BIOGRAPHY AND POEMS IN OTHER LANGUAGES

Biography in English

Yannis Yfantis was born according to his willing in Raina (a valley of Etolia) thousand years ago. He studied agriculture, cattle-breeding, the art of riding as well as astronomy and the art of weaving*.

When he was 22 years old he left his studies in Law in order to study undiverted the book of the World.

His published books are: Manthraspenta (1977), Mystics of the Orient (1982), Elder Edda (1983), The Mirror of Proteus (1986), Signs of Immortal Memory (1987), Poems Embroideries on the Skin of the Devil (1988), Temple of Cosmos, (1996), The Garden of Poetry (2000), Archetypes (2001), The Ideogram of the Snake (2003), Love Unconquered in the Fight (2004), Transformations of the Zero (2006).

Many of his poems has been translated in English, in French, in Bulgarian, in Italian, in Russian, in Spanish and recently in Arabic, Chinese, German, Finnish, Hebrew, Serbian and Slav Macedonian.

Although he believes that the books are made by themselves, he received, unexpectedly, for them, the Cavafis Prize for 1995 in Alexandria of Egypt.

_______________

* Yfantis means weaver.

Note: The books circulated in foreign languages are the following:

Manthraspenta, edizioni del Paniere, Verona, 1984

ХRAM HA CBETA (Temple of Cosmos), ΑΓΑΤΟ editions, Sofia, 2000

Le Temple du Cosmos, éditions L’Attentive, France, 2000 (limited number of manuscript copies)

Archetypes, Ziti editions, Thessaloniki, 2000 (in Greek, English and German)

Temple du Monde, éditions L’Harmattan, Paris, 2003

ХRAMOT HA CBETOT (Temple of Cosmos), MATIKA editions, Cкoпje, 2004

Masques du Néant (Masks of Nothing), a clay book made by Marie-José Armando, France, 2005

THE EVER-LIVING FIRE*

This world, being the same for everyone, was not created by any god or any man, but it was, it is and it will be, forever, an ever-living fire, increasing in a measure and decreasing in a measure.

HERACLETUS

I don't know when and where I was born; looking for the healing beauty and the truth, which gives freedom, I found myself on the roads of poetry.

Here I am where Zero bites its own tail

with pain

and delight

here I am

in the midst of eternity

at its beginning and its end.

ALWAYS HERE

There is no problem; I am here; I am always here.

I have written the Song of the Harpists, 2000 years B.C., in Egypt

I have written Odyssey, 800 years B.C., in Greece

I have written Tao Te King, 600 years B.C., in China

I have written Mathnavi i Manavi on 11th century in Persia

I have written, exiled, in Ravenna, the Comedy which Voccacio called Divine

I have written The Woman of Zakynthos

I have written the Four Quartets

And I have also written Kihli and

Manthraspenta

There is no problem; I am here; I am always here.

THUS SPOKE THE POET

Every poet is one of the waves of that OCEAN, whose name is SPIRIT.

The poets are not many. In reality, the poet is one (that man called by Homer NO ONE), who has many persons and many names scattered in time and space.

Cosmos exists ever and forever. But for the people Cosmos does not exist until they become conscious. To people, Cosmos exists, until it is in their conscious. People's conscience (the mirror in which Cosmos is mirrored), with the passing of time becomes dim, and Cosmos is mirrored in it muddy and uncompleted. Then the poet comes and cleans again the mirror of conscience, so that Cosmos can be mirrored again, as it was in its endless beginning.

The poet makes Cosmos exist, by making people be conscious of Cosmos. By revealing, the ever existing, but covered Cosmos, it is as though the poet is creating Cosmos. And here is where the word poet (creator) finds its mystic and substantial meaning.

THUS SPOKE THE MUSE

All things are transformations of Zero; maya.

Put zero in your finger as a ring and you shall exorcise the Maya.*

*Maya, in sanscritic is the mother of Buddha and also the hallucination. Maya, in Greek is charm (sorcery).

I AM COMING

I don’t know if it was Ritsos or Homer
who convinced me to enter the Wooden Horse
carrying only a sword and a mirror.

I’m coming from the desert where the sand
is the crush of every form.

I’m coming from the Ursas, carrying
a sack of stars, holding
a moon-mask in my hand.

I’m coming from the hut, plaited with
branches of thunder.
I’m coming from a house made with mirrors.

I’m coming from the arched, like a sword, ravine,
half filled with snow, half filled with flowers.

I’m coming from the banks of the mountainous river
where ascetic waterfalls
stand erect in the stony jars.

I’m coming from the North; with half-moons as
skates, continually sliding
on the snow for three thousand years.

I’m coming from the hordes of Tatars; I’m the soldier
who slaughtered Attar and I’m Attar as well
and the knife that slaughtered him.

I’m coming from the black galaxy of ants
that sweeps away a dead butterfly like
an angel’s sailing-ship
like Ikaros after his fall.

I’m coming from Greece, who by the hand
of Peloponnese measures and scatters
around her the islands, so as not to be
spread alone into the sea.

I’m coming from the hole of a rotten bough
where I’ve been saying mass in a wild-bee’s uniform
or wearing butterfly’s vestments.

I come from the dusk
of Thessaly, where I shepherded
a flock of fires for a thousand years.

I’m coming from the book of Anaximandros;
in it I exist, wherever I go.

They asked me from where I come.
What should I say?
They wouldn't understand
and then
they would take me to the psychiatrist, in chains.

“I’m coming” I said, plainly, “from Agrinio”,
hiding, as much as I could,
the word “agrios”(**), the “n”, and most of all
the “o”, which is a well and a trap,
home and mirror and labyrinth (but yes
the most complicated labyrinth, however much
it appears such simple, small ring).

