You can read all 36 poems, together with my brief commentaries, by following this link: http://und-athens.com/journal/und-poetry-2021
31.12.21
und.poetry: 3 years / 36 contemporary greek poems
27.1.18
risk _ a poets' agora 2017
ΤHIS IS NOT A DERVISH
Dark cypress-green velvet
with wide black canvas hem
billows unfurled as he turns and turns arms open
to the sky and earth
in the standing crowd
clapping its hands
on the bitumen-laid
wound of the square
But on his face – But the face
is neither saint’s nor man’s
The face is a mask:
a monstrous duck Eyes capped
the beak sewed up sealed tight
–against the tear-gas– White hospital rubber –gazeless, breathless– over the swelling cypress foliage
Stop
Stop
your clapping
Seize him
Save him
In his white diving mask the air will soon be spent He’ll sink to the ground and won’t spring up
[transl.: by P.Ι.]
~
On December 1, 2017, Theodoros Chiotis, Kyoko Kishida, and myself -kindly invited by "A Poets' Agora" originators and curators, Karine Ancellin and Angela Lyras, in the beautiful, early 19th c., Koutzalexis House (re-decorated by Yannis Tsarouchis in the late 1960's)- read (in Greek, with English commentary) three poems each, including one commissioned especially for the occasion. These poems is available to read online (mine: https://apoetsagora.com/panayotis-ioannidis/ - as well as above).
But also the entire beautifully produced (by G Design Studio) booklet (in English and Greek) is now available to download: https://apoetsagora.files.wordpress.com/…/a-poets-agora-ris… - and the readings can be heard here: [mine starts at:]https://youtu.be/SOx7_y-PVl4?t=9m2s [and ends at 21'].
(Taksim Square, Istanbul, 2013)
Dark cypress-green velvet
with wide black canvas hem
billows unfurled as he turns and turns arms open
to the sky and earth
in the standing crowd
clapping its hands
on the bitumen-laid
wound of the square
But on his face – But the face
is neither saint’s nor man’s
The face is a mask:
a monstrous duck Eyes capped
the beak sewed up sealed tight
–against the tear-gas– White hospital rubber –gazeless, breathless– over the swelling cypress foliage
Stop
Stop
your clapping
Seize him
Save him
In his white diving mask the air will soon be spent He’ll sink to the ground and won’t spring up
[transl.: by P.Ι.]
~
On December 1, 2017, Theodoros Chiotis, Kyoko Kishida, and myself -kindly invited by "A Poets' Agora" originators and curators, Karine Ancellin and Angela Lyras, in the beautiful, early 19th c., Koutzalexis House (re-decorated by Yannis Tsarouchis in the late 1960's)- read (in Greek, with English commentary) three poems each, including one commissioned especially for the occasion. These poems is available to read online (mine: https://apoetsagora.com/panayotis-ioannidis/ - as well as above).
But also the entire beautifully produced (by G Design Studio) booklet (in English and Greek) is now available to download: https://apoetsagora.files.wordpress.com/…/a-poets-agora-ris… - and the readings can be heard here: [mine starts at:]https://youtu.be/SOx7_y-PVl4?t=9m2s [and ends at 21'].
(The picture is a photograph by Panos Kokkinias of a detail from the house's gorgeous ceiling decorations.)
6.9.17
pastiche: a mock-kleftic refrain
In my case, it was for a novel relating the adventures of a “reluctant spy” in mid-18th century Venice. In The Four Horsemen (Polygon Books, 2017), the novel’s author (who is also Associate Professor of American Literature at Università Ca' Foscari Venezia, Venice), Gregory Dowling, has his previous novel’s, Ascension (Thomas Dunne Books, 2015), protagonist, Alvise Marangon, meet Komnenos, a Phanariot Greek who, among other things, recites pseudo-kleftic songs.
My ‘assignment’ (a challenge kindly relayed by Alicia E Stallings) was therefore for “a couple of lines in Greek, which would be the refrain, something along the lines "We must keep our knives sharp for we will need them soon"”. To concoct such a pastiche of 18th c. patriotic, mock-folksong in Greek, I turned for inspiration to the style used, for example, by Rigas Ferraios (1757-1798). And, after spending a fascinating time double-checking some words and grammatical forms with poems of, and dictionaries for that period, I proposed the lines:
Αδέλφια, το μαχαίρι βαστάτε κοπτερόν,
Ναν' έτοιμο να κόψη τυράννου τον λαιμόν.
