacido en Heraclión, Creta en 1945) es un poeta y traductor griego ganador de diversos premios. Estudió derecho en la Universidad de Atenas y filosofía del derecho en la Universidad de la Sorbona, París. Su primera colección de poemas fue publicada en 1973.
Pertenece a la "Genia tou 70 " (generación de los años 1970), que es el término utilizado para describir a los autores griegos que comenzaron a publicar su trabajo durante esta década, especialmente al final del Régimen de los Coroneles y los primeros años de la Metapolitefsi.
Recibió por su colección con la luz en 1999 el Premio Nacional Griego del Libro del año 2000 y el premio de poesía de la prestigiosa revista literaria Diavazo. El ministerio francés de cultura le ha honrado con el nombramiento de Caballero de las Artes y las Letras y el ayuntamiento de Heraclión le ha premiado con el premio literario Nikos Kazantzakis.
Poesía
Το τέλος του τοπίου (el final del paisaje), 1973
Μετάθεση (Transferencia), 1976
Υπόγειο γκαράζ (Garaje subterráneo ), 1978
Ο Μινώταυρος μετακομίζει (El minotauro se va), 1982
O ροδώνας με τους χωροφύλακες (La rosa y los guardias), 1988
Με το φως (Con la luz), 19991
Prosa
Νυχτερινό γυμναστήριο (Gimnasio nocturno), 1993
Traducciones[editar]
Stendhal, Αρμάνς (Armance), 19782
Bonnefoy, Yves, Οι τάφοι της Ραβέννας (Les Tombeaux de Ravenne), 1981
Genet, Jean, Ο σκοινοβάτης, 1986
Rimbaud, Arthur, Μια εποχή στην Κόλαση (Una temporada en el infierno), 2004
Selección de Dimitris Angelís y Virginia López Recio Prólogo y traducción de Virginia López Recio
http://www.omni-bus.com/n50/sites.google.com/
EL ORIGEN DEL FUMADOR
Se retuerce dentro de mí
un progenitor acuchillado.
Crecí junto a él en secreto
como fumador pasivo
yo preguntaba dónde encontró el cuchillo
y me ahogaba en el humo.
La casa olía a aceite quemado
también a oscuridad
el padre siempre respirando con dificultad
y la madre: imaginad a una Electra
sin hermano.
Una luz en ruinas vierte polvo
y yo buscaba entre la paja
intentaba encontrar sangre
como un fumador de verdad
preguntaba de nuevo
dónde encontró el cuchillo.
Ellos decían:
quítate del tabaco.
TRAS LA LLUVIA MATINAL
Reinaba el barro y solo un poco
aminoraba hacia el terreno baldío, que anegado brillaba.
Espinas, salvia y rosas salvajes y piedras y tomillo.
Allí mis queridas dijeron de dejarme.
No habría cumplido ni los cuatro.
Me verían desde el lado poblado de olivos
donde las dos entregadas a la cosecha
alzaban la cabeza únicamente hacia mí.
Hablaban de vez en cuando y me preguntaban distintas cosas.
¡Ay! Sus dulces palabras, que no las recuerdo.
Debían de ser promesas:
En un rato estamos contigo.
De noche cuando encendamos la chimenea.
Eran juegos los hilos de la manta
las semillas que me echaba al bolsillo agujereado
y las florecillas ocultas que como la bondad
se asomaban con cuidado y las contaba.
Aquello que se me reveló en el olor del lugar anegado
tal vez lo testimonian mis gestos.
HARD TO TACKLE WORDS
Since the quiz must remain unanswered:
a three-letter word synonymous to farce
As best Ι can I deplete myself drifting into carelessness.
A sin, to be said, but how can you bear such a farce
I tread three sheets to the wind.
Poisoned by tobacco, I consent
gobbling up secrets and innuendo.
A pawn of concepts and conscience
and the winter of spite still holding on strong.
Icy remorse about things envy didn’t let flourish
Regrets for feelings I did not respond to
and it’s no longer viable in oblivion’s dusk
to recover the unaccounted for.
Perpetually my sins rediscover me.
Once in a while the gloom of daily censure
relinquishes its place to a bleached blue
of naïve charity.