______________________

Agrinio: Town of Aetolea; the root of its name is from Agrios (Wild), a hero from ancient Aetolea

**agrios (Greek word): Wild

Poetry is the fables of the elders. Poetry is (paramythea) fables and (paramythea) consolation. But if you are not hot or cold, as John of Apocalypse says, why will you seek for poetry? If you don't come from Paradise, why will you seek for fables? If you don't come from Hell, why will you seek consolation?

Poetry is this; poetry is that. A thousand and one definitions have been given to poetry. But the best definition of a thing is the thing itself: Poetry is poetry; that is:

THE BOOK OF COSMOS

Only one book has been written

and has been written by things and not by words.

Only one book has been written

and has been written by Cosmos through Cosmos for Cosmos.

Cosmos is the book of Cosmos.

Cosmos has no beginning or end

but when the poet reveals Cosmos

it is like creating Cosmos from the beginning.

There is only one book to be read

and this is the book of Cosmos.

To write means to read the book of Cosmos.

All my writings are nothing but underlines in the book of Cosmos.

All my writings are nothing but designs, notes, in the margins of its pages.

To write means to indicate

to try to share with the people

the beauty or the horror I read in the book of Cosmos.

Because nobody endures to read alone the book of Cosmos.

SORROWFUL IS MY SOUL UNTIL DEATH

For on this ancient vase two bodies are beautifully in love

sorrowful is my soul until death.

For at this hotel a taxi is biting this coffin as if it were a cigar

sorrowful is my soul until death.

For these steps lead down the mirror reaching the place where the moon's side-face is buried

sorrowful is my soul until death.

For this world everyone has a home and I am the stranger that has

lost his race and its way

sorrowful is my soul until death.

For I wander outside your womb and outside my grave

sorrowful is my soul until death

Sorrowful is my soul until death.

FROM A CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE DIRECTOR AND THE POET

Alethea (Truth), according to Greek etymology, means that which is never forgettable, which is otherwise, the eternal memory. Memory in Greek is the goddess Mnemosyne. Muses, according to the Greek Mythology, are daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. But the word Zeus in Greek means Life (Zoe). So Muses were born by Life and Memory, by the Living Memory; so Muses for Greeks are the Living Memory, the Living Truth.

The poet must give again to the people, the forgotten Living Truth. He must give again not his private memory or truth, but the Universal Memory or Truth, the Universal Logos of Heracletus, which is the common logos of communication and not the private logos of idiots who create Babel. The poet comes to destroy the personal languages of Babel and restore the one language of universal communication. The poet in order to give the Universal Logos, must abolish his own personality and become the medium, the mouth of Muses who are the goddesses of the Living Truth and the Universal Logos.

SELF-KNOWLEDGE

I look in the sea-mirror

and I see myself the fish.

I look in the heaven-mirror

and I see myself the sun.

(Seaweed is the clouds and the sun a fish)

I look in the heaven-mirror

and I see myself the stars.

The Galaxy is the river of the heavens.

In the waters of the Galaxy I am the fish.

In the waters of the Galaxy

I fish

with a ψ

myself.

__________________

The verb "to fish" in Greek begins by the letter ψ (ψάρι).

THE FERRYMAN WHO HELD ON HIS BACK JESUS CHRIST

Saint Christopher who carried on his backs as various people as

merchants, shepherds, whores, priests, magicians, robbers, demons, beggars, kings;

he could not bear and cross the river holding on his back a child.

He kneeled there, in the middle of the waters.

For who is really able to carry a child on his back?

FABLE

You had in the sky's mirror the sun as your body

It's dark now and you' ve been scattered into stars

"But the sky is a yard and the stars are the seed that I'll pick up at dawn".

Said the rooster and climbed on the back of the dragonian root to roost.

THE LORD OF THE FIRE

(Outfalls of the river Acheloos, 1972)

To Alexandros Ydatis

On the wild lilies is the dew of the foam.

On the black soil is the hoarfrost of the salt.

Where is your house?

The tree skeleton

here on shallows of the sun

and your voice a halcyon in the light.

Your hands over the fire and the falcon

engraving the palm of the wind.

Here the horseshoe and the sheepskin.

Here the woman who recites light

to the birds of sea and sun.

Your horned skull here

on the sand.

Here the oar of Odysseus;

here the folds of your grandfather;

the black soil is soft like the tow

and on the salt hoarfrost the fire is mirrored.

Cowherd-hills come out of the sea

moving as slow as the centuries,

moving as slow as the oxen on the plain

laying on its back, sure and endless.

Here is the remaining window.

What’s the in? What’s the out?

Wherever you look from, here

you always see the sky.

Your hands over the fire and the fire

has been leant, became blood. Mirror yourself!

Into the blood is your ancient shadow.

___________

P.S.

The rotten smell is here. And the fire

is a waving mirror. And there are passing

shadows of oxen in the fire.

Here is the perfume of the sand. Here the salt,

a shirt forgotten by the sea

in its endless taking and giving.

I AM CARRIED AWAY BY A WINTERING FEELING

A wintering feeling toward the hinterlands carries me away

on nights embroidered with fires and fairy tales.

I am carried away by wolves to their dens and by wild boars to oak forests,

to the somnolent darkness of winter quarters,

to the lethargy of thin rain under a rooftop.

I am carried away by a wintering emotion toward the hinterlands, to my roots,

there where the satiated bear

-it thus torn God into pieces-

dressed in its heavy fur and fat

seeks now for the innocence of sleep.

HAPPY SONG

Comes my voice, wind of infinity

Comes my voice laden with

the stars'

Male pollen; it comes

To the flower of your mind.

I come from the bounds of

Some eternity.

