Βιβλιοθήκη

για την Φ

Επτά νυχτερινά επτάστιχα
Οδυσσέας Ελύτης

I
Όνειρα κι όνειρα ήρθανε
Στα γενέθλια των γιασεμιών
Νύχτες και νύχτες στις λευκές
Αϋπνίες των κύκνων
Η δροσιά γεννιέται μες στα φύλλα
Όπως μες στον απέραντο ουρανό
Το ξάστερο συναίσθημα.

Ευνοϊκές αστροφεγγιές έφεραν τη σιωπή
Και πίσω απ' τη σιωπή μια μελωδία παρείσαχτη
Ερωμένη
Αλλοτινών ήχων γόησσα
Μένει τώρα ο ίσκιος που ατονεί
Και η ραϊσμένη εμπιστοσύνη του
Και η αθεράπευτη σκοτοδίνη του - εκεί.

IIΙ
Όλα τα κυπαρίσσια δείχνουνε μεσάνυχτα
Όλα τα δάχτυλα
Σιωπή
Έξω από τ' ανοιχτό παράθυρο του ονείρου
Σιγά σιγά ξετυλίγεται
Η εξομολόγηση
Και σαν θωριά λοξοδρομάει προς τ' άστρα!



για τη Γιάννα
Λόγος Ζ': Το Πανηγύρι της Κακάβας
Κωστης Παλαμάς

Λεύτεροι στίχοι, λεύτερα μιλείτε.
Α. Λασκαράτος: Στιχουργήματα

Εμπρός! Θέλω για πατρίδα τον απέραντο
ροδοκοκκινισμένο ορίζοντα. Ζηλεύω εγώ
κ' έχω για τζάκι μου μονάκριβο μια
ταξιδεύτρα του ήλιου αχτίδα.
M. Guyau: Στίχοι ενός φιλοσόφου

...
Κ' ήρθαν οι γύφτισσες, οι γύφτισσες,
οι γύφτισσες που τραγουδάνε:
-Τώρα είν' η άνοιξη κι ο Μάης,
τώρα το καλοκαίρι, τώρα
κι ο ξένος βούλεται να πάη,
στον τόπο του να πάη, και τρέχει,
νύχτα σελώνει τ' άλογό του,
νύχτα το καλλιγώνει, βάνει,
χρυσά τα πέταλα τα βάνει,
βάνει και τα καρφιά ασημένια.
Καταραμένοι κ' εσείς γύφτοι,
που να γυρίσετε δεν έχετε
κανένα τόπο, και πατρίδα,
γύφτοι, καμιά δεν σας προσμένει,
ο Μάης ο μήνας σας προσμένει,
ο Μάης ο ρήγας σας καλεί,
ελάτε, γύφτοι από τη Δύση
και γύφτοι απ' την Ανατολή,
και μ' όλα του τα περιβόλια
σας κράζει ο Μάης ξεφαντωτής
στην τρίμερη και στη μονάκριβη
γιορτή της γύφτισσας ζωής!
Κι απ' την Κακάβα πόχει μέσα της
ανάκατα τα πολυσπόρια,
πικρό, σκληρό κι αρρωστημένο
το έρμο πιοτό και το φαϊ,
κ' έχει νερό απ' τη νερομάννα,
μέλι εσείς βγάλτε, βγάλτε γάλα,
βγάλτε ουρανόβροχο ένα μάνα,
κ' ένα παλιό γερό κρασί,
ω γύφτοι, ω μάγοι και σοφοί,
που σας δουλεύουν οι δαιμόνοι
μεσ' τα γητέματα, στα ξόρκια,
και μέσ' στη Σολομωνική.
Νύχτα σελλώστε τ' άλογά σας
και καλλιγώστε τα, και πάρτε,
τ'ασήμι απ'το φεγγάρι πάρτε
και το χρυσάφι από τ' αστέρια,
κ' ελάτε πανηγυριστάδες,
οι αταίριαστοι, έρωτες και ταίρια,
τρίμερο ανάστα να χαρήτε,
και μέσ' στ' απλόχωρο λιβάδι
πατρίδα τρίμερη να βρήτε! -

...