To the intensive care of the tedium I transfuse red
a tentative colorfulness, such as
in youths shuttling between the pull
of death and life, for their supply of methadone.
I am beleaguered by intentions, deeds in abeyance
by the antics of the guild concerning nothing.
I sum up the nos and find them scant.
I get bogged down in the swamp of yeses.
The dust bypasses of the future
and the past is stranded in ashes.
Words get in through the cracks
altering the space in the room claimed by despair.
In a drawer’s mildewed corner indecision shines.
I am defeated by drowsiness and the hellhound howls.
Sleep’s output terror’s weighing machines.
Bowing I enter the matins.
As the breeze says to me mum’s the word
I am left with the sterling ambiguity of poplars.
Half words float in autumnal puddles
And the wind sweeps them
now to affinity’s banks and now to strife’s
Bleak thoughts encroach on tenderness.
Ambiguity everywhere
Halcyon days reiterate
useless oracles.
As it wasn’t answered by daybreak
the question remains suspended.
Glances prompting nothing but fear.
From the alien darkness an eyeless insolence
cuts my gestures in half.
Committed to tending the barren
I gamble on my astral estate.
Inadequately appraised images
rebound demanding why.
Inexpressible ordeals not from any detachment
but from my anxiety to preserve the moment.
Faces with fatty hearts smudge the horizon
Long expired words resound like tin
A parody of abolishing then restoring quarrels
Assumptions caving in by a tin can
abandoned to rust
in an anchorite’s cell
From sunlight to sunlight I stroll my reproductive suspension
Anticipating the shipwreck’s revelation of beauty.
And the impossible will perhaps take shape
Disease carrier, feeder of waves, healer,
Eros a hieroglyph, an agent of primeval discord
The solar dust is perhaps preprinting all things to come.
the horrible in low tones sounds foreign to hearing
and the audacity of the vulgar comes typically in bulk
shoving the ancient kicker to the margins
Presume what in that rattle of things altered?
Lord, what a slump beneath this verbose beauty
I remain a champion of the plight of infants
that cause arrogance to crack.
In the solitude of underwater meadows
I connect engines of salvation
confused as the future copies the past
Sounds that are disdainful of becoming words
The sea is cresting in sobs
And I burnt out with stains of darkness
mock the heroics of nihilism
Miserly maneuvers
Exasperate beauty, leaving
grace unexpended in search of excess.
Time subtracts but also adds to beauty
The wrong boldness an advocate of my weakness
A prayer to the fortuitous
just to see if discord can be cured
I am held hostage to a sterling denial and
am somewhat redeemed though it’s devoured
by the maze of the feasible
Mirrors are useless as they cloak the other view
Reflecting only my face
then like waste they disgorge it in the sink
The night’s still unripe
even though “nothing’s as painful as too much life.”
A call, another call
go unanswered, just a creaking sound out of nowhere.
Light or darkness the exit from the stage is disparate
Chained to the mystery of the rose I crawl in empty space
And it is likely I will be left
with the color and the fragrance of curiosity.
Translated from the Greek by Stratis Haviaras
Too young and too shy
Downy chin
With an oblique cut on the tip.
He does what he can with his hands
and the needle-pricked skin
glows through the shirt sleeves.
He's begging for money
and the look of passersby freezes
on his white teeth.
I place a note gently on his palm
and venture: "How will you spend it?"
"I'll buy myself a roll, I'm hungry".
And more platitudes and monosyllables.
Too young and too shy
To name the desire to die.
Translated from the greek by Yiannis Gournas
Apprenticing Satellite
The cold mist
on the rose bushes of the filling station
interpreted time differently.
A wrong maneuver and his fingers got soaked as
they and the motorbike ran into the foliage
shattering the hands of his Rolex
that only measured repetition.
A faint moon in the guise of an hourglass
and the first sounds of waking in the morning.
The light brings a touch of nympholepsy to his face.
Stressing the bounty of sorrow
it re-forms the ancient beauty.
Apparitions of sleep, the helplessness of beauty and
that certain unexpectedness of the nightingale invigorate him.
And he takes off, revving, despite the loss.
An apprentice satellite of Orpheus.
Translated from the Greek by Stratis Haviaras
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