ORESTIS ALEXAKIS
(1931-2015)
Poeta nacido en Corfú, Grecia. Estudió Derecho y ejerció como abogado hasta 1991. Se exilió por voluntad propia a la Alemania del Oeste durante la Dictadura de los Coroneles. Ha publicado 8 poemarios, estudios filológicos, ensayos y críticas literarias. Ha recibido el Premio de Poesía Nikiforos Vretakos del Municipio de Atenas. Poemas suyos han sido traducidos al alemán, al inglés y también al español.
Hermoso es vivir en Primavera
en la prodigalidad de la luz y los colores
en la opulencia de los aromas
en el resplandor y la alucinación
Hermoso es vivir como las flores que irrumpen
como los pájaros que escudriñan
como los gusanitos que buscan su destino
Hermoso es vivir libre del peso del cielo
hermoso es vivir en el olvido
hermoso es vivir disfrutando horas terrenales
hermoso es vivir al otro lado de los astros
Hermoso es vivir acercándose a las fuentes
hermoso es vivir obedeciendo el don recibido
hermoso es vivir con sólo un rostro
olvidando el otro en su propio mundo
Hermoso es saber – sin embargo, callar
Extender las raíces – sin embargo, hundirse.
(Traducción: Miguel Chiovetta)
Selección de Dimitris Angelís y Virginia López Recio Prólogo y traducción de Virginia López Recio
http://www.omni-bus.com/n50/sites.google.com/
MARÍA O EL MILAGRO DE LA LLUVIA
Mientras
yo
el almendro vareo
caen las almendras como lluvia
y tú
cómo brillas
pero no te enfadas
sólo
me miras
y me sonríes
resplandeciendo
Y yo
vareo con
manía el árbol
y Dios mío cómo te
temo y
me gustas
y siempre te hundes en la luz
y dentro
de tu resplandor deslumbrante
te borras
Y yo
vareo llorando
‒riendo
y llorando‒
el árbol y
despierto
y ya
no hay luz
no hay árbol
sólo cuarto gris
lleno de lágrimas
y llueve
llueve
llueve
y
no estás
nadie está ya
y me cubren
aguas túrbidas y salvajes
aguas
y años
El ANIMAL DOMÉSTICO
LLAMADO SOLEDAD
… necesita cuidados necesita
protección
no ama los lamentos
ni las luces
sólo a media luz algo se tranquiliza
Pues si oye alguna vez por casualidad
voces de la casa hundida
y reviven los antiguos crujidos
y brillan de imprevisto los espejos
entonces
despiertan los terribles recuerdos
las horribles retrospecciones
el fervor de las expiaciones
las lágrimas de los purgatorios
Se rayan las figuras y gotean luz
Se enfada la fiera y mata
HECHOS MILAGROSOS
A través del cristal miras la lluvia
y me recuerdas ciudad anochecida
Tocas el piano y
pasan ciervos
por mitad de la casa, me hago
río
ruedo lentamente
con pereza
por tus cañaverales
con mil ramillas te enrollo
Alguna vez te desnudas con suavidad, te tumbas
a mi lado, alguien dentro desenclava
la caja oscura, no
te importa,
quieres ver el cuchillo asesino
oler la piel del asesino
oír el grito
del muerto
Bibliografía en español
Incorporado a las antologías:
Castillo Didier, Miguel, Un milenio de poesía griega: Del siglo X al XX. Santiago de Chile: Centro de Estudios Griegos, Bizantinos y Neohelénicos Fotios Malleros, 2004. 667p.
Moreno Jurado, J.A., Antología de la poesía griega: desde el siglo XI hasta nuestros días. [tr.by]: José Antonio Moreno Jurado. Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 1997. 818p.
Orestes Alexakis. Selected poems translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas ΜΑΙ 21Κατηγορία: Μεταφραστικό Εργαστήρι, καταχώρηση από: Σπύρος Αραβανής
BIOGRAPHY III
More secrets are hidden in my existence
for example the buzzing of bees
the magnificent babbling of the waters
the glow of nocturnal insects
All these are my body and I feel them
like I feel my fingers and my lips
― but who is
this little humpbacked dwarf reading
in the locked basement of my soul
with a pale candle of waning memory
mysterious documents of previous owners?
*
TIME OF THINGS
And as it slowly gets dark in the empty house
in the mirrors the sun sets
in silent and distant landscapes
immersed forever in the dusk
At night the full moon travels
against a background of old portraits
lighting the white sockets of eyes
which look towards their past.