Ναν' έτοιμο να κόψη τυράννου τον λαιμόν.
Thus, the novel’s narrator, on p. 121, has the following dialogue with Komnenos – subtly condensing not a little historical and philological knowledge:
”So you recite poems about bandits”, I said.
“Songs composed by bandits but rearranged by me into more formal poetry for a more sophisticated audience. […] Here I am, clearly a man from an educated background, who has worked for the Ottomans, pretending to be a wild rebel ready to cut their throats.”
“Is that what was happening in your poem?”
“The refrain said ‘Adelfia to maheri vastate kopteron / Nan’ etimo na kopsi tyrannou ton lemon’, which is to say, ‘Brothers, keep your knife sharp, so that it may be ready to cut the tyrant’s throat.”
“Songs composed by bandits but rearranged by me into more formal poetry for a more sophisticated audience. […] Here I am, clearly a man from an educated background, who has worked for the Ottomans, pretending to be a wild rebel ready to cut their throats.”
“Is that what was happening in your poem?”
“The refrain said ‘Adelfia to maheri vastate kopteron / Nan’ etimo na kopsi tyrannou ton lemon’, which is to say, ‘Brothers, keep your knife sharp, so that it may be ready to cut the tyrant’s throat.”
– hardly a spoiler; and there are another 181 pages in this historical mystery!
10.5.17
five poems
As my third book of poems in Greek, Poland, has just been shortlisted for the "Anagnostis" award for poetry books published in 2016, I thought I'd share here four poems translated, and one originally written, in English, and published in "Hotel Amerika" and "Poetry London".
The first poem, "Jan III" belongs to the aforementioned Poland; "Cadenza" and "Burning candle" are from my first book, The lifesaver (2008); "Honey, meaning of" is as yet unpublished in Greek; while "Chinese movie" comes from my second book, Uncovered (2013).
*
JAN III
Unfathomable
this love
of Jan Sobieski
for his
enemy’s beauty
Every day
for twenty years
he’d write
to his wife
half in
Polish and half in French
And about
the Turkish spoils after victory
des fort jolies choses et fort riches
mais fort riches
mais fort riches
Among all
of Hussein Pasha’s treasures
he fell in
love with a silk embroidery
with two thousand rubies and emeralds
He loved it
so
he draped
it over his horse
on his
coronation day
Indebted to
the Grand Duke of Tuscany
he parted
with it
The Duke
had it taken down
in the
register and stored –
Una cosa del barbaro lusso
Note: Sobieski (1629-1696) is
principally known to the rest of the world because, as king of Poland and
Commander of the joint Polish, Austrian and German armies, he stopped the
Ottoman army's advance outside Vienna in 1683. But he had vanquished the same
army before, at the battle of Hocim in 1673. It was this victory that led to
him being elected King a year later. “Des fort jolies choses et fort riches / mais
fort riches” (Fr.): most pretty things and most rich / but most rich.“Una cosa del barbaro lusso” (Ital.): An
object of barbaric luxury.
[Translated by Panayotis Ioannidis and first published in “Hotel Amerika”
13 (2015). Later included, in this translation, in T. Chiotis (ed.) Futures – Poetry of the Greek crisis (Penned
in the margins, 2015), and, in the original Greek, in Polonia [Poland] (Kastaniotis, 2016)]
~
CADENZA
Just before
lowering his bow
the
violinist sees his mother
straightening
his collar before the parade
His fingers
hurt
like they
did after practice
but quickly
they break free and warm –
they know
no other body
Now he
doesn’t hear
the
audience’s cough
gradually
stopping – doesn’t see
my
neighbour’s programme gently
gliding to
the floor – the eyelids
lifting up,
the eyes
that hurt
on
the shiny
surface of the violin
while he
sees off
the final
phrase
His eyes
hurt
as his mother’s
hand
pushes him
gently
onto the
glare of the wet
flag-decorated
street
[Translated by Panayotis Ioannidis and Stefanos Basigkal and published in
“Hotel Amerika” 13 (2015). The Greek original has been published in To sossivio
[The lifesaver] (Kastaniotis, 2008).]
