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), チテチヤマ editions, Sofia, 2000

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

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

Temple du Monde, éditions L辿armattan, 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








         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.






   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.






            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



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






            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.






            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稚 know if it was Ritsos or Homer
 who convinced me to enter the Wooden Horse
 carrying only a sword and a mirror.
 I知 coming from the desert where the sand
 is the crush of every form.
 I知 coming from the Ursas, carrying
 a sack of stars, holding
 a moon-mask in my hand.
 I知 coming from the hut, plaited with
                              branches of thunder.
 I知 coming from a house made with mirrors.


I知 coming from the arched, like a sword, ravine,
 half filled with snow, half filled with flowers.
 I知 coming from the banks of the mountainous river
 where ascetic waterfalls
 stand erect in the stony jars.


I知 coming from the North; with half-moons as
 skates, continually sliding
 on the snow for three thousand years.
 I知 coming from the hordes of Tatars; I知 the soldier
 who slaughtered Attar and I知 Attar as well
 and the knife that slaughtered him.
 I知 coming from the black galaxy of ants
 that sweeps away a dead butterfly like
 an angel痴 sailing-ship
 like Ikaros after his fall.
 I知 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知 coming from the hole of a rotten bough
 where I致e been saying mass in a wild-bee痴 uniform
 or wearing butterfly痴 vestments.
 I come from the dusk
 of Thessaly, where I shepherded
 a flock of fires for a thousand years.
 I知 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.


的知 coming I said, plainly, 吐rom Agrinio,
 hiding, as much as I could,
 the word 殿grios(**), the 渡, and most of all
 the 登, 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:






            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.






            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.






            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.






            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




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





            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?






            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.






            (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痴 the in? What痴 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.





            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.






            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.




            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


            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.











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痴 posture.



And the fountain痴 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

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, I値l write a bitter book on soft, sunny tobacco


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値l write a bitter book and give it

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






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


Which changes the town

Into the dragon痴 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痴

Rusty formication as it gradually fades out,

And my mind slowly sets, and I知 wholly immersed

In purifying sleep.






I知 afraid, I can 稚 go on.

I fear people who pursue

things I painstakingly abandoned.

I fear life, death, opening a window

and not knowing what I値l 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稚 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.






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.


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痴 hide. Death before the sun.

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

Away it痴 image. And the horse痴 rib

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


                                  weight bow of Nothing.


And we brought the cauldron on a pole on our shoulders

And found the workmen turning the cistern痴 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.






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?






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痴 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痴 eclipse;

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


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.






What perfect goats goats are.

Newborn, and they already know

to a T

all things goatish.

You壇 think that they壇 been studying goatishness

from the beginning of time.






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 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


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


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知 going, what I

            look for, sorting out

those black bones of my mind.






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

It痴 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


sprang a chubby


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,


the mountain cave where moonmen

moored their ship

diamond, silver 葉he crew

forcing a laugh

to illuminate the bridge. And all at once

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


who plucked the fiery bird from his chest

and planted it in the earth, saying: "Here

                     you値l remain

withering and burgeoning unto

                     forget fulness."


             Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas.







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


 Translated by Yannis Gumas





 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






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


what of course could I write when it happens

Cosmos to be already written admirably on Cosmos?





I知 looking here at an insect on a flower;

it痴 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知 looking here at an insect and I知 thinking

that every being is nothing but a moving or unmoving


in to the uncreated temple of Cosmos.









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.






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.


ミムマモトノマムノモフマモ (チミマ ヤヌ モユヒヒマテヌ フチヘネムチモミナヘヤチ) ノモミチヘノハチ ハチノ ナヒヒヌヘノハチ


ヘ '硅 裝 フ鈕ン 蓊肚裨 鈿 ワ
ン 銓 硅鵈鉚碪
鈿 碵゙ 硅 ン 銓.