With sheepskin and ecstasy

With a daub of moonlight on the brow

and a horn around the waist

With memories of fire and hoarfrost

I come from the bounds of

Some eternity.

I left my footprints in the

Loam of light

Assumed the mine of water

Assumed the slackness of testacea

I nurtured winds and softened sounds

Lived the wolf's ecstasy

Through fire and ice.

I come from the bounds of

Some eternity.

I come from the sidereal desert.

III

I come from the sidereal desert.

I walk in solitude displacing the future.

The springs of illusion run dry, everything parches.

Sand abounds and only sand

Space for hard thinking

Space for speculation and freedom

Space of emptiness and fire.

I come from where you are now proceeding

I come from the sidereal desert

I sprout alone in the wilderness of nations: a mellow

Sun

Heavy with the pollen of wisdom.

__________________________

* The above poems and texts of Y.Y. were used in the documentary of CHRISTOS ARONIS "THE EVER-LIVING FIRE" created for the "ORGANIZATION FOR THE CULTURAL CAPITAL OF EUROPE, THESSALONIKI 1997"

Translation to English: Kimon Friar, Vasso Dermani, Yannis Yfantis, Dolly Dalcas.

OTHER POEMS OF YANNIS YFANTIS

VERSES

Come the coarse mountain winds

wearing the heavy scent of origan and pine,

having one on its sleeve the other on its knee

the argent brightness of their touch upon a cool spring.

Ah, waxing moon and bounded waters!

The coolest form as it flows glibly into the well

articulates with a shiver the reed’s posture.

ΙΙΙ

And the fountain’s aqueous women

raise up their cool bodies and throw

cool words at each other

like their bodies, like their looks.

I EAT AGAIN MY FAVOURITE WILD PEARS

I eat again my favourite wild pears

sour in their wild sweetness.

I eat again my favourite wild pears tasting

something of that

animal freedom as they romp stoutly

in their instinct without

humility of choice. Come then

rekindle, passion, and sanctify my deeds.

Come and save me from

humility of choice. Come.

FOR YOU, JESUS

For you, Jesus, I’ll write a bitter book on soft, sunny tobacco

leaves

while my old man drinks to the fire and our two women

snooze wrapped in a red blanket like the Queen of Hearts

thrown down

on the floor by sleep. For you, Jesus,

I’ll write a bitter book and give it

to the fire to memorize and enact before our sphinx like cat.

STOVE

With whom shall I converse tonight, O stove,

You old iron chimpanzee, my fervent grannie?

Stove with bolts and a door in your belly, stove

Raising a flue for an arm and

Sticking a tortuous fist through the wall. O stove,

Though you have a heart of tin and in your veins

Runs fuel, I know

You are the incarnation of Agnis and offspring

Of Hestia, goddess of home life; I know

You have a kindling soul. Ah, how I love

To hear

Its radiant rumble and

Feel it,

Its blue feet rooted in the fuel,

Doing a naked fling,

Spreading warmth on my body,

My clothing, my books, in the entire

Room, even on ... Ah, stove,

How your spirit comforts me in my cell,

What strength I derive to go on weaving

This cloth of emptiness. But then I fancy

That you too share my feelings;

And though you are devoid of eyes, nose and ears

You have so many holes, you must surely discern

What goes on here and elsewhere,

When up on the roof you swank

About puffing smoke through your hat

and such trickery.

I sense it: you hear, smell, see, know all about

The rain's tender feet, about angels

Dancing and whirling light-

Footed ly with

Snow/lakes, about the mystic

Mist

Which changes the town

Into the dragon’s haunted land. O stove,

You old iron chimpanzee, my fervent grannie:

Stove with bolts and a door in your belly: stove

Raising a flue for an arm and. . . O stove,

Let me turn your heart to zero,

Let me hear, lying in the dark,

Your contraction’s

Rusty formication as it gradually fades out,

And my mind slowly sets, and I’m wholly immersed

In purifying sleep.

WITH INTENSIVE MEMORY OF POWER

I’m afraid, I can ’t go on.

I fear people who pursue

things I painstakingly abandoned.

I fear life, death, opening a window

and not knowing what I’ll find, fear

where a thought might take me,

I'm even fearful of sleep.

What I dispose of when awake comes

to haunt me in my sleep. When up,

I pluck up courage and hold out, but in sleep

I am always divested.

For months an adder has been bleeding my heart —

I never saw it

loose among people and places — saw it

but once in a dream.

It had just let go and crawled distended on its stomach.

I couldn’t move

much as I tried;! couldn't budge

till I woke up.

And so I go from sleep to sleep

seeking to resume this very dream,

hoping that this time with intensive power,

with intensive memory of power, I might be able to move,

and advance.

MAGIC SCENE

And we brought the cauldron on a pole on our shoulders

As the ancients carried slaughtered wild boar, beasts and bears.

And the greenwood observed us with flowers that shimmered

As that mild creature, the Sun, gained height, as the olden

magic card quickened.

And fresh crocuses sprouted where dawn had stepped

On the autumnal footpath. And the awakened ants

Moved groggily around their hills, quiet

As our thoughts, that bending down

You could catch your reflection in their sheen.

We stopped for a breath,

And you went for a piss in the thicket, and the vapour rose

like a reverie,

Like the thicket's prayer to the Sun.

Later,

As we trudged over the bloomy heather, it struck me

That we regarded nothing with disdain, that nothing

Compelled us to feel

Inept compassion, and driven

By finer feelings

we approached or touched

Each one of our bewitched companions (some turned to stone

others took root

and others got nasty).

Such were my thoughts as we cleared the shrubwood and made

for the stream where Death caught us unawares.

Remember Death?

He wore a putrid, fly-infested hog’s hide. Death before the sun.

