Ποιήματα

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock
T S Eliot



Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair -
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin -
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all -
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all -
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all -
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" -
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all."
That is not it, at all.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor -
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

​

 

The Naming of Cats
T S Eliot

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

​

 

Απάντηση: Ποιήματα

Οταν θα λειψω,να ακους τις σιωπες των ηχων στην οχλοβοη...Ειναι τα λογια μου που ταξιδευουνε στο χρονο ορφανα απ`τι σωμα.(Αγνωστου)

 

Απάντηση: Ποιήματα

Mεχρι στα ματια σου βλεπουν τα ματια μου...Επειτα πες μου που να σε χωρεσω-τοσο πελωρειος που εισαι-σε ποια χρονια,σε ποιες ασσυληπτες μερες....Ευχαριστω tender Lilly!

 

Απάντηση: Ποιήματα

Σα να τανε φτιαγμενοs για το κεφι σου ο κοσμοs ζησε λεs και τον εχουνε ξομπλιασει για την αφεντια σου μονο.Μα μην το λησμοναs πωs δεν εισαι αλλο απο μια χουφτα χιονι στην αμμουδια στρωμενο μια δυο μερες που θα λιωσει. ΟΜΑΡ ΚΑΓΙΑΜ .

 

Αρνάκι άσπρο και παχύ,
της μάννας του καμάρι,
Εβγηκεν εις την εξοχή,
και στο χλωρό χορτάρι.

 

Απάντηση: Re: Ποιήματα

Λυκος μαυρος κ λιανος,του πατερα του ντροπη... 

 

Re: Απάντηση: Re: Ποιήματα

Μπηκεν εις την οικια,
και στο ξερο αχυρο. 

 

Απάντηση: Ποιήματα

Η πουλημένη μούσα


Ω Μούσα της καρδιάς μου, που τρέχεις στα παλάτια,
θα 'χεις, σαν ο Γενάρης του Βοριά λύσει τ' άτια
και με τις μαύρες πλήξες νύχτες με χιόνια ερθούν,
δαυλό, τα μελανά σου πόδια να ζεσταθούν;

Και θα σου αναθερμάνουν τους ριγηλούς τους ώμους
οι αχτίδες που θα ρίχνουν στο τζάμι σου τ' αστέρια;
Και νιώθοντας της πείνας, φτωχή μου, εσύ, τους τρόμους,
χρυσάφι θα μαζέψεις απ' τα γαλάζια αιθέρια;

Αχ, πρέπει το ψωμί σου κάθε βραδιά να βγάλεις!
Και, σαν παπαδοπαίδι το θυμιατό κουνώντας,
χωρίς να τα πιστεύεις, τα Te Deum να ψάλλεις,

ή σα γυμνή χορεύτρια και νηστικιά, γελώντας,
το δάκρυ σου να κρύβεις, που αθώρητο αργοστάζει,
για να μπορεί ο χυδαίος, μπροστά σου να καγχάζει.​

Μπωντλαίρ,
Μετ. Γιώργης Σημηριώτης​

.

 

One day στη λιακάδα
sitting on the πρασινάδα
where the flowers ανθούσαν
αnd the horses χλιμιντρούσαν
say ο Μήτρος to Κρουστάλλω
-Do you μ' απατάς με άλλο;
κι η Κρουστάλλω σαν το hear
τηνε πιάνει μέγας fear
because τό'πε η Μαγδάλω
ότι did it μ' ένα Γάλλο.
αnd the girl πονηρεμένη
lay down σα πεθαμένη
-Μήτρο μ' if you don't believe me
με το καριοφύλι kill me.
and the Μήτρος πού'ταν θύμα
την επίστεψε the βλήμα.

 

"Εγώ είμαι" μου είπε "μη φοβάσαι
κείνα πού 'ναι γραφτό να πάθεις".
Και το χέρι το δεξί τεντώνοντας
μού 'δειξε μες στην απαλάμη του τα εφτά βαθιά χαράκια:
"Τούτες είναι οι θλίψες οι μεγάλες
και αυτές θα γραφτούν στο πρόσωπό σου
όμως εγώ θα σου τις σβήσω με το ίδιο ετούτο χέρι
που τις έφερε".

(Ελύτης, Μαρία Νεφέλη)

 

Απάντηση: Re: Ποιήματα

το είχα ξεχάσει το συγκεκριμένο απόσπασμα... εξαιρετικό
να 'σαι καλά dora