モマフミチ (チミマ ヤヌ モユヒヒマテヌ フチヘネムチモミナヘヤチ) ムルモノハチ ハチノ ナヒヒヌヘノハチ


フ 鵈 碣 鴉゙ モ
テ鰤 鴈磑赱 鱠褥ン鱆 趺゙ 肓矼鰤
モ 籬蒟 硅 鈿 鴉鰤 モ
ミ 裨 糂磔゚ワ 碣 鰤 硅
ブ肄鶯 趁ン 胝韜ワ ゚, モ
ハ 硼 裃硅 褊裲ン鱆 碵蓚ワ 硅 鶯 ン粢
ヤン裨 襁ン硅 ン
ナ゚硅 褊ワ 「肬 硅 碣胥
ヤ銓 鴟鳰゙ 韃ワ ナ゚碪 硅 ン
ナ゚硅 ゙ 碣 鰤キ 矚硅
モ ' 碎 裲裃
ヒ碆砌碆ワ蓚碯 銓 ゙ 硅
ヘ 顋 鈿
フ 聶ワ跌 銓 葆鱆 鱶ン 襁ン硅 裨
ヤ 肓 鱆 銓
チ碪 赧 ワ , '
ヤ鈿 ワ碵ワ 碎 硅... モ
ミ 裨 ゙ 裝 褪 褄゚
ミ 葹裨 碆 矚
ヤ ワ 襁 褊キ 硅 籖粃鱆
ネ碵 韃鶯 ' 襁 モ
ヤ 硼 蒟 ン裨 ワ鱆, ゙ 磆鰤
ク裨 褫 蓊 褪 褪, ワ ン裨
ハ ワ 碣 碣' ' ワ
ヤ 碎鳫ワ ン 碣' ゚ 硼
チワ 鈿 碵ワ 碆褫硅
ミ 粤ワ趺鶯 褪 碣' 碣ン 碣 硅 ン鱆
ヤ 顋, 碎, ゚趺鶯, 粱ン裨, ン裨 肓
ヤ 褥ワ 葆鱆 銓 糂゙, 肓 矼聨
ミ 硅 粳゚跣' -
ヘ鴕ワ蒟 鴆鴆, 肓 矚鱚
ヤ銓 ゚銓
モ鈿 聲襁'
モ鴒裨ン 蓴ワ. モ
ミ 裨 糂磔゚ワ 碣 鰤 硅... モ
「 脉゚ 鈿 碵蓚ワ 鈕ン
「 ' 碎 碣ン ワ蓚
ヤ銓 ゙ 裲裃
モ鱆ン 褥゙肚鱆 ' ワ襁硅,
ナ 粃鴉裨 硅 銖
ツ鰤踵 褪 褓矼゚跣硅.

______________________ネ褫硴゚ 1974

ラチムマユフナヘマ ヤムチテマユトノ (チミマ ヤヌ モユヒヒマテヌ フチヘネムチモミナヘヤチ) ノヤチヒノハチ ハチノ ナヒヒヌヘノハチ

ラチムマユフナヘマ ヤムチテマユトノ


ク襁硅 ゙ ワ褌 碣裃.
ク襁硅 ゙ ン 鈿
テ ワキ ン襁硅
モ 蓚 .


ク硅 碣 鈿 ワ 鱆
フ 粳ワ 硅 ン碯
フ' ン ワ 褄鈿 ン
______________硅 ' ン ン磑
フ ゙褪 碣 ワ 碣 鰤
ク硅 碣 鈿 ワ 鱆
「銛 ワ鱆 ワ
ミ鉈 .
ヨ褫 顋鰤 褥.
ヨ褫 蔟鳫銛゚ 碎蒟.
ツ銛 硼ン 褓銕ン ゙.
ク跚 鈿 ン碯
フワ ワ胥 硅 鰤.
ク硅 碣 鈿 ワ 鱆
ク硅 碣 鈿 ン銕 ワ.


ク硅 碣 鈿 ン銕 ワ.
フ磔鳰 粃葹踵 褥銕碪 ン.
モ褥 鈬ン 銓 ワ銓 ワ 銖矚硅.
ミ鱆 碣襁硅 ワ 硅 ワ ワ
ラ 肓 褥鴣褥 ン
ラ 肓 褥鴣聳 褄襄韃゚
ラ ワ蒟鴆 硅 銓 鰤.
ク硅 碣 裨 鈬矚襁
ク硅 碣 鈿 ン銕 ワ.
フ磔鳰 褪 鈿 ン銕 . ソ鴈
テン 碣 ゚碪.

