Yannis Ritsos:

A Selection from the Forties

The selection from Yannis Ritsos' poetry that follows is not
so much representative as it is indicative. It is meant to point to
certain aesthetic tendencies and conceptual structures that have
characterized Ritsos' work from the very beginning of his literary
activity until today. In that sense, at least, the eight poems pub-
lished here can be said to constitute an exemplary selection.
The Editors
58
JOURNAL OF THE HELLENIC DIASPORA
MEZANYXTA
Meyikri &atpocpsyytat Sairiovta4 to ?up& T./1G yOxca,
( 3111trca,TC06 xXifiouy thy incvo aou,
nock Elm ouit6; 6 iaxtoc TCOU iivel3alvat aT6 =Pave
%,613orca.; aTix Sub 'Stywittapa;
Nticrca, [la Ito.roatnai.ca , 6 xp6tocaxavS&Xri;-
tb at& TV4p.ca toff nopdcOupou,
oE xcaaapfaeg azek TV X7 C mita= xat, at& xpivli 'taw cpav-cipcov.
Ti xpeccgetataup,n6vLo& nt,24 tou apayycyto5;
'AXXot. Tpunibaocy a764 wrcchoraa, try; Acra,q,
axxot pircItoy at& opipsTpcc scat -cigt,Saliouv,
&AXot ni)pco to last8c6: tou -cocp.stou xoct napacuaav tb x( Bp.c& -mug,
a,13.cbc 6 axUXo; not') [Lag Uxocas yaul4st ndc.Xt at6 cpeTy&pc,
coU; cppoupob atac ttaxpLy& cpuVosLa,,
npdmil Expribl TcyciCec tb yepOpc,
tiatepa of rcap-cec .z4ouv, ate rot& atixst tb a7 C6ancasp,ce,
niptouve to cpavdcpcot vapo6puTccdcxotiye-ccu .76 acptiptypa To
TpaEvou
Scat/of nilece bp6p.ot xisEvoyta,t, dm' 'a; X6yxec.
sOrcthf3p7ig 1941
Y annis Ritsos: A Selection f rom the Forties 59
MIDNIGHT
A great starry night showing its bear claws,
foreign footsteps stealing your sleep,
what is this shadow climbing on the ceiling
cutting the room in half ?
Footsteps, a motorcycle, the trigger's sound
the lantern through the windowpanes,
the cockroaches in the soldiers' shoes and helmets.
What's the use of the moon's compassion now?
Some have hidden in the trunks of the night,
some have entered the coffins and travel,
some have taken the cashier's keys and surrendered their earth,
and this dog that forgot us barks again at the moon,
awakens the sentries at the distant watchtowers,
the first explosion blows up the bridge,
then the doors creak, at the corner stands the squadron,
the street lamps fall face down and the train's whistling is heard
when all five roads are closed by the bayonets.
Athens, October 1941
60
JOURNAL OF THE HELLENIC DIASPORA
MATA I QMENH AIIOIAEH
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sc4( bvst 76 My xop7dcpc ytirmTotic TriXsypc4cpotok a7aoug-
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zalMaouv.
Y annis Ritsos: A Selection f rom the Forties61
POSTPONED DECISION
Old winds have replaced us on the bare plains.
Everything is so old and this lamp lighting a faded seascape
and the bed's shadow falling obliquely on the floor
and the clothes thrown on the chair
the dead man abandoned them down here.
And you, what are you seeking so persistently
extending your hands as if pulling the ropes of a ship gliding
into the unknown?
The wind encircles the lights of the city, torments the trees,
uproots the little grass around the telegraph poles
large shadows pace on the cobblestones,
each man has a piece of ice in his heart,
the soldiers wrap themselves with their jackets,
the guard's feet freeze at the watchtowers.
Well, you know it. Yet what's the use of knowing?
The matches got wet too you can't light your cigarette.
Now the smoke
stands voiceless over the kiss that burned
like the smoke staying on the horizon above the ship that
vanished.
What signal flickers over the spread-out map
in the wooden barracks? Outside the rain
lashes at the desolate camp,
smothers that bugle which had called the names one by one,
moistens the benches in the gardens. The children have no
place to sit.
