Katerina Gogou / Κατερίνα Γώγου

With a shattered head
from the vise of your bartering
at the peak hour
and against the current
I will start a big fire

And there I will throw
all the Marxist books
so that Myrto will never learn
the causes of my death

You can tell her
that I couldn’t bear the Spring
or that I crossed on red
yes… that’s more believable

On red that’s what to say
on red … on red
that’s what to say…

Yes… that’s more believable
On red that’s what to say
on red … on red
that’s what to say…

On red on red
on red.

(translation: Eva Johanos
From the composer, referring to the poet Katerina Gogou: “Until 53 she bore this world… then she left. October 3rd, 1993.”
From a wonderful ~ and heartbreaking ~ collection of Gogou’s poems set to music, “Katerina Gogou, Up and down Patission Street ~ The views of loneliness in Katerina Gogou and 20 of her poems set to music”. . .)

One morning I’ll open the door
and I’ll get out into the streets, like I did yesterday.
And I will be thinking of nothing else
but that one piece from the father and the piece from the sea,
those only pieces that they ‘ve left me with.
And the city, the city that they ‘ve left to rot.
And our friends that have been lost.
One morning I’ll open the door
straight, dead straight into the fire
and I will get out as yesterday,
shouting at them “fascists”,
erecting barricades and throwing rocks,
with a red banner held high, shining in the sun.
I’ ll open the door
and it’s not that I fear,
but, you see, I wanted to tell you that I didn’t make it on time
and that you need to learn
not to be descending to the streets without any weapons as I did,
because I didn’t make it on time,
because then you will disappear as I disappeared into vagueness,
broken into little pieces made of sea, childhood years and red banners.
One morning I’ll open the door
and I will vanish away with the dream of revolution
within the infinite loneliness of the streets on fire,
within the infinite loneliness of the paper barricades,
bearing by them a label, that you should not believe,
“Provocateur”.

Ah, my companion, how we miss you. . .

The time has become filled with worms
nuclear tests, popular fronts,
bordellos and multinationals,
they don’t allow us to love.

Ah, my companion, how we miss you. . .

You know it, what is there for me to tell you.
And afterwards they got together on it.
In China, January of ’77, they slaughter workers

Ah, my companion, why weren’t you careful
why weren’t you more careful?

Here, the same. They hide in their shells, the people.

Ah, if you only knew, companion, what a heavy load we carry. . .
In that way you appear a little weak, you crossed over

Ah, my companion, why weren’t you careful
why weren’t you more careful?

Ah, my companion who did not betray us
we are living in a barbarous world. . .

(translation: Eva Johanos
*”Katerina Gogou, Up and down Patission,” (book with cd), published by Odos Panos, 2012.”The views of Katerina Gogou on loneliness, and 20 of her poems set to music”,’a selective publication dedicated to the poet and actress Katerina Gogou, [1940-1993])

Let’s go, my beauty, there where dawn is breaking, on the peaks
Let’s go, my beauty, there where dawn is breaking, on the peaks
vapor of blue and pink
vapor of blue and pink

Let’s go there where naked girls are galloping on wild horses
their hair blowing in the wind
their hair blowing in the wind
and on them climb peach tree blossoms
and on them climb peach tree blossoms
and red stars
and red stars
and red stars

Ah, Holy Virgin, my Myrto
Ah, Holy Virgin, my Myrto
no one has loved you more
no one has loved you more
like one Katerina, the child
like one Katerina, the child

I hear only the rain
I hear only the silence
on a burnt earth
on a burnt earth
on a burnt earth

(translation: Eva Johanos)

My friends are black birds
who seesaw on the terraces of houses that are ready to collapse
Exarcheia, Patission, Metaxourgeio, Mets*
They do whatever
Sell recipe books and encyclopedias
They fix roads and unite deserts
Interpreters at the cabarets of Xenon**
Professional revolutionaries
They crowded them, before, and took them down
Now they take pills and alcohol in order to sleep
but they have dreams and do not sleep

My friends are black birds
My friends are tight wires

My friends are tight wires
on the terraces of old houses
Exarcheia, Victoria, Koukaki, Gyzi
On them you have hung millions of iron clothespins
items of your guilt,
decisions of congress,
borrowed suits,
cigarette burns
curious migraines,
threatening silences
vaginal infections
they fall in love with homosexuals
trichomonads
delay
the telephone
broken glass
the ambulance
No one…

My friends are black birds
My friends are tight wires

They do whatever
they are always traveling, my friends
because you have not left them a hand’s breadth of space
All of my friends paint with black
because you have ruined red for them
They write with the language of slogans
because yours is only good for flattery***
My friends are black birds and wires
at your neck, on your hands
My friends. . .