~
BURNING CANDLE
First time this spring I held two candles
at Good Friday’s Epitaph procession
I not quite a believer
Still, since three years ago
I always light two candles
in the tiniest chapels
Since we say the
soul falters
I light them up tenaciously naive
and with the expectation of the faithful
Then we say – gone
But I will not ever forget
how your face lit up austere
one night when seeing me
blow out a candle flame
You take its soul
away. Never
blow it out. Always
with wetted fingers
touch the wick
– inside your palm
gather the flame
don’t scatter it away
Since then I’m always careful
without explaining even though I’m teased
for such an odd attention. It is worth
wetting the fingers
tenderly holding the flame
it is worth the effort
the slight risk that your hand
cowardly, hesitant, may get burnt
that a soul may burn you
as it –temporarily– retreats
But before dozing yesterday I forgot
blew out the flame – the wall
got splashed above the second pillow
with melted candle wax
Nothing then could comfort me – as if
it were a human being – and I were to blame
[Translated
by Panayotis Ioannidis and Stefanos Basigkal and published in “Poetry London” 82
(2015). The
Greek original has been published in To sossivio [The lifesaver]
(Kastaniotis, 2008).]
~
HONEY, meaning of
[entry updated July 2013]
1
Jean Paucton, stagehand of the Palais Garnier, started
keeping bees on its rooftop in 1981. Their honey proved exquisite. At least,
Parisian opera-lovers seemed to think so: the jars –with their handwritten,
numbered and signed labels– would rapidly sell out from the establishment’s
boutique. “Letting a seventy seven-year-old man climb on the roof was becoming
problematic”, an official was quoted as saying upon M. Paucton’s retirement in
the spring of 2013. It is rumoured that new bees will be installed, care of a
private company, “to better frame the activity”. Nobody knows what next
season’s honey will taste like.
2
It comes from the Germanic “hunangam” – perhaps,
ultimately, from the Indo-European “keneko”, for “golden” or “yellow”. But
there is another Indo-European word: “melit” –meaning, precisely, “honey”– from
which both the Greek “meli” and the Irish “mil” derive. Unrelated,
unfortunately, to both “melody” and the muse “Melpomene”.
3
Honey makes the difference between truth and falsity.
Gorged on the “Gods' blond sweet food”, the three mantic, virgin bee-sisters
will dance what is, what was, and what will be. (They taught Apollo divination;
he gave them to his brother Hermes as a gift.) Deprived of it, however, they
become unruly; their utterances unreliable.
4
I was very fond of it, my ‘test’ poster: two black and
white photographs by Richard Avedon. On the left, “Dovima with Elephants,
Evening Dress by Dior, Cirque d’Hiver, Paris”: the fashion model of the 1950’s
standing lithe in her long black dress, sash trailing on the circus tent’s
straw, between the two heavy gray beasts. On the right, “Ronald Fischer,
Beekeeper, Davis, California, May 9, 1981”: a hairless albino, bees swarming on
his naked torso and head (including nipples and ears). A few of my friends were
as fascinated as I by this coupling of sabotaged beauty and serene symbiosis.
Most, though, would cringe at a hastily interpreted creepiness. The poster used
to hang in my apartment's hallway. When H. moved in a year ago, we took it down
to make room for his bookshelves.
[Originally written in English and published in “Hotel
Amerika” 14, (2016).]
~
CHINESE MOVIE
CHINESE MOVIE
My friend
brought me bread
that was
homemade by his mother.
He told me
about his trip
Most of all I enjoyed the airports
Then we
went to watch
a Chinese
movie: about a boy
who
photographed people from behind
to show
them all
what they
couldn’t see on their own
As everyone
got up to leave
we stayed
put quietly in our seats
until the
last line of the credits disappeared,
[Translated by Moira Egan and first published in “Hotel Amerika” 13
(2015). The Greek original has been published in Akalyptos
[Uncovered] (Kastaniotis, 2013).]
28.3.17
two poems in "austerity measures"
Two poems, "Mosquito" and "The poet in the hallway", from my second book in Greek, Akalyptos (Uncovered - or, in A.E. Stallings', the poems' translator's, rendition, Unsheltered; Kastaniotis, 2008) are included in Karen Van Dyck's anthology Austerity Measures - the new Greek poetry (Penguin, 2016; New York Review Books, 2017).
9.11.16
łazienki
ŁAZIENKI
The squirrel kept sniffing in the wet grass
Its busy tail irritated the peacocks
that strutted around screeching
among the flower-beds, on the verandas
Their claws stabbed at the stone slabs
The last king, Poniatowski, slept uneasily
Ryx, his trusted companion, lay awake next door
A humble barber from Flanders
personal guard, manager, at last a nobleman
his coat of arms, a Ring
The little Water Palace unsuspecting
bridged the lake
A few years hence the country would be torn in three
half a century a later, swiftly and soundlessly
arisen from their barracks at the Park's other end
the select young men of Archduke Konstantin, the Russian
would cross the pavements
Disguised as a woman, he fled
One more uprising got drowned in blood
and thirty three years later
the Kingdom of Poland
was erased
In black, the women sold
hid their jewels
They put on
iron chains
[This poem, translated from the Greek (in Polonia, Kastaniotis Editions, 2016) by Panayotis Ioannidis, was anthologised
in Th. Chiotis' [ed.] Futures
– Poetry of the Greek Crisis
(Penned in the Margins, 2015). Photo by P.I., Łazienki, iv.2004]
19.6.16
towards aristodikos
TOWARDS ARISTODIKOS
After quarrying, if the marble is
not to be worked on immediately, it is buried back into the earth: so
that it may stay fresh, retain its juices.
~
In
the foundations of the house where, years ago, we used to spend our
holidays, an ancient road had been found, with traces of a vehicle on
the rock. And, next to it, a funerary stele.
A block away, the archaeologists never so much as complained when I
slipped in amongst them while they worked. And after they abandoned
the site, I would go and hide small treasures there among the ruins:
a torchlight, a square battery, a box of matches, a couple of toy
cars. In case of emergency.
~
I was born opposite the
Archaeological Museum. Ever since I was little, every time I went in,
I would turn left and keep my head up, looking for the smile of the
Kouroi.
Were these funerary statues a
debt to the dead dictated by a higher order of things?
How did art give form to such
desires?
Almost
simultaneously, statues appeared in the
temples
of the gods as well as on graves. The funerary
statue is both a form of the objective debt to the dead and a
fulfilment of the spiritual need of the living to have before them
the dead person's likeness.
On my way out, I would slide down
the inclined marbles to the left and right of the forecourt's wide
steps. The marble, slightly concave in the middle, worn smooth from
wear, was almost soft – and invariably warm.
~
Aristodikos, the last Kouros,
isn't smiling.
The eyes of Aristodikos are
shadowed –not just literally, due to their sockets' curvature–
but also metaphorically, as if by the shadow of memory.
At the Museum, we indeed come
across him last in the sequence of Kouroi. Christos Karouzos
–Director from 1942 to 1964, formidable archaeologist, unrivaled
writer, lover of poetry– who loved and studied him, estimates that
he died at the age of twenty five, around 500BC. On precious marble
from Paros –the best for moulding the body–, his family asked for
his form to be carved in full relief. They set it by the grave next
to the road –as was the custom– at the edge of their estate in
Mesogeia, in the locality of “Phinikia”. But twenty years later,
they also laid the statue down to rest over the buried body, and
covered it with soil. To save it from the Persians, about to burn
down Attica from end to end, up to the Parthenon.
Almost intact, protected from the
sun and rain, the statue then returned to earth.
It rose again 25 centuries later.
In 1944, the property owner sends
over labourers to till his field. The plough hits on stone. Again and
again. They get hold of hoes to dig it out, they unbury a body,
whole.
Only the hands are missing. And
the feet break off at the delicate ankles.
It would be ungrateful to
complain about the degree of its preservation. Only the hands are
entirely missing. Of the lesser wounds, the most annoying is the
disfigurement of the eyes, lips and especially the nose, most
probably caused by the frequent passing over of the plough.
For years the plough passed
over the face
Over
and over the plough passed
on the face
They load the statue on a
carriage, cover it with straw, take it to the Museum in secret. To
the empty Museum: all the statues are already asleep, buried in the
soil, under the floor of the halls, since the eve of the German
invasion. (Months of secret toil, under Semni Karouzou's
supervision.)
The monuments that were saved
are “fortune's children”.
~
I still strive to see
what the hands held
Fruit
bottle, cup
weapon or bridle
Or nothing –
Open palms
full of arrival
They might have held
scales
offered
fair opposites
Except they 're missing
Back to the earth
whence they emerged
idle they have returned
As prescribed
by the order of time
Now equidistant
brokenly
they balance
~
The statue does not unfold its
world outwards but has gathered its strength in, as if meditating on
some inner stirring.
Karouzos, in his study on
Aristodikos, includes a long list of attic sculptures from 550-480
BC. There, twice he refers to Rilke:
540-530
…
Stele
of two siblings in
New
York and Berlin – incontestable seems the kinship of the girl's
head with the “Rilke” head in the Louvre.
...
Male head Louvre 695 –
which, according to Haussmann, may be the subject of Rilke's sonnet
“Fruehe Apollo”
As sometimes between the yet leafless branches
a morning looks through that is already
radiant with spring: so nothing of his head
could prevent the splendour of all poems
from striking us with almost lethal force;
for there is yet no shadow in his gaze,
his temples are yet too cool for the laurel crown,
and only later from his eyebrows' arches
will the rose garden lift up on tall stems,
from which petals, loosened, one by one
will drift down on the trembling of his mouth,
which now is yet quiet, never-used, and gleaming
and only drinking something with its smile
as though its song were being instilled in him.
Rilke
wrote this poem in Paris, on July 11, 1906. Although in May of that
year his term as Rodin's secretary had ended following a rupture
between the two men, his New
Poems
–the First Book (1907) of which opens with this sonnet– are
written under the influence of the great sculptor who seems to have
shown him anew how to see and how to reflect.
Three
years earlier, near the end of his essay, Auguste
Rodin,
Rilke had said about his sculptures: “a great gesture seems to live
and to force space to participate in its movement.”
~
Upon the pedestal, rises the
youthful form of Aristodikos, slender in its deeper conception. With
difficulty might it be said that he is standing. We would be closer
to this image of a man imperceptibly moving, were we to say that he
witholds movement. Nor is it possible to speak of a state arrived at
but, rather, of a force in action.
~
Funerary statues stop, so far
as we can see today, a little after 500BC, for sixty years or so.
Archaeological research has almost unanimously conceded Milchhoefer's
conjecture that a law that came out in Athens according to Cicero, “a
fair while” after Solon, against the lavishness of funerary
monuments, must indeed belong to this late archaic period, and
possibly to Kleisthenes, as Hirschfeld subsequently hypothesized.
Cicero's source is known to be Demetrius Phalereus and this vir
eruditissimus in turn draws information and suggestions for his own
radical restrictions on grave monuments from Plato and the preceding
attic legislation. An attractive hypothesis, though no more, is that
this law is contemporaneous and not unrelated to the law of
ostracism.
I might almost not have existed
~
ARISTODIKO: the name of the dead in the genitive, on the statue's pedestal.
ARISTODIKO: the name of the dead in the genitive, on the statue's pedestal.
The mere name of a man is
tantamount to anonymity.
The pedestal is preserved, and
the name, and the plinth of the statue. But –a strange thing,
unexpected for a work such as this– there is no funerary epigram to
be found.
Voice
that does not reach out from the
stone
speak up
Whose face?
Distance touches it
as pain returns
to its black owner
The eyes no longer
oppose
the most beautiful thing
springing
from life renounced
Each morning
there survives a song
From dreams
Which one has dripped
on his half-parted lips
so he now sings, upright and
whole?
Threshold of song
mouth
of a lost youth
Music
breath of statues
silence of images
Space of the heart
suddenly so large
Note: This text (translated by Konstantine Matsoukas) is a fragment of a work in progress, re-contextualised for publication in NICE! Is return possible?, ed.: Salon de Vortex (Y. Grigoriadis & Y. Isidorou), 2016, together with the three pairs of my photographs that, in addition to my photograph of the statue, appear here. In italics, phrases from Ch. I. Carouzos's monograph, Aristodikos (1961). The translation of Rilke's poem is by Dylan Schenker [http://earlyapollo.blogspot.gr/2007/09/critical-analysis.html]; that of his essay, Auguste Rodin, by Jessie Lemont and Hans Trausil (1919).
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