62
JOURNAL OP THE HELLENIC DIASPORA
Eva 7 CC7 COtkat ILOG.ttoplvo arts 3p6p.o.
"Eva 7c66t swayi.ivo st6 rcouto6tcst..
Keucoco; TrIciBast a'rc' cb mpieupo. T1 ap6o.
6[1,wc av gapapvsc Tb x6pc .c6 plumo erne
Oa '4v:sae; slIzoAcc tib TeXetnato TcapiOupo.
Mat eruotutp6 sou
sa' 6 xaepicp-rti;
p.i -c6v mixt6 oUpav6 ITivou ciTC' Xarca sou % 0GTC \get.
svocyeg 5aoXa'spinaaril v6rca.
Mck Yaw; abyt vck 6slec gva mavo6pyto npdaonco
xocOcbs 0' avo6youv Tat nav4o6pta06pu43o,
Yaw;a6yil. T6 CpC.OTELV 6 TETpirovo crc6 icaTow.a.
Tat xipteAa coG xpePaTto0 kaxpucsoviva. "Eva ataspcoplvo
vouxittwo.
K' w crs6 6p6p.o Iva natat no6 6wacast Ta npeirca AA-tivcx6:
atacp6).m.
Map-al; 1942
Y annis Ritsos: A Selection f rom the Forties63
A bloodstained shoe in the street.
A foot stuck in the shoe.
Someone leaps out of the window. What cold.
Yet if you brought the hand to the forehead he said
you'd have found the last window easily. And opposite you is
the mirror
with the thick sky over the lamp that smokes.
You'd easily have made a hole in the night.
But perhaps dawn will reveal a new face
as the shutters will open noisily,
perhaps the dawn. The shining square on the floor.
The bed's headboard gilded. An ironed shirt.
And outside in the street a child crying out the first Greek grapes.
Athens, March 1942
JOURNAL OF THE HELLENIC DIASPORA
H TEAEYTA I A TEA. EKATONTA ET I A
Ka-clicp6ptsavaxtattiva xt-abvta, ph TcaAtat v-coucpixtot
atxtoG tixop,t aTb yuAt6 SExo.); atpottpec.
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7 C/a0.) T O D C .
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a,AA0C%si Tcdtvou gva Tcbat gym xipc
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p.atxr5mtaXa, 7 C7 P7 pCLCG % Mt axtspivec sTittotiec.
Tat TCapecOupcc xXetvotv Tat ildt-ctot TOOg. Tat TVcilta Si piyyay.
Eatv ToUg TutpAotic. Kot-cotisav %at& [Lisa.
"Eftpexs Suvwcat stst'vepipsg. Tb Tcotallt 5tot-ciflatve
.c14 cr-c6ye; attic Aotixtot atTc' Tat Aothaa Trot% ap6p,ou;
at7c6 xei cs-coO; OTcOvoloug x,' licrcepa mat Siv fiEspec.
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Y annis Ritsos: A Selection f rom the Forties65
f rom THE LAST ONE HUNDRED YEARS BEFORE MAN
They ran downhill in torn jackets, with old guns
without bread in their knapsacks without bullets.
Only with small angry rivers did they blockade the passages
behind them.
They had marched for months on unfamiliar stones
on the snow together with their olive groves and vineyards
up there some left a leg a hand
some a big piece of their souls
each left one or more dead.
Then they returned with wounds and frostbites
they buried their guns in the rocks, the snow, the hollows
of trees
the barn, in between the roof and the ceiling, in the dark
warehouse
leading to the back of the night with a small oil lamp of
patience.
The locked door creaked as teeth gnash in the told.
The snow melted. Big rivers came down in the night
along with bones, caps and tattered flags.
The windows shut their eyes. The windowpanes didn't shine.
Like blind men. They looked inward.
It rained hard those days. The river came down
the roofs into the drainpipes and from the drainpipes into the
streets
and from there into the sewers and then you didn't know where.
A fresh ashen line of the unknown remained
in the city in the night even in sleep.
Outside 'the locked room in the common corridor
just on top of the door planks, a dead man
standing always, leaned his back against the door,
back to back if you had opened he'd have collapsed.