Η μάντρα ειν' ο αφίλιωτος οχτρός μας,
την πλατωσιά του κόσμου τη στενεύει,
στριγγλόχορτα φυτρώνουν και γοργόνια
βλαστομανώντας κάτω από τον ίσκιο της,
του δολερού αναγάλλιασμα, τα μαραζώνει
τα ξεφτέρια του νου και της καρδιάς τ'αηδόνια.
...
Περάστε απάνου από τις μάντρες, τα μουλάρια σας,
φτερώστε τα σαν τα σκουπόξυλα,
όταν οι μάγισσες τα καβαλάνε!
Ο κόσμος ακομμάτιαστος και απέραντος,
Όπου τελειώνουν οι στεριές,
τα πέλαγα αρχινάνε

Όσα βουνα κι αν ανεβείτε,
απ'τις κορφές τους θ’ αγναντεύτε αλλες κορφές,
ψηλότερες, μιαν αλλη πλάση ξελογιάστρα
και στην κορφή σα φτάστε την κατάψηλη
πάλε θα καταλάβετε πως βρίσκεστε
σαν πρώτα κάτω απ'όλα τ'άστρα.






Αποσπάσματα από το βιβλίο του Λέο Μπουσκάλια «Να ζεις, ν’ αγαπάς και να μαθαίνεις»


    










          
          «Τι κρίμα για σένα, αν πιστεύεις ότι υπάρχει μόνο ό,τι μπορεί να μετρηθεί στατιστικά. Πραγματικά σε λυπάμαι αν διευθύνει τη ζωή σου μόνο αυτό που μπορεί να μετρηθεί, γιατί εμένα με κεντρίζει το απροσμέτρητο. Με κεντρίζουν τα όνειρα, όχι μόνο αυτό που είναι μπροστά μου. Δε δίνω δεκάρα γι’ αυτό που βρίσκεται μπροστά μου. Αυτό το βλέπω. Αν θες να περάσεις τη ζωή σου μετρώντας το, είναι δικαίωμά σου, εμένα όμως με ενδιαφέρει αυτό που βρίσκεται πιο έξω. Υπάρχουν τόσα που δε βλέπουμε, δεν πιάνουμε, δε νιώθουμε, δεν καταλαβαίνουμε. 

          Υποθέτουμε πως η πραγματικότητα είναι αυτό το κουτί που μας βάλανε μέσα, κι όμως σας βεβαιώνω πως δεν είναι έτσι. Ανοίξτε την πόρτα κάποτε και κοιτάξτε τι υπάρχει έξω. Το όνειρο του σήμερα θα είναι η πραγματικότητα του αύριο. Κι όμως έχουμε ξεχάσει να ονειρευόμαστε».
          
          «Κατ’ αρχήν πιστεύω ότι το πιο σημαντικό χαρακτηριστικό του ανθρώπου που αγαπάει είναι ότι αγαπάει τον εαυτό του. […] Δε μιλάω για το χάιδεμα του εγώ μας. […] Μιλάω για τον άνθρωπο που συνειδητοποιεί, ότι δεν μπορείς να δώσεις παρά αυτό που έχεις και γι’ αυτό καλά θα κάνεις να προσπαθήσεις όσο μπορείς ν’ αποχτήσεις κάτι. Θέλεις να είσαι ο πιο μορφωμένος, ο πιο λαμπερός, ο πιο ενδιαφέρων, ο πιο πολυτάλαντος, ο πιο δημιουργικός άνθρωπος του κόσμου, γιατί έτσι θα μπορέσεις να τα δώσεις όλα αυτά. Ο μοναδικός λόγος που έχεις κάτι είναι για να το δίνεις».
          