And the water with its long face mirrored the Sun and washed

Away it’s image. And the horse’s rib

(there in the silt by your feet) tinkled: tense

light-

weight bow of Nothing.

And we brought the cauldron on a pole on our shoulders

And found the workmen turning the cistern’s windlass.

And I wondered if not everything in this world

Derives from the turning of this windlass, if not

Everything is derived for the turning of this windlass.

LESSON

For ten years the Achaeans

stormed Troy —

as spermatozoa storm the ovum

as souls storm the sun

and bats the moon — as

for ten years the Achaeans

stormed Troy.

And in the tenth lucky

leap year

that wretched wooden horse

forced its way in like a penis

and the Achaeans conquered Troy.

So what?

EDENIC

An angel danced and danced and faded out

leaving ash among us and the stream dry

like snake skin on stony ground and the rock charred

as if retaining the shadow of fire, or of this angel.

Persists the smell of molten metal in the memory, persists

that thunder in the blood.

Like heavy breathing the wings reaped time

and the white bones shone in the abyss, undeciphered;

and the sky opened up with all its animals and stars:

prehistoric animals and dewey stars, a sheer delight,

as existed before knowledge, before the fall

from God’s Garden where a bracing bonfire scented your sleep

by the grazing white ox and sun animal,

as the twilight of humanity nestled under the fig leaves

and the butterfly of darkness appeared, wings mottled with the

sun’s eclipse;

and under the sign of Capricorn the woman-apple tree and the

serpent

sliding underarm gave a sudden jerk,

showering you with blossoms and spoiling your sleep.

An angel

danced and danced and faded out

leaving ash among us, in us, everywhere ashes.

WONDER

What perfect goats goats are.

Newborn, and they already know

to a T

all things goatish.

You’d think that they’d been studying goatishness

from the beginning of time.

OR THE CAPE OF AN ANGEL

The woolfell hangs like the pelt of a stellar animal,

or the cape of an angel who in daytime turns to fire in the

blacksmith shops

of Agrinion and at night in the plains of Arcturus

herds with a radiant rod

the mountain spirits.

TINY CREATURS

Tiny creatures, now crawling through the forests of my body,

now scurrying

across an open book, now getting lost

in the desert of my table or the shingly regions of a rock, or

poised

on a flower amassing wisdom and sundust; aquatic

creatures, winged or subterranean, nocturnal creatures,

trinkets of lunar angels bearing the blob of Darkness,

specks of creation and yet with audio-visual antennae of green

and grey; creatures,

some with patched sackcloth on your backs, and others with a

conch

assimilating time, or a medieval shield, or

the horned helmet of a sun brave; tiny creatures,

wings dotted with the stars of memory and red orbs

like shrunken years and numbers, mutations of naught, or

moments-studs on the Gate of Ishtar; diurnal creatures,

trinkets of solar angels bearing the blob of Light; large creatures,

who live and love and die without knowing,

without deigning to know, who I am, where I’m going, what I

look for, sorting out

those black bones of my mind.

THE DEEP GARDEN

And the horse said to me: "Shall we go down?

It’s a deep garden

with sad but friendly trees." And

in the dim, sleepy light

the trees bid me welcome.

"Have you been here long?" I asked.

"Since the time the angel

slipped and we spilt out of his goblet,"

they sighed. And from the murky

waters

sprang a chubby

moon

satiated with spells and sleep; and

echoing its presence ahead

a dry cistern shouted:

"Nail it down

that my tiny poppies might have a drink. Carve

it up

that my marble horses might have a bite. "And

— swish! — a fiery bird dived down and pierced

the moon (the trees

shuddered as though a spear

penetrated their roots), and I

just managed to have a glimpse

of the blue domain of moons,

recalling

the mountain cave where moonmen

moored their ship —

diamond, silver —the crew

forcing a laugh

to illuminate the bridge. And all at once

the trees’ susurro us came to a hush, and an angel

appeared

who plucked the fiery bird from his chest

and planted it in the earth, saying: "Here

you’ll remain

withering and burgeoning unto

forget fulness."

Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas.

DEFINITION

Here I am where the Naught bites its own tail
with pain
and passion
here
in the midst of eternity
at its beginning and its end.

Translated by Yannis Gumas

MACEDONIA, 1981

And we stopped in front of the railroad tracks
in front of the lanterns that were flashing as if they were eyes
of a sacred hawk of the Egyptians while the train
was coming noisy and whistling;
                           an iron drago; it arrived.
It's passing-It's passing -It's passing-It's passing It's passing-It's passing
            -It's passing. It passed, it's gone, an entire era
days-windows, railway coaches-months, an entire era
was going away leaving us
below the eyes of the hawk keeper
as this time cross-section while the sun
was watching us prophetically because in front of us in the plain
the roads were the lines of a hand. Hit the gas
and we are gone riding on our YAMAHA towards the river.

And we reached the place where the river is a hand and is wearing
the bridge as a watch. And the gypsy
was standing there at the river bank near the bridge. You stopped.
And the gypsy was looking at your hand the lines like rivers
spring and pass through the mountains of the palm
before they flow into the sea. And the gypsy
-perhaps your very soul mirrored in the day- the gypsy
was wearing the colours of a pack of cards and had
at her finger the golden number,
                         that is,
the ring that the gypsy king
fished when he threw his hook
in the galaxy.

                              Translated by Apostolis Vlahakis

WRITTEN ADMIRABLY

My typewriter on the table

under the sycamore.

First time I write in a room so vast,

having the sky as roof and hills around, roads, palaces of ants…

But

what of course could I write when it happens

Cosmos to be already written admirably on Cosmos?

