An Essay on the Structure of the Human Imaginative

Excerpt

The fact that these writings fulfilled a certain role–above all a
mnemonic one–never entailed the creation of a universally binding
dogma, nor did it give rise to a great religious reformer. Neither
Homer nor Hesiod ever occupied such a position within the horizon
of Greek religious consciousness. Nevertheless, and indeed largely
because of them, there emerged an extraordinary freedom of expression
and Imaginative activity that gave birth to Greek poetry and
philosophical thought.
Owing to this distinctive character of the Greek Imaginative,
whenever we reflect upon the Greek world we speak, volens nolens,
of the world of spirit. More than that, we may speak of the
first youth, even the adolescence, of spirit. For the first time, we
encounter the content of the will of knowledge as manifested in
the state, the family, law, and religion, understood as ends of individuality.
Human beings in general, by contrast, live and create in pursuit
of an end that they pursue with unwavering consistency, even at
the expense of their own individuality.The emblematic figure of
the Greek conception of the world is Heracles–a mythical, poetic
figure fashioned somewhere within the mists of Greek collective
memory–while its historical counterpart is Alexander of Macedon.
Both the former and the latter symbolize, first and foremost,
youthful strength and civilising energy. In the vision of the Greek
Imaginative, each acquires almost fantastic dimensions, although
Heracles embodies the universal meaning of the Greek spirit,
whereas Alexander embodies its individual meaning.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763890

Tasos Livaditis – Poems, Volume II

Long-listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards

5
However, I had to verify that detail about my father; it was
raining, and I was standing at the mortuary entrance:
“Are you looking for someone?” They asked me, “My father.”
I said, “When did he pass?” “Years ago,” I said, “but
I bring to him this childish trumpet since after we were
ruined, he liked to play it at night.”
Then, on my way, it was getting dark, and the restaurants were
closed, “I’ll go back to Mrs. Elvira’s,” I thought (she often
took care of me), and I rang the bell. “Mrs. Elvira died,”
they tell me. “She died?” I asked and started crying,
“But were you not at the funeral?” “Yes, I was”, I said
“But a dead person is dead every day,” and since I had to
send something to her, too. I searched myself: I had nothing.
What could I do? “Goodbye,” I said to them, “and mention
to Mrs. Elvira that I passed looking for her.”
And as I felt sleepy, I walked into the first hotel I found
“One room, please”, I said, “for you?” he asked, and
I answered with a funny comment: “Yes, but make sure
it faces east since I only have one hand;” I took the keys
and went up the stairs, the elevator was out of order; I opened
the door, and then I understood everything: for a strange
reason, no one was in the room.

https://draft2digital.com/book/4051627

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676398X

Nostos and Algos

Image
Like an ancient
repeatedly hymned sin
your body that I crave
to re-explore
gleams in my mind
like that first time
under the shade of the olive tree
jealous, sophisticated,
eternal wisdom staring
and softly whispering
yes, yes

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763920

In Turbulent Times

Excerpt

Nora sat with her hands lightly clasped on the table. She turned the gold band on her finger thoughtfully. She looked at the paintings on the wall above the polished wainscoting and said, ‘That big watercolour of Slieve Corragh from the coast. That was painted by a man called Robert Hanlon. I know him. He used to rent a cottage from my father in Corrymore and go sketching in the hills. My parents have two of his landscapes in their house.’
‘They’ll be worth something someday,’ Ian declared, ‘if this place is prepared to invest in his work. Tell your parents to hold on to them.’
Nora wore a green, striped dress and a silk scarf. She looked as fresh and as sweetly melancholy as a June rose newly cut.
‘Is Liam looking after the children?’ Ian asked.
‘No; Janet has them for the afternoon.’ Nora looked at Ian, looked into his brown eyes, and smiled. ‘Liam’s quite useless when it comes to taking care of children. But Janet has two of her own and she’s great with mine. She’s a natural mother.’
‘I know you live in Corrymore. We drove you home one night.’
‘One early morning, if I remember rightly.’
‘But whereabouts in Corrymore?’
‘On the main road to Lisnaglass. We used to live in the village schoolhouse, but it was too small. Now there are two extra classrooms in the school, and we live down the road in a house that used to belong to an old woman called Potter.’ She was going to tell Ian the story of Maggie Potter but was afraid she might be embarrassed. She looked at the Scotsman’s thin face. His eyes were shrewd, intelligent, a little hard. His sharp mouth and tight jaw suggested a disciplinarian.
The waiter served them silently and withdrew.
Ian sipped his Drambuie. ‘That night when we were all at Clifford’s cottage you said you weren’t teaching anymore. Didn’t you like teaching?’
‘Far from it. Teaching was my life.’ Nora poured milk into her tea and stirred in some sugar. ‘I always wanted to teach. I got the assistant teacher’s job in the village against strong opposition. I married in order to keep it.’ The reference to marrying wasn’t quite true.
A fierce light burned in Nora’s eyes that in a frightening way reminded Ian of his mother. But it softened, like a lamp turned down. She looked melancholy again. ‘Isn’t it ironic?’ she said with a smile. ‘I married Liam so that I could remain a teacher and help him all I could. It was all I wanted to do. And as soon as he makes me pregnant he takes me out of the school.’ She sipped her tea and munched a biscuit.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

Entropy

Talking to my Shadow
What is this shadow outside the window
the glance of time, the exiled messenger
vanishes in the flash of a lightning bolt
and unexpectedly returns
a threat or a promise
filled with old melodies, torn off calendar pages
strange paths, unfamiliar destinations
over which echo of flowing cataracts
distancing footsteps of migratory gods
it stares through me beyond the moon
I won’t stay for too long, it says to me,
neither you
we are guards of a secret
that goes by daily
we have too much to learn even while on the road.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPCRLJC6

Second Advent of Zeus

Immortality
And I swore before the blurry eyes
of my kin to cleanse their lot with
the heartache I inherited, I promised
to search in their dirt for my immortality
I was to paint the bulbs of the earth black
and again, to insert them into the soil
so they would sprout up like new
penises to enter hungry mounds
and to feel the ecstatic mixture of pain
and joyful cocktail of drugs
that put my consciousness to rest
to these, I swore standing opposite
my kin’s secret grandeur
when they begged for more,
such flimsy was their self-esteem
and in their ridicule, in their viscera
I came to know
the lone glimpse of optimism
leading them to their self-destruction

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763912

Neo-Hellene Poets: An Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

You Won’t Return
You won’t return anymore to grace me with
something from the gifts the beautiful life
has graced you with: perhaps a flower? The life
that fills your heart and body with such beauty.
You won’t return anymore to take my hands
that froze as if an enemy’s hands?
Joined with yours, a calm pair of hands
that need doesn’t come near them any longer.
You won’t return! And the days pass by slowly
and as you go away my familiar fate
comes close to me, alone
for so long with the secret grief.
Don’t you ever think that perhaps, truly,
in a sad moment I’ll direct myself
to the fateful end that awaits me
and never to return?

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562959

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763955

Kariotakis-Polydouri: The Tragic Love Story

Take the Gifts
Take the gifts of your soul and come
I’ve prepared my black room for you
March got sick in my garden
and March got my heart sick
take the myrtle of your pain and come
you’ll like all I have; I’ve cut the rose
which bloomed by the window
and laughed, seeing my austere face
take your consolation and come
and take the serenity of your grief
to pass your hand over my eyes
and soften my evening awe

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562951

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763459

Straits and Turns

Excerpt

Three male youngsters, each with a couple of books under their arms, stood by the fence wall that surrounded the high school grounds and talked. It was a cloudy September day with a drizzle, which made their clothes look like they had been coated with a light layer of flour. From afar, they noticed two girls headed towards them. They wore their traditional high school uniforms of blue skirts with white blouses, which hid their young femininity and were tightly holding each other under a small umbrella. Each girl had a couple of books in front of them, as if protecting their breasts against an invisible enemy, their breasts which yearned for the touch of one young boy, or even a rough rub against their periphery. They felt a sublime pleasure walking next to each other, so close that their thighs rubbed as they walked.
“Hello,” they said in unison when they reached the boys.
“How are you, pretty ones?” the three boys asked, and their eyes focused on the two females, the instigating bodies, which tantalized the boys’ minds, each of them letting his imagination run to what might be happening under those blue skirts. The tallest of the three boys, with long hair and many acne pimples on his face, whispered.
“How nice it’d be if they didn’t wear any skirt at all…” and his mind ran to these two devils of his imagination while one of the girls heard his whisper. Although she didn’t need to say a word, her reaction was obviously shown on her face, which turned a little reddish, since she remembered their last year’s school outing…

https://draft2digital.com/book/4250839#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763866

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume III

THE EXILE DIARIES

18th of January 1950


There are so many dead,
so many.
We can’t fit; we crowd
close to each other.
A seagull
threw off his napkin.
No one wiped his hands.
No one noticed anything.


27th of January


You said:
a ship inscribed with chalk
on the inside leaf
of the prison door.
Can you fool death?
No, you can’t.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763971