1992

Going into business
An agreement of your bombast
You’d love my bed
You took the other instead
But don’t you feel low
I was being oblique
And you’d love my bed
You got the other instead

What do you owe me?
The price of your piece of mind
You’d love my bed
you took the other instead.

“1992” by DAMON ALBARN

 

DESIRES

Ok then, let’s forget future and talk about desires
(dedicated to all friends)

DESIRES

Like beautiful bodies of the dead who had not grown old

and they shut them, with tears, in a magnificent mausoleum,

with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet –

this is what desires resemble that have passed

without fulfillment; with none of them having achieved

a night of sensual delight, or a bright morning.

C .P.CAVAFY

THANK YOU FOR SUPPORT!!!

 

Human conditions

reminds something…

Words by raining pleasure.

 

DUST IN THE WIND

Destruction

On the sand the great works of the human race are built,
and like a little child Time wrecks them with his foot.

K. Karyotakis 1927

 

A CLERK

The hours have faded me, found once again
leaning across the thankless table.
(The sun slips through the window in the wall that
faces me, and plays.)

Doubled up, I grope for breath
in the dust of all my papers.
(Life pulses sweetly and its thousand voices rise
from the freedom of the street.)

My eyes and mind are weary and disturbed,
but still I write.
(I know that in the vase beside me are two glowing lilies.
As if they’ve come up from a tomb.

K. KARYOTAKIS

 

A POEM

What I fear most
is becoming “a poet”…
Locking myself in the room
gazing at the sea
and forgetting…

I fear that the stitches over my veins might heal
and, instead of having blur memories about TV news,
I take to scribbling papers and selling “my views”…
I fear that those who stepped over us might accept me
so that they can use me.

I fear that my screams might become a murmur
so that to serve putting my people to sleep.
I fear that I might learn to use meter and rhythm
and thus I will be trapped within them
longing for my verses to become popular songs.

I fear that I might buy binoculars in order to bring closer
the sabotage actions in which I won’t be participating.
I fear getting tired – an easy prey for priests and academics –
and so turn into a “sissy”…

They have their ways …
They can utilize the routine in which you get used to,
they have turned us into dogs:
they see to us being ashamed for not working…
they see to us being proud for being unemployed…
That’s how it is.
Keen psychiatrists and lousy policemen
are waiting for us in the corner.

Marx…
I am afraid of him…
My mind walks past him as well…
Those bastards…they are to blame…
I cannot -fuck it- even finish this writing…
Maybe…eh?…maybe some other day…

Poetry by Katerina Gogou

 

ITHACA

According to this great 1911 poem…

only the journey counts!

Ithaca Today

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

pray that the road is long,

full of adventure, full of knowledge.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

the angry Poseidon – do not fear them:

You will never find such as these on your path,

if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine

emotion touches your spirit and your body.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,

if you do not carry them within your soul,

if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.

That the summer mornings are many, when,

with such pleasure, with such joy

you will enter ports seen for the first time;

stop at Phoenician markets,

and purchase fine merchandise,

mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

and sensual perfumes of all kinds,

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

visit many Egyptian cities,

to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

But do not hurry the voyage at all.

It is better to let it last for many years;

and to anchor at the island when you are old,

rich with all you have gained on the way,

not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

Without her you would have never set out on the road.

She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Poetry by C. P. Cavafy

 

…STILL HOPE!

Written by an African child and was nominated poem of 2005 for the best poem.

ENJOY!

When I born, I Black,
When I grow up, I Black,
When I go in Sun, I Black,
When I scared, I Black,
When I sick, I Black,
And when I die, I still black,

And you White fella,

When you born, you Pink,
When you grow up, you White,
When you go in Sun, you Red,
When you cold, you Blue,
When you scared, you Yellow,
When you sick, you Green,
And when you die, you Gray,
And you calling me Colored ?

….AND OF COURSE THERE’S NOTHING ELSE TO BE SAID.