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Would you c/c on a poem written by G. Seferis, Noble Prize winner in 1963?
In The Manner Of G.S.
Wherever I travel Greece wounds me.
On Pelion among the chestnut trees the Centaur’s shirt slipped through the leaves to fold around my body as I climbed the slope and the sea came after me
climbing too like mercury in a thermometer till we found the mountain waters. On Santorini touching islands that were sinking hearing a pipe play somewhere on the pumice stone
my hand was nailed to the gunwale by an arrow shot suddenly from the confines of a vanished youth.
At Mycenae I raised the great stones and the treasures of the house of Atreus and slept with them at the hotel ‘Belle Helene de Menelas’; they disappeared only at dawn when Cassandra crowed, a cock hanging from her black throat.
On Spetses, Poros, and Mykonos the barcaroles sickened me. What do they want, all those who say they’re in Athens or Piraeus? Someone comes from Salamis and asks someone else whether he ‘originates from Omonia Square? ‘
‘No, I originate from Syntagma, ‘ replies the other, pleased; ‘I met Yianni and he treated me to an ice cream.’ Meanwhile Greece is traveling
and we don’t know anything, we don’t know we’re all sailors out of work, we don’t know how bitter the port becomes when all the ships have gone; we mock those who do know.
Strange people! they say they’re in Attica but they’re really nowhere; they buy sugared almonds to get married
they carry hair tonic, have their photographs taken
the man I saw today sitting against a background of pigeons and flowers let the hands of the old photographer smooth away the wrinkles left on his face by all the birds in the sky. Meanwhile Greece goes on traveling, always traveling and if we see ‘the Aegean flower with corpses’
it will be with those who tried to catch the big ship by swimming after it those who got bored waiting for the ships that cannot move the ELSI, the SAMOTHRAKI, the AMVRAKIKOS.
The ships hoot now that dusk falls on Piraeus, hoot and hoot, but no capstan moves, no chain gleams wet in the vanishing light,
the captain stands like a stone in white and gold. Wherever I travel Greece wounds me,
curtains of mountains, archipelagos, naked granite. They call the one ship that sails AGONY 937.
Giorgos Seferis
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Note : The poem was provided by PoemHunter.com, and I do not know the translator.
Still, I offer the credit for this free translation to PoemHunter.com.
This seems odd to me but as I read it but feels right nevertheless.
I can visualise the images and the rhythm flows well. A sense of loss takes over, but also the sense of travel, of difference and sameness at the one time.
I really should listen to this in Greek, as the flow of words is likely to be smoother and more fluid, even though I wouldn’t understand what was said. I could then get a better idea of the intended rhythm of the poem and perhaps some of its feeling.
Perhaps it only seems odd to me because I am not very widely read. Having an opportunity to read this helps me. Thank you.
Leaving the beautiful but boring Island of Poros
Rescuing people from a sinking boat near Poros in Greece
Sailing around Greek Islands Saronic Cyclades Poros Hydra
Walking off the fairy