ミチムチフユネノ (チミマ ヤヌ モユヒヒマテヌ マ ハチネムナヨヤヌモ ヤマユ ミムルヤナチ) モヒチツマフチハナトマヘノハチ ハチノ ナヒヒヌヘノハチ


ナ゚褪 褪 礪ン ' 硼 ゙鴆
糂ワ蓚碯 鰤 硅 磑鰤鉤褪 ワ.
"ハ 硼 裃硅 磆゙ 硅 ' ワ
裙 鞦 礦ン 鈿 磆聳".
ナ゚ 碪 硼ン粡 ワ 銓 蓴碎鱆 ゚趁 鰤裨.

モヤマ ミチヘヌテユムノ ヤマユ マモヤナムフマヘチネ
(チミマ ヤヌ モユヒヒマテヌ ミマノヌフチヤチ ハナヘヤヌフチヤチ)
ナツムチレハチ ハチノ ナヒヒヌヘノハチ


モヤマ ミチヘヌテユムノ ヤマユ マモヤナムフマヘチネ

Navies 矍 visae sunt
763 .ラ. ヨワ跣
鞏 裃 裃硅 鱸ン. フ 鶯
鴉゙裨 鱸゙ 碎 ン:
"ミ 蒟 裃蓊 磆ワ; ミ 蒟 裃碆;" 'ヌ ン
"ネ '裨 褊゙裨 粳粱゚ 矼鳰ワ, 碵ワ褊, 鞦 ン裨 肭褪". ハ 硼
鰤跣硅 裃' 碣ワ: マ 鱸゙
゙肄 硼鈬 マ褥礪, 硅...

鈕銷裃 鞦 碪
ン硼 鱸゙ 硼鈬 マ褥礪.

______________________ネ褫硴゚ 1979

ツノツヒノマ ハマモフマモ (チミマ ヤヌ モユヒヒマテヌ ヘチマモ ヤマユ ハマモフマユ) チムチツノハチ ハチノ ナヒヒヌヘノハチ

ツノツヒノマ ハマモフマモ

ク 粳粱゚ ン裨 胝磋裃
ン裨 胝磋裃 ワ冐磑 肓.

ク 粳粱゚ ン裨 胝磋裃
ン裨 胝磋裃 碣 ハ ハ 肓 ハ.

マ ハ 裃硅 粳粱゚ ハ.

ヤン 蒟 ン裨 ハ 碵゙*
鱸゙ 碣硴碪 ハ
裃硅 鰤裨 碣' 鈿 碵゙.

ユワ裨 ン 粳粱゚ 蓚矮碯裃
硅 裃硅 粳粱゚ ハ.

テワ 鞦 裨 蓚矮ワ踵 粳粱゚ ハ.
シ 胝磋ワ 蒟 裃硅 碵ワ 胝碆゚裨 粳粱゚ ハキ
胝磋ワ 蒟 裃硅 碵ワ 銕裨裨, 踵胝磋鰡,
褥鳧鱆 褄゚蕀 .

テ磋 鞦 裨 蒟゚ 硼頌
礪 鴦碯 礦゚
鈿 鰤 ゙ ゚ 蓚矮ワ踵 粳粱゚ ハ.

テ鱆゚ 硼ン碪 蒟 硼ン裨 蓚矮ワ趺 粳粱゚ ハ.

