Thanassis Papakonstantinou / Θανάσης Παπακωνσταντίνου

I have no mask to wear to this carnival
only a net to gather the sea’s craftiness
and silence’s wealth

(twice)
Strike well, strike hard, a sugared shot of the rifle
and let the gallery feel the violence of the battle of confetti

Trash, the thought, I discard it, logic I renounce
with a secret and prolonged remorse for roads I did not attempt
at daybreaks I forget myself

Hold onto the mind, hold onto the mind to keep it from griping about the weather
it which made a clique with pain and is stingy towards sweetness

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Bάστα το νού, βάστα το νου να μην γκρινιάξει του καιρού
πού ‘φτιαξε με τον πόνο κλίκα και τσιγκουνεύεται στη γλύκα

At Magellan’s fires,
at Mount Voras’s mast
and on the child’s knee
the same thing changes
and covers the voices.

At the sky’s galaxies
and inside my brain
the same thing is hiding,
breathing lightly
watching and waiting.

Στους γαλαξίες τ’ ουρανού
και στο μυαλό μου μέσα
το ίδιο πράγμα κρύβεται,
ανάλαφρα ανασαίνει
κοιτάει και περιμένει.

When, seeping from the tiredness
its opium is, heavy and sweet,
in its embrace a deep sleep seize
bringing a taste of souls’ breeze.

My empty places, the fields of dreams,
sand grains and orphaned wake water streams.

The sleeping souls become again
innocent children on a time’s train.
Over the curtain of their eyelids
raving and raging are the time’s winds.

My empty places, the fields of dreams,
sand grains and orphaned wake water streams.

While getting ready to step in a dream,
you leave behind you the earthly scene,
all temples and shrines that you have built,
of virtues and dark sins a patchy quilt.

My empty places, the fields of dreams,
sand grains and orphaned wake water streams.

Άδειοι μου τόποι, όνειρα,
κόκκοι της άμμου απόνερα.

The day goes by, who steals it
I knew but I forgot
The ones that worked and the ones that tried
Threw away the dirty clothes

And you my evening star
You blend with the sunset
Guileless are your eyes
Don’t lower them

The cities are always dancing
In a circadian rhythm
The lights lit up to catch up
With the unstable of the night

And you my evening star
You blend with the sunset
Guileless are your eyes
Don’t lower them

Our steps are without our will
Expensive gifts
For those that stay and wait
At nightfall for a hug

And you my evening star
You blend with the sunset
Guileless are your eyes
Don’t lower them

They will come again in the darkness
Distant flickers
To whisper, to remind
Three times in a row

Μες στο σκοτάδι θα ‘ρθουν πάλι
μακρινές μαρμαρυγές
να ψιθυρίσουν να θυμίσουν
τρεις απανωτές φορές

Insomnia, you untouchable beast
without affection – not a little grain.
To a soul thirsty for a mirage you tilt
your cup, always empty, to hope in vain.

And I am having a white sleepless night,
foggy as a Sunday drizzle.
I know why at my anguished ears
you jump and lick them as a bitch.

You don’t love! Your fleas you shed off -
faraway sounds that come and talk.
Insomnia, a cacophonous player,
screeching hosannas for an elite folk.

Insomnia, hellish monster.
a churning fire is your kiss,
leaving a taste of an iron bar,
one of those ripped off old ships.

I asked my dog Riva if he feels
Greek, native or something relative.
He yawned and returned to his sleep
and his breathing was beautiful like a wave on the shore.
Ey-oh! F- fascism.*

I turn to the wild rosebush and ask her the same question,
if she feels Greek, bathed by the light.
“I took a staff for life, and for death a staff,”
the red blossom on her branch answers me.
Ey-oh! Fascism is rotten.

(translation: Eva Johanos)
[*F- _____ can also be understood as a sarcastic expression meaning "some kind of _____!"- in other words, not impressed]

A kiss which I tasted
of the waste of darkness
it could be that I dreamed it,
it could be that I took it.

For days I had it on me
wrapped in my lips
it was an offering of intoxication
and hidden torment.

The shoddy kisses of dizziness
I will put aside
and a sober kiss
I will come to ask from you.

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Της ζάλης τα φτηνά φιλιά
στην άκρη θα τ’ αφήσω
κι ένα φιλί αμέθυστο
θα ‘ρθω να σου ζητήσω.