TEMPLE OF COSMOS

I’m looking here at an insect on a flower;

it’s a shaman that arrived in the mind, in the sun or

in the sanctuary of a plant,

where the initiates find ambrosia and nectar.

I’m looking here at an insect and I’m thinking

that every being is nothing but a moving or unmoving

hieroglyphic

in to the uncreated temple of Cosmos.

TWO POEMS TRANSLATED IN GERMAN BY DIMITRA VISAITOU

ES LIEGT DARAN, DASS MICH DIE ERKENNTNIS VERGIFTET HAT

Wenn es dazu gekommen ist, daß diese Erde

zu einer entfernten dunklen Provinz wurde;

wenn es dazu gekommen ist, daß diese Welt menschenfeindlich wurde

wenn es dazu gekommen ist, daß dieses Leben zu einem Verdacht des Lebens wurde,

dieses Licht zu einem Verdacht des Lichtes, diese Zeit

eine vergessene Vergangenheit,

dann liegt es daran, daß mich die Erkenntnis vergiftet hat.

Die Erkenntnis war süß im Mund und bitter in den Eingeweiden;

Einst versüßte mir

die Erkenntnis die Eitelkeit; jetzt erlaubt mir

die Erkenntnis nicht einmal, eine Illusion zu kosten.

Die Erkenntnis verwüstete die Erkenntnis; ich habe nichts mehr,

woran ich meinen Kopf lehnen kann. Und ich denke

an Lazarus, der, wie erzählt wird, nichts sagen wollte,

sondern in seinen Grabgewändern noch gewickelt

nur nach Wasser verlangte,

damit er seine vergifteten Eingeweide ausspüle.

BUCH KOSMOS

Es ist nur ein Buch geschrieben worden

und es ist mit Dingen und nicht mit Wörtern geschrieben worden.

Es ist nur ein Buch geschrieben worden

und es ist vom Kosmos mit dem Kosmos für den Kosmos geschrieben worden.

Der Kosmos ist das Buch des Kosmos.

Ein Ende hat der Kosmos nicht, noch einen Anfang;

doch der Dichter, indem er den Kosmos enthüllt,

erschafft ihn wie aus dem Anfang.

Es gibt nur ein Buch zu Lesen

und dies ist das Buch des Kosmos.

"Ich schreibe" heißt, ich lese das Buch des Kosmos.

All meine Schriften sind nichts a1s nur Unterstreichungen im Buch des Kosmos;

all meine Schriften sind nichts als nur Notizen, Zeichnungen

auf den Rand seiner Seiten.

"Ich schreibe" heißt, ich zeige den Menschen,

daß ich mit ihnen die Schönheit

oder das Grauen zu teilen versuche, welche ich im Buch des Kosmos lese.

Weil kein Mensch es aushält, das Buch des Kosmos allein zu lesen.

Efessos, Tempel der Artemis, 1988 n.Chr.

ΠΡΟΣΔΙΟΡΙΣΜΟΣ (ΑΠΟ ΤΗ ΣΥΛΛΟΓΗ ΜΑΝΘΡΑΣΠΕΝΤΑ) ΙΣΠΑΝΙΚΑ ΚΑΙ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ

ΠΡΟΣΔΙΟΡΙΣΜΟΣ

Να 'μαι εδώ που το Μηδέν δαγκώνει την ουρά του
με ηδονή
______και πόνο
να 'μαι
στο μέσον της αιωνιότητας
στην αρχή και στο τέλος της.

ΣΟΜΠΑ (ΑΠΟ ΤΗ ΣΥΛΛΟΓΗ ΜΑΝΘΡΑΣΠΕΝΤΑ) ΡΩΣΙΚΑ ΚΑΙ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ

ΣΟΜΠΑ

Με ποιόνε απόψε να μιλήσω Σόμπα
Γριά μου χιμπατζίνα σιδερένια ζεστή μου γιαγιά
Σόμπα με βίδες και με πόρτα στην κοιλιά σου Σόμπα
Που υψώνεις το βραχίονά σου από μπουριά και
Μπήγεις τη ζαρωμένη σου γροθιά στον τοίχο, Σόμπα
Κι αν είναι τενεκένια η καρδιά σου και στις φλέβες σου
Τρέχει πετρέλαιο ξέρω πως
Είσαι ενσάρκωση του Άγνι και απόγονος
Της σπιτικής θεάς Εστίας και ξέρω πως
Είναι η ψυχή σου από φωτιά· α πόσο χαίρομαι
Σόμπα ν' ακούω εκείνο το
Λαμπαδολαμπάδιασμα της ψυχής σου και
Να νοιώθω την
Με τα γαλάζια της ποδάρια ριζωμένα στο πετρέλαιο να χορεύει
Τη φλόγινη γύμνια της
Απλώνοντας τη ζέστα στη σάρκα μου, σ' όλη
Την κάμαρά μου ακόμα και...α Σόμπα
Πόσο με συντροφεύει η ψυχή σου εδώ μες στο κελί μου
Πόσο μου δίνει δύναμη να υφαίνω
Το κάλυμμα ετούτο του κενού· και βέβαια συ
Θαρρώ με νοιώθεις σ' όλα ετούτα Σόμπα
Τι κι αν δεν έχεις μάτια, μύτη ή αυτιά
Έχεις κι εσύ δα τόσες τρύπες, κάτι ξέρεις
Κι όχι μονάχα από τούτα μα κι απ' τ' άλλα
Τα μακρινά κι έξω απ' το σπίτι όταν
Απάνω στην ταράτσα μου καμώνεσαι
Πως βγάζεις μες απ' το καπέλο σου καπνό και τέτοια κόλπα
Το νοιώθω, ακούς, μυρίζεις, βλέπεις, ξέρεις για
Τα τρυφερά ποδάρια της βροχής, για τους αγγέλους
Που χορεύουν και στροβιλίζοντ' α-
λαφροπατώντας με
Νιφάδες χιονιού, για το αίνιγμα
Της ομίχλης
Στην πόλη που γίνετ' η
Στοιχειωμένη χώρα του δράκοντα. Σόμπα
Που υψώνεις το βραχίονά σου από μπουριά και... Σόμπα
Άσε με τώρα να γυρίσω την καρδιά σου στο μηδέν
Άσε ν' ακούω ξαπλωμένος στο σκοτάδι
Της συστολής σου εκείνο το
Σκουριασμένο μερμήγκιασμα π' όλο χάνεται,
Ενώ ο νους μου βασιλεύει και ολόκληρος
Βουλιάζω μες στον ύπνο κι εξαγνίζομαι.

______________________Θεσσαλονίκη 1974

ΧΑΡΟΥΜΕΝΟ ΤΡΑΓΟΥΔΙ (ΑΠΟ ΤΗ ΣΥΛΛΟΓΗ ΜΑΝΘΡΑΣΠΕΝΤΑ) ΙΤΑΛΙΚΑ ΚΑΙ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ

ΧΑΡΟΥΜΕΝΟ ΤΡΑΓΟΥΔΙ

_____I

Έρχεται η φωνή μου άνεμος του απείρου.
Έρχεται η φωνή μου φορτωμένη την
______________αρσενική
Γύρη των άστρων· έρχεται
Στο λουλούδι του νου σου.

_____ΙΙ

Έρχομαι από την άκρη μιας
Αιωνιότητας.
Με προβιά και με έκσταση
Μ' ένα κομμάτι σεληνόφωτο στο μέτωπο
______________και μ' ένα κέρατο στη ζώνη
Με μνήμες από πάχνη κι από φωτιά
Έρχομαι από την άκρη μιας
Αιωνιότητας.
Άφησα τα χνάρια μου πάνω στον
Πηλό του φωτός.
Φόρεσα τη θωριά του νερού.
Φόρεσα τη δυσκινησία των οστρακόδερμων.
Βόσκησα τους ανέμους κι εξημέρωσα τους ήχους.
Έζησα του λύκου την έκσταση
Μπροστά στον πάγο και στη φωτιά.
Έρχομαι από την άκρη μιας
Αιωνιότητας.
Έρχομαι από την έρημο των άστρων.

_____ΙΙΙ

Έρχομαι από την έρημο των άστρων.
Μοναχικός βαδίζω ερημώνοντας το μέλλον.
Στερεύουν οι πηγές της πλάνης τα πάντα ξηραίνονται.
Πλούσια απλώνεται η άμμος και μονάχα η άμμος
Χώρος για περισσότερη σκέψη
Χώρος για περισυλλογή κι ελευθερία
Χώρος του άδειου και της φωτιάς.
Έρχομαι από κει όπου πηγαίνετε
Έρχομαι από την έρημο των άστρων.
Μοναχικός φυτρώνω μες στην έρημο των λαών. Ώριμος
Ήλιος
Γέρνω από γύρη σοφίας.

ΠΑΡΑΜΥΘΙ (ΑΠΟ ΤΗ ΣΥΛΛΟΓΗ Ο ΚΑΘΡΕΦΤΗΣ ΤΟΥ ΠΡΩΤΕΑ) ΣΛΑΒΟΜΑΚΕΔΟΝΙΚΑ ΚΑΙ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ

ΠΑΡΑΜΥΘΙ

Είχες μες στον καθρέφτη τ' ουρανού τον ήλιο σώμα σου
βράδιασε πιά και κομματιάστηκες σε άστρα.
"Κι όμως ο ουρανός είναι αυλή και τ' άστρα σπόροι
που εγώ θα τους μαζέψω την αυγή".
Είπε ο κόκκορας κι ανέβηκε στη ράχη της δρακόντιας ρίζας να κουρνιάσει.

ΣΤΟ ΠΑΝΗΓΥΡΙ ΤΟΥ ΟΣΤΕΡΜΟΝΑΘ
(ΑΠΟ ΤΗ ΣΥΛΛΟΓΗ ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΑ ΚΕΝΤΗΜΑΤΑ) ΕΒΡΑΪΚΑ ΚΑΙ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ

ΣΤΟ ΠΑΝΗΓΥΡΙ ΤΟΥ ΟΣΤΕΡΜΟΝΑΘ

Navies στο αέρα visae sunt
στα 763 μ.Χ. Φωνάζουν
θέλουν να πείσουν ότι είναι ποιητές. Μα μόλις
μιλήσει ο ποιητής ακούς να λένε:
"Πως δεν τα είδαμε αυτά; Πως δεν τα είπαμε;" 'Η λένε
"Θα 'χει εντρυφήσει σε βιβλία μαγικά, παράξενα, θα ξέρει γλώσσες". Κι ούτε καν
υποψιάζονται πώς όλα είν' απλά: Ο ποιητής
πήγε στο πανηγύρι του Οστερμόναθ, και...

α πηδηχτείτε που θα πω σε σας
τι έκανε ο ποιητής στο πανηγύρι του Οστερμόναθ.

______________________Θεσσαλονίκη 1979

ΒΙΒΛΙΟ ΚΟΣΜΟΣ (ΑΠΟ ΤΗ ΣΥΛΛΟΓΗ ΝΑΟΣ ΤΟΥ ΚΟΣΜΟΥ) ΑΡΑΒΙΚΑ ΚΑΙ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ

ΒΙΒΛΙΟ ΚΟΣΜΟΣ

Ένα βιβλίο μόνο έχει γραφτεί
κι έχει γραφτεί με πράγματα κι όχι με λόγια.