ナミノモハナリヌ(チミマ ヤヌ モユヒヒマテヌ ヘチマモ ヤマユ ハマモフマユ) ハノヘナニノハチ ハチノ ナヒヒヌヘノハチ


ヤ 褞鴣ン鉤 鱆 肚゚趁 ン
肚゚趁 硼 碯銕ン鴆 鴣 硴鵈.
ミワ銛 ゚ 碯硼ン 肓 襁鴦ン.
ヂ 硼ワ鋩. ヤ 糂゙
褪 糢趁鳫ワ 裨゚磑 . ネ硅
鈿 鳫 籖 ワ
ハ' 裃 ン硴 鱆 鰤 碣 ン蓚. ト褊 ン
硼 硅゚硼 ' 磆 褻ワ
ナ゚硅 韃゚ 磆腋 ゙
褊 褻ワ 碣 褥ワ 矼鴆碵. ヤ 裃
" ワ 磑硅銓 硅 碣ワ銛
", ' 磑硅銓 蓍砌゙". ハ硅 ゙聶
礪ン 硅 鴟ワ鉤. ミ碵ワ褊.
フ鰤趁 裙 裲裃 銛:
"フ鈿 裃硅 ワ ミ磑゙ ' 裃' ユ鵈;". ハ 磆 裃:
鴣 裃硅. ハ' ヂ韃鱆
裃硅 韃゚ ワ, 裃硅 ワ 韃. ミ碵ワ銛ン ".

ミマノヌフチ モヤチ モナムツノハチ

チミマモミチモフチ チミマ ヤマ ミマノヌフチ ナムラマフチノ (ヘチマモ ヤマユ ハマモフマユ) チテテヒノハチ, ツマユヒテチムノハチ, テチヒヒノハチ, テナムフチヘノハチ, ヨノヘヒチヘトノハチ ハチノ ナヒヒヌヘノハチ




ト褊 ン 硼 ム゚ ゙ シ銖
裃硅 ' ン裨 ト裨 コ
ン碪 ン 礪゚ ン硼 礪ン.

ク硅 碣 鈿 ン銕 裲裃 ゙ ワ
裃硅 ゙ 鰾゙ ワ韃 ゙.

ク硅 碣 鶯 「, 粃碪
ン 籤 ワ 硅 磑碪
ン 鱆 ワ 裙聶鴆.

ク硅 碣' 硴粳 裙ン ' 碯碣砌.
ク硅 碣 ' ゚ 碆ン 碣 礪ン褪.

ク硅 碣' 碵ワ聽 礪゚
鴣 碣 鵈 硅 鴣 碣 蓚.

ク硅 碣 鶯 韃 糀゚鴆 碆
裲裃 磑碵ワ褪 碯鉚ン
ン硅 韜 褪 ン鳫 鳧ワ鱆.

ク硅 碣' ツワキ 矼ン蓚
蔟 鴣ン聽碵 肭鴣 蓚碵
ワ 鵈鱆 裨 鴉鰤蒟 鱆.

ク硅 碣' ヤ磑ワ 鶯 萬キ 裃硅 磑銓
'碚 チワ ' 裃硅 褞゚銓
゚蓚 チワ 硅 磔矚 ン碚.

ク硅 碣' 聶碚゚ 鈬 碵碯ン裨
鱆 襁硴蓊 裴碆ン 裃硅
鴣鴆 矼聨 裃硅
コ碵 襁ワ 碣 鈿 .

ク硅 碣' 鈿 ナワ蓊 ン
鈿 ミ褄銛 碆裨 硅 ワ
銓 銛鰤 肓 鈿 裃硅
銓 碣ン 褪 鞋碯.

ク硅 碣 鈿 褊 ワ鴆 碵鴆
鱧胥 ゙ ワ胝鱆 ン鴣碪
裃 ワ鱆 襁硴蓊.

ク硅 碣 裲裨
銓 ネ襁硴゚碪, 紆銛
肓 ゚鱆 鱆 ン ワ蓚 碣 鰡.

ク硅 碣' 粳粱゚ チ碚゚硼蓴キ ' 磆
糂゚硅 ワ 硼 鈬矚.

フ 銛硼 碣 ン硅.
________ヤ ン裙;
ト褊 鞦 磑硴ワ粃鳫硼
鞦 ' 蓍胥硼 蒟ン ゚磑.

"ク硅" 裃, ン 碣ワ, "碣 チ胝゚鴆",
糀碪 褪 ン 磆゙
"ワ胝鴆", "", 硅 硼
"", '硅 鈬ワ蓚 硅 矼゚蓊,
゚ 硅 礪ン銓 硅 矮鳫韵 ( 硅
鴆 矮鳫韵 碪 矚襁硅
碣, ン 鳰 蓊鱠ワ).