But come dawn a red beetle
sets fire to the inflammable curtains
as invisible hands are playing the piano
hardly touching the keys
But sometimes it happens that matter lightens
and waves come into the house
or deep olive groves suddenly emerge
or persons once lost now return
*
PSYCHOGENESIS
At night do I see things
At night do I resort to miracles
What the dewy balm relieves
the sin of my existence
and what is tempered
by the outflow of tears
or the tumultuous concern in my chest
Oh, in the day the wounds gape
betrayal’s silver pieces echo
I’m overwhelmed by grief and dust
But at night the sources open
the moments deepen like orchards
sadness turns into light
the mind a tree
babbling waters the joyless years
At night
when the bodies fall silent
and the souls’ music issues forth
*
STROLLER ON THE BEACH
I find happenings deafening
formalities tiresome
all the work unnecessary and time-consuming
And if at times I too end up
a victim of fatal connections
I nevertheless keep my distances
as tokens of my innocence
That’s why I avoid
crowds
and prefer empty beaches
a staunch friend and mindful of the waves
a faithful listener
of horizons
That’s why I avoid
conversing even with myself
I want to hear heavenly whispers
I want to hear crackling
beyond graves
So switch off those spotlights
don’t disperse me
in your uproar
let me listen to precipices
let me caress
my dead
*
AND DON’T ASK WHY I’M SAD
It’s because behind your silence travel
caravans
of forgotten people
It’s because in your eyes move
shadows of the dead
images of loved ones
It’s because you resemble a journey to the infinite
It’s because you bring to light other roads
It’s because you shut
the trapdoors
and arise in a new miracle
It’s because I keep awake in your glow
as if believing that
I still exist
It’s because I owe you a lot of sky
and I’ve nothing more than a bit of earth
*
THE MIRROR
Alone
in the low-lit room
not knowing what I’m after
I look at
the huge paintings round me
portraits
of dead children
and gloomy landscapes
of places unknown or
forgotten
Finally I catch sight of
the deep mirror
a huge painting next to the others
and in it
my childhood
self
in the middle of a boundless desert
Holding a censer and a candle
*
WHAT WE NEVER LEARNT ABOUT DOGS
Dogs have their own fate
they worship the face of their own god
they scan their own sky
they have their own way of defining men
They maintain memory
of the flood
the thrill for an unknown homeland
they search the forest under the city
they want to breathe their last in other places
Sometimes in dogs’ sleep
mourn the wolves
fear stirs its heavy branches
snake-like hunger hisses its fury
At the far end they hear the old wailing
isolation’s woeful call out
they bite the invisible chain
red light strikes them blind
They remember flames and
uprooting
The wild beast wakens in them
and cries
*
THE THIRD PHASE
In the first phase they come unsuspecting
They enjoy life
music, love, nature
that pure pleasure of being
But in the second phase something changes
Around them the scenes become somewhat misty
There’s a bitter flavour of decadence on their lips
A strange shiver runs through them
as though threatened by something
They feel the world less familiar
Finally in the third phase supervenes
the magic inevitable. Music
flows from the depth of their soul
They feel they are losing their weight material
Their thought empties, their will
is stilled like a frozen lake
The indefinable attracts them
They are called upon by “beyond memory'
They follow a secret hum
And come down the stairs
silent
*
PHOTOGRAPH
Spring, of course, resplendent weather
As if provoking fate and Hades
A lush garden all round
― dance of luxuriant vegetation ―
and right in the middle a well
mother sitting on its mouth
looking at herself in the water
a little distant… a little sad…
Next to her father in his white suit
smiling as always
He beckons me to approach and come into
the light of a day still to set
*
THE UNEXPECTED WOMAN
But
who are you who surprises
― with such glitter, such music ―
the gloomy realm of my silence?
Who inrushes suddenly, a flood of light,
into these peaceful penumbras where
for ages now I maintain
my few anaemic memories?
With such dazzling beauty? With such
a deafening presence?
What does your figure recall to my look?
What heaven? What distant homeland?
And that bright smile of yours
― like sudden lightning against a black background ―
what impossibility does it insinuate and what
shores beyond time does it predict?
On the edge of a cliff you wait for me
and with a gentle smile you motion me
to trust imaginary wings;
to dare trapped flights
*
THE KNOCKER
In the end
I knock on the door
yearning
for a friendly look
a warm handshake
But
no one comes to open
And who’s to come and what
is he to open?
Behind the knocker there’s
no door
no inhabited house
exists
The knocker
hovers
in space
to no purpose
without aim
like a scarecrow in a burnt garden
It has nothing in store anymore
It promises nothing to the stranger
*
THE ONLY JUST MUSIC
Don’t be surprised if I resent
following your steps, Memory
I know truth. To what avail
your constantly returning me to it?
What’s the purpose of the ruins’ dance?
Of reliving all those separations?
The disinterment of interred time?
Hush… hush… the soul is sleeping
Don’t wake it up… it’s tired of hoping
Huddled up in itself
it has resigned to the only just music
emitted by the sense of vanity
*
WORKING HOURS
Nevertheless you must admit
that the hour has now advanced
that you should close the shop
and if
time is not yet up
if there’s still a few working hours left
well, why keep on waiting
when all goods have been purchased
there’s less traffic in the streets
no friend is likely to visit you
― where have they all gone? How did friends vanish? ―
what more can you do in this empty place
all alone and unmoving, a tableau vivant
with that cool smile which in vain pretends
switch off the lights
lock the door
relax
forget for a moment that you exist
the debit and credit of every day
the city’s pollution… the rabble
And give some thought to the immense sky
The millions of stars up there…
*
COMMENT
Maybe in the process of moving
from one country to another
or from one decade to another
or from one version to another
or yet
during so many riots
so many shocks, so many deaths
a number of things were lost
many and useful
― precious objects, relics
contracts, maps, sketches
records and proof of rights
Well, these losses determined us
These specified the then future
― today a spent past ―
setting a binding limit to our lives
But
there’s no reason thinking about it
for even if
these losses were avoided
others may well have taken their place
determining ― again without our knowledge ―
the future of our unsuspecting lives
As such, regrets are meaningless
whichever the alternatives, in the end
they’d have led us on the same road
In the same desert we’d again walk
harassed by the sun and the sand
looking for a message from the sky
thirsting for water and justice
In the same desert our bones would shine
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