My friends are black birds
My friends are tight wires

(translation: Eva Johanos
*Exarcheia, etc: neighborhoods of Athens
**Xenon: street named for ancient philosopher or Byzantine emperor (474-491 ACE)
***flattery: the expression here is “licking,” or sycophancy)

When you wake up in the morning
and you won’t find, on the floor
pills, a sweater and a bra
and you will slam the door loudly
without hearing behind you my hysterical “shut up!”
don’t start to cry and go looking to find me
in my childhood picture which regards you. I never saw.
Neither in my idiotic writings. I have told you lies.
I always told you
that they are beautiful, people, colors, and music.
Count only the salaries I earned
and with this you will learn how I lived.
Count, then, our rent
there was never enough for me to pay it.
And how much light I burnt
searching to find a way.
Then go off to ask from your father
for the last time money
and give my debts.
Afterwards wash your face
and don’t let anyone tell you
what became of your mother.
Only beneath those
ridiculous receipts
make one of those suns that only you have in your mind
and beneath it
write with your funny childish letters
paid paid paid

(translation: Eva Johanos)

A time will come when things will change.
Remember that Maria.
Remember Maria when you have a break that game
where we ran a relay, passing the cane
-don’t look at me- don’t cry. You are the hope
listen there will come a time
when the children will choose their parents
they will not come out by chance
There will be no closed doors
with people doubled over outside
And work
we will choose it
we will not be horses for them to examine our teeth.
People- think of it!- will speak with colors
and others with musical notes
Just keep
in a big bottle with water
words and meanings like these
unsuitable- pressure- loneliness- honor- profit- humiliation
for the history lesson.
They are, Maria- I don’t want to tell lies-
difficult times.
And more will come.
I don’t know- don’t expect a lot from me-
so much I lived so much I learned so much I say
and from everything I have read one thing I hold onto well:
What is important is to stay human.”
We will change life!
Even with all of that Maria.

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Θαρθεί καιρός που θ’ αλλάξουν τα πράματα.
Να το θυμάσαι Μαρία.
Θυμάσαι Μαρία στα διαλείμματα εκείνο το παιχνίδι
που τρέχαμε κρατώντας τη σκυτάλη
– μη βλέπεις εμένα – μην κλαις. Εσύ είσ’ η ελπίδα
άκου θάρθει καιρός
που τα παιδιά θα διαλέγουνε γονιούς
δε θα βγαίνουν στην τύχη
Δε θα υπάρχουν πόρτες κλειστές
με γερμένους απέξω
Και τη δουλειά
θα τη διαλέγουμε
δε θά ‘μαστε άλογα να μας κοιτάνε στα δόντια.
Οι άνθρωποι – σκέψου! – θα μιλάνε με χρώματα
κι άλλοι με νότες
Να φυλάξεις μοναχά
σε μια μεγάλη φιάλη με νερό
λέξεις κι έννοιες σαν κι αυτές
απροσάρμοστοι-καταπίεση-μοναξιά-τιμή-κέρδος-εξευτελισμός
για το μάθημα της ιστορίας.
Είναι Μαρία – δε θέλω να λέω ψέματα –
δύσκολοι καιροί.
Και θάρθουνε κι άλλοι.
Δεν ξέρω – μην περιμένεις κι από μένα πολλά –
τόσα έζησα τόσα έμαθα τόσα λέω
κι απ’ όσα διάβασα ένα κρατάω καλά:
«Σημασία έχει να παραμένεις άνθρωπος».
Θα την αλλάξουμε τη ζωή!
Παρ’ όλα αυτά Μαρία.