Ένα βιβλίο μόνο έχει γραφτεί
κι έχει γραφτεί από τον Κόσμο με τον Κόσμο για τον Κόσμο.

Ο Κόσμος είναι το βιβλίο του Κόσμου.

_____*
Τέλος δεν έχει ο Κόσμος ούτε αρχή*
μα ο ποιητής αποκαλύπτοντας τον Κόσμο
είναι σα να τον φκιάχνει απ' την αρχή.

_____*
Υπάρχει μόνο ένα βιβλίο να διαβαστεί
και τούτο είναι το βιβλίο του Κόσμου.

_____*
Γράφω θα πει διαβάζω το βιβλίο του Κόσμου.
Όλα μου τα γραφτά δεν είναι παρά μόνο υπογραμμίσεις στο βιβλίο του Κόσμου·
όλα μου τα γραφτά δεν είναι παρά μόνο σημειώσεις, ζωγραφιές,
στα περιθώρια των σελίδων του.

Γραφω θα πει πως δείχνω στους ανθρώπους
πως προσπαθώ να μοιραστώ μαζί τους
την ομορφιά ή τη φρίκη που διαβάζω στο βιβλίο του Κόσμου.

Γιατί κανένας δεν αντέχει να διαβάζει μόνος το βιβλίο του Κόσμου.

ΕΠΙΣΚΕΨΗ(ΑΠΟ ΤΗ ΣΥΛΛΟΓΗ ΝΑΟΣ ΤΟΥ ΚΟΣΜΟΥ) ΚΙΝΕΖΙΚΑ ΚΑΙ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ

ΕΠΙΣΚΕΨΗ

Τον επισκέφτηκα μια γκρίζα μέρα
γκρίζα σαν ασημένιο νόμισμα παλιό.
Πάτησα το κουμπί του ασανσέρ για ρετιρέ.
Αυτή η ανάληψη. Τον βρήκα
μες σε βυζαντινά εικονίσματα . Θυμούμαι
την κόκκινη κουβέρτα όπου ξάπλωνε
Κ' είχε προσκέφαλό του μια φωλιά από πέρδικα. Δεν ξέρω
αν υπαινίσσονταν μ' αυτό πως το κεφάλι του
Είναι το θείο αυγό ή πως φορούσε
ενα στεφάνι από ξερά αγριοχόρταρα. Του είπα
"τα πάντα ματαιότης και μου απάντησε
"όλα, κ' η ματαιότης δηλαδή". Και πήγα τότε
μπρος στον καθρέφτη και κοιτάχτηκα. Παράξενο.
Μοιάζαμε τόσο εγώ κι εκείνος που τον ρώτησα:
"Μην είσαι τάχα ο Πατήρ κ' είμ' ο Υιός;". Κι αυτός μου είπε:
'Όλα τούτα
νόμισμα είναι. Κ' η Αλήθεια
είναι η θεία άλη, είναι η πλάνη των θεών. Παράτησέ τα".

ΠΟΙΗΜΑ ΣΤΑ ΣΕΡΒΙΚΑ

ΑΠΟΣΠΑΣΜΑ ΑΠΟ ΤΟ ΠΟΙΗΜΑ ΕΡΧΟΜΑΙ (ΝΑΟΣ ΤΟΥ ΚΟΣΜΟΥ) ΑΓΓΛΙΚΑ, ΒΟΥΛΓΑΡΙΚΑ, ΓΑΛΛΙΚΑ, ΓΕΡΜΑΝΙΚΑ, ΦΙΝΛΑΝΔΙΚΑ ΚΑΙ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ

ΕΡΧΟΜΑΙ

Δεν ξέρω αν ο Ρίτσος ή ο Όμηρος
είναι που μ' έπεισε να μπω στον Δούρειο Ίππο
έχοντας μόνο ένα σπαθί κι έναν καθρέφτη.

Έρχομαι από την έρημο εκεί όπου ή άμμος
είναι ή συντριβή κάθε μορφής.

Έρχομαι από τις Άρκτους, κουβαλώντας
ένα τσουβάλι άστρα και κρατώντας
στο χέρι μου μια μάσκα φεγγαριού.

Έρχομαι απ' το καλύβι το πλεγμένο μ' αστραπόκλαδα.
Έρχομαι από 'να σπίτι καμωμένο από καθρέφτες.

Έρχομαι απ' το φαράγγι το κυρτό όπως σπαθί
μισό από χιόνι και μισό από λουλούδια.

Έρχομαι από τις όχθες του βουνίσιου ποταμού
εκεί που καταρράχτες ασκητές
στέκονται όρθιοι μες στα πέτρινα πιθάρια.

Έρχομαι απ' το Βορρά· με παγοπέδιλα
δυο μισοφέγγαρα γλιστρούσα διαρκώς
πάνω στα χιόνια τρεις χιλιάδες χρόνια.

Έρχομαι απ' των Τατάρων τις ορδές· είμαι ο στρατιώτης
πού 'σφαξε τον Αττάρ κ' είμαι επίσης
ο ίδιος ο Αττάρ και το μαχαίρι πού τον έσφαξε.

Έρχομαι απ' το μαύρο γαλαξία των μυρμηγκιών που παρασέρνει
μια πεταλούδα πεθαμένη σα να είναι
ιστιοφόρο αγγέλου σα να είναι
ο Ίκαρος μετά από την πτώση του.

Έρχομαι απ' την Ελλάδα που με χέρι
την Πελοπόννησο ξαμώνει και σκορπά
γύρω της τα νησιά για να μην είναι
μόνη της απλωμένη μες στη θάλασσα.

Έρχομαι από την τρύπα ενός σάπιου κλωναριού
όπου ιερουργούσα με στολή άγριας μέλισσας
είτε φορούσα άμφια πεταλούδας.

Έρχομαι από το σούρουπο εκει
της Θετταλίας, οπού βόσκησα
για χίλια χρόνια ένα κοπάδι από φωτιές.

Έρχομαι απ' το βιβλίο του Αναξίμανδρου· σ' αυτό
βρίσκομαι πάντα όπου κι αν πηγαίνω.

Με ρώτησαν από που έρχομαι.
________Τι να τους έλεγα;
Δεν θα με καταλάβαιναν
________και τότε
θα μ' οδηγούσανε δεμένο στον ψυχίατρο.

"Έρχομαι" είπα, έτσι απλά, "απ το Αγρίνιο",
κρύβοντας μες τη λέξη αυτή όσο μπορούσα
το "άγριος", το "νι", και προ παντός
το "ο", πού 'ναι πηγάδι και παγίδα,
σπίτι μου και καθρέφτης και λαβύρινθος (μα ναι
ο πιο πολύπλοκος λαβύρινθος κι ας φαίνεται
τόσο απλό, ένα μικρό δαχτυλιδάκι).

______________________Θεσσαλονίκη 1994

________________
_____Μεταφραστές: Στα ισπανικά Δάφνη Αλεξάνδρου - Αντόνιο Μπενέϊτο, στα ρωσικά Σόνια Ιλίνσκαγια, στα ιταλικά Σαντζίλιο Κρεσέντσιο, στα σλαβομακεδόνικα Πασκάλ Γκίλεφσκι, στα εβραϊκά Ράμι Σάαρι, στα αραβικά Χάσαν Μπαντάουι, στα κινέζικα Γουεϊ Χο, στα σερβικά Ιβάν Γκαζάνσκι, στα αγγλικά Ντόλυ Νταλκά, στα βουλγάρικα Στέφαν Γκέτσεφ, στα γαλλικά Ζαν-Κλώντ Βιλλαίν - Κωνστάνς Ντιμά, στα γερμανικά Γιώργος Λίλης - Μάρθα Ρουσάκι, Nίκη Αντενάουερ, στα φινλανδικά Ρέγια Τάννινεν.

POETRY ON THE ROAD: FROM THE GERMAN ANTHOLOGY

“…selten in unserer Zeit haben wir das Glück, solche dichten, wesentlichen Verse zu lesen, die darüber hinaus so genau in der Ausdrucksweise sind“, schrieb bereits 1980 der grosse griechische Dichter Jannis Ritsos über die Gedichte von Yannis Yfantis.

Yannis Yfantis ist ein guter Kenner der Vorsokratiker, ein Bewunderer der griechischen, aber auch der östlichen Mythologie und Übersetzer zahlreicher Dichtwerke aus verschiedenen Sprachen.

Yannis Yfantis ist kein Schreibtischdiechter. Auf seinen vielen Reisen sammelt er Bilder, Eindrücke und Weisheit die er sich zu eigen macht und in Dichtung verwandelt. Seine Gedichte sind exzentrisch und h und oft surrealistisch, man merkt ihnen an, dass sie der Ertrag einer unermüdlichen und ununterbrochenen Lebensaufgabe sind; seine Lyrik wird kontrovers diskutiert - wobei gerade die anerkanntesten Dichter Griechenlands ihn uneingeschränkt bewundern.

Yfantis Wurde 1995 in Kairo der „Kavafis - Preis“ verliehen. Einzelne Gedichte von ihm wurden in verschiedene Sprachen der Welt übersetzt und in literarischen Zeitschriften publiziert. Hauptwerke u.a.: Manthraspenta; Der Spiegel des Proteus; Zeichen unsterblicher Erinnerung; Gedichte-Stickereien auf des Teufels Haut; Archetypen; Das Ideogramm der Schlange; O Eros, du allsiegender Gott!; Die Verwandlungen der Null (Eine Gesamtausgabe seiner edierten und unedierten Werke).

Niki Eideneier

KLEINE WESEN

Kleine Wesen, die ihr euch in den Wäldern meines Leibs verheddert oder durch mein

offenes Buch rennt oder verloren geht

im Chaos meines Tisches oder im Moos eines Felsens, oder die ich auf einer Blume entdecke, wenn ihr Weisheit sammelt und Sonnenstaub; Wasserwesen,

Erdwesen oder Federwesen, Wesen der Nacht

Spielsachen der Mondengel, auf eurer Haut der Stempel des Dunkels,

Körnchen der Schöpfung, die ihre doch auch Antennen tragt des Untertons

und Radarempfänger des Grünen oder auch des Graus, Wesen,

manchmal mit einem Bräunlichen geflickten Sack geschultert und ein andermal

mit einer Muschel um den Hals Ebenbild der Zeit oder mit einem mittelalterlichen

Schild oder

mit der Hörner tragenden Maske eine Sonnenkriegers; kleine Wesen,

wo doch auf euren Flügeln die Sterne sitzen der Erinnerung und auch rote

Kreise, kleine Jahre und Zahlen, Verwandlungen der Null oder

Momente, die Nägel sind auf dem Tor der Ischtar eingeschlagen; Wesen des Tages,

Spielsachen dr Sonnenengel mit dem Stempel des Lichts, grosse Wesen,

die ihr euch verliebt und sterbt ohne zu wissen

ohne wissen zu wollen, wer ich bin, wohin ich gehe und was ich will,

indem ich hier diese schwarzen Knochen meines Denkens aufreihe.

Aus: „Manthraspenta“, 1977

MEINE SEELE IST BETRÜBT BIS AN DEN TOD

Warum lieben sich auf dieser Vase zwei Leiber so armutig