______________________ネ褫硴゚ 1994

_____フ襁磋碯ン: モ 鴣硼鳰ワ トワ チ褓ワ蓴 - チ鴆 フ褊ン, 鳰ワ モ鱆 ノ゚矼鱆, 鴟硴鳰ワ モ硼赱鴆 ハ褫ン鴆, 矮碎裝鳰 ミ碯ワ テ゚褻, 裘磅ワ ムワ モワ碵, 碵矮鳰ワ ラワ硼 フ硼ワ, 鳫ン跌 テ褝 ラ, 褥粳ワ ノ籤 テ礦ワ, 矼肭鳰ワ ヘ ヘ硴ワ, 糀聢鳰 モン硼 テン褻, 聶鳰ワ ニ硼-ハ ツ鴉矚 - ハワ ヘ鴈ワ, 肄硼鳰ワ テ胥 ピ銓 - フワ鞦 ムワ, N゚ チ褊ワ褥, 鳫硼蓚ワ ムン肓 ヤワ鳫褊.





套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 Кavafis - 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, 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: Мanthraspenta, 1977






Warum lieben sich auf dieser Vase zwei Leiber so armutig

meine Seele ist betrübt an den Tod.


Warum beisst in diesem ein Taxi an diesem Sarg, als wäre er eine Zigarre

meine Seele ist betrübt an den Tod.


Warum steigen jene Stufen im Spiegel hinab und erreichen so den Ort, wo die

Seitenansicht des Mondes begraben liegt

meine Seele ist betrübt an den Tod.


Warum haben in dieser Welt alle ihr Heim und bin nur ich der Fremde, der seinen Stamm verloren hat und auch seinen Weg

meine Seele ist betrübt an den Tod.


Warum irre ich mich ausserhalb deiner Gebärmutter und ausserhalb meines Grabs

meine Seele ist betrübt an den Tod.

meine Seele ist betrübt an den Tod. 


Aus: Дer Spiegel des Proteus, 1986






Mir Kommt zu Ohren die Menschen

sehr häufig an Infarkt sterben

oder an Hirnplatz finden, Ja, sie finden keinen Parkplatz.

Jemand, einer mit dem amtlichen ABCDHGIKLM


hat ganz Frankreich abgesucht, nichts hat er gefunden,

er stieg die Alpen hoch, nichts, fuhr hinunter nach Italien, kam

bis zum Ätna, der Vulkan

vollständig besetzt, fuhr nach Rom, Venedig, erreichte da oden

Belgrad, kam nach Skopje, fuhr durch

bis Istanbul, endlich

fand er etwas in Kurdistan und parkte hoch oben

auf einem Baum.

Doch das war der Baum des Himmels

da parken nur die Toten


Aus: Фnter de Ikone der Sterne, 2006






Mein Leib, ich sorge so gut es geht für dich

ich wasche dich, füttre dich, tränke dich, lege dich schlafen,

ich gewähre dir Genüsse und ich trimm dich

dass du stramm und biegsam und leichtfüssig bleibst.

Ich färbe dir den Bart, putze dir kräftig die Zähne,

schneide dir die den Nägel, ich führe dich

vor solche Wesen, die sich dir überlassen, ohne dich zu kontrollieren.

Mein Leib, ich sorge für dich so gut es geht.

Bis der grosse Fremde kommt, der Offizier, der Herrschen des Himmels

um dich wie ein Sackleinen wegzuziehen und somit

die Enthüllung der Leere zu vollbringen.


Aus Уempel der Welt, 1996




Die hier abgedruckten Gedichte sind diversen Bänden entnommen und wurden extra für poetry on the road von Niki Eideneier übersetzt. Abdruck mit freundlicher Genehmigung




Αναφορワ στην ισπανικ゙ ιστοσελ゚δα :


ナミノモヤムマヨヌ モヤヌヘ チムラノハヌ モナヒノトチ