I don’t want the songs I wrote
to ignite lighters
I would like them to rip open the fronts
to open craters

Beneath the tongue
dogs tied
thousands of words
I will not be able to stand you
you will not be able to stand me
painlessly

My words, my secret afflictions and my notes
excavate me first
I didn’t come to see the good things about me
for them to lick the time

If I am unworthy, may they be given for me
the mercy of oblivion
On the horns of the bull I was born
that may be to blame

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Ανάξιος αν είμαι, να μου δοθούν
της λήθης τα ελέη
Στα κέρατα του ταύρου γεννήθηκα
αυτό μπορεί να φταίει

One night a wrestler wind
will come from far away,
oh, you, alas
you won’t be able to sleep
once you breath him in
he will have thyme in his hair
oh, you, alas
cornels for ear rings
and in his mouth will roam
oh, you, alas
rhetorical pebbles

He’ll come down as a lord
oh, you, alas
he’ll come down as a wolf
to get colour and life
oh, you, alas
the garden of solitude
the little honeybees will turn
oh, you, alas
around the armchairs
and the crystal water
oh, you, alas
will flow from the screens

Wind, be avenging
oh, you, alas
be playful also
and if my little soul grows weary
oh, you, alas
then come and take it away
so that it watches from up high
oh, you, alas
the world’s indolence
let it be forgotten like the mountains’
oh, you, alas
snow from last year

Αέρα να ‘σαι τιμωρός, βρε αμάν αμάν
να ‘σαι και παιχνιδιάρης
κι αν βαρεθεί η ψυχούλα μου, βρε αμάν αμάν
να ‘ρθεις να μου την πάρεις,
για να κοιτάει από ψηλά, βρε αμάν αμάν
του κόσμου τη ραστώνη,
να ξεχαστεί σαν των βουνών, βρε αμάν αμάν
το περσινό το χιόνι.

The place where I grew up nurses a secret grievance:
that the sea did not consent to wash its soil.
But for all that, I know that the ocean’s black wave
takes you right into the deep, or all the way to China,
A! and to America, together with Marika, Dousia and Kostis.
The place where I grew up nurses a secret grievance:
that the sea did not consent to wash its soil.
But for all that, I know that the ocean’s black wave
takes you right into the deep, or all the way to China,
A! and to America, together with Marika, Dousia and Kostis.

I watch them inside my eyes, on the old ship,
clinging to the deck like barnacles, all the emigrants:
mute women, unspeaking, saving their strength,
little children who do not realize what road they are walking.
A! Those were heavy cargoes, in the old days, leaving for America.

The curly hair of Katsaros flies in the wind
as he looks backwards to the place of his birth.
The wind brings to his ears beloved songs
that he used to play on his guitar, it has brought them to me too,
A! and to America, together with Marika, Dousia and Kostis.

And as the ragged ship unloads in the harbour,
the foreign policemen will stack them in rows.
Some will find their way and thrive,
and others will never quench their thirst until they die.
A! In America… Greece, like a wild weed, you took root there too.
I watch them inside my eyes, on the old ship,
clinging to the deck like barnacles, all the emigrants.

Και σαν το κουρελόβαρκο αδειάσει στο λιμάνι,
θα τους στοιβάξουν στη σειρά οι ξένοι πολισμάνοι.
Άλλοι θάχουν τον τρόπο τους και θα ευδοκιμήσουν
και άλλοι ως να πεθάνουνε τη δίψα δεν θα σβήσουν.
Α! στην Αμερική Ελλάδα σαν αγριόχορτο φύτρωσες και κει.
Τους βλέπω μες τα μάτια μου μες το παλιό βαπόρι
σα στρείδια στο κατάστρωμα οι μετανάστες όλοι.

With the drinking guests was I, celebrating the day
When suddenly a strong man took me out of my chair.
He beat me, whirled me around as if I was a bit of trash.
At the waterfalls of the heavens was I baptized again.

The city where I grew up sent me her kisses.
Only my sweetheart was missing because she was braiding zigres in her hair.
Brass from Goumenissa and from Gida songs played on the clarino,
and from Agiasso old men danced silently.

Near me my prophet, the little sly operator of the neighborhood,
held a primer and had March in his hand.
He opened his book to the first page.
The letters leapt out and became birds

And Joseph who was passing by- whether by fate or by chance-
pulled from his ear and gave to me a carpenter’s pencil.
“Take it and write, my boy with your good hand
whatever your soul longs for on the empty paper.”

On the Jordan I was- or maybe on the Asmaki-
and I wrote with the left- empty life- calm and with love:
“Ah, if I were only better, ah, if I weren’t a liar
and if I were not afraid of the big invitation.”

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Στον Ιορδάνη ήμουνα –η μήπως στο Ασμάκι;-
κι έγραψα με τ’ αριστερό –άδεια ζωή- ήρεμα και μ’ αγάπη:
«Αχ, να ‘μουνα καλύτερος, αχ, να μην ήμουν ψεύτης
και το μεγάλο κάλεσμα να μην φοβούμουνα».