          «Θεωρούμε το «εγώ» μας σαν κάτι ουσιαστικό, τον εαυτό που κατασκευάσαμε. Θα σας πω όμως μια αλήθεια, δεν τον κατασκευάσατε εσείςαυτό τον εαυτό. Άλλοι τον έφτιαξαν. Οι άλλοι σας είπαν ποιος πρέπει να είστε και ποιος όχι, πώς πρέπει να κινείστε, να μυρίζετε και να κάνετε τα περισσότερα πράγματα που κάνετε. […] Βγες από τον εαυτό σου και άφησέ τον εκεί. […] Μόνο με αυτόν τον τρόπο θα μπουν μέσα σου τα νέα μηνύματα. Ο εαυτός κατασκευάζει τεράστια τείχη γύρω του για «αυτο»προστασία. Αυτά τα τείχη τα ονομάζει πραγματικότητα. Ο,τιδήποτε δεν ταιριάζει μ’ αυτό που ο περιτειχισμένος εαυτός θεωρεί πραγματικό, δεν αφήνεται να περάσει από το τείχος∙ έτσι, όταν πια φτάνει μέσα η νέα αντίληψη, έχει γίνει αυτό που ήθελε από την αρχή. Έτσι οι περισσότεροι από μας περνάμε τη ζωή μας βλέποντας μόνον ό,τι θέλουμε να δούμε, ακούγοντας μόνον ό,τι θέλουμε να ακούσουμε, μυρίζοντας ό,τι θέλουμε να μυρίσουμε, ενώ όλα τα υπόλοιπα παραμένουν απολύτως αόρατα. Όλα τα πράγματα βρίσκονται εδώ. Για να δούμε, το μόνο που χρειάζεται είναι να τα αφήσουμε να μπουν, να τα αγγίξουμε, να τα γευτούμε, να τα δαγκώσουμε, να τα αγκαλιάσουμε (το πιο ευχάριστο), να τα ζήσουμε όπως είναι –όχι όπως είμαστε εμείς».


          «Το αντίθετο της αγάπης δεν είναι το μίσος, αλλά η απάθεια».

          «Αν είχα να διαλέξω ανάμεσα στον πόνο και στο τίποτα, θα διάλεγα τον πόνο».

          «Υπάρχουμε εμείς, ο εαυτός μας και πάνω σ’ αυτό τον εαυτό συσσωρεύουμε χιλιάδες και χιλιάδες πράγματα που μπορεί να μην είναι ο εαυτός μας, μα που να ανήκουν μάλλον στην οικογένειά μας, την κουλτούρα μας, τους φίλους και ούτω καθεξής. Τα παίρνουμε μαζί μας και τότε αυτά γίνονται εμείς και είμαστε ικανοί να πεθάνουμε για να υπερασπίσουμε αυτό το «εμείς» και καταφεύγουμε στην απάθεια για να αποφύγουμε τις προκλήσεις του νέου εαυτού.

          Δημιουργούμε επίσης μοντέλα τελειότητας. Περνάμε τη ζωή μας προσπαθώντας να κάνουμε τον έξω κόσμο να ταιριάσει μ’ αυτό που νομίζουμε εμείς σαν τέλειο».
          «Είμαστε ήδη τέλειοι. Ο κόσμος είναι ήδη τέλειος. Προσπαθούμε να επέμβουμε σ’ αυτή την τελειότητα κι από κει πηγάζουν όλα τα προβλήματά μας. Τι θαυμάσιο που θα ήταν, αν μπορούσαμε να δεχτούμε το γεγονός ότι είμαστε ο τέλειος εαυτός μας. […] Μόνο εσύ μπορείς να ξέρεις ποιος είναι ο τέλειος εαυτός σου. Είσαι όμως ο τέλειος εαυτός σου και είναι ο μοναδικός τέλειος εαυτός σου που θα περάσει έτσι στην ιστορία του κόσμου! Ίσως οι άλλοι να προσπαθήσουν να τον κάνουν ατελή […]»


Αποσπάσματα από το βιβλίο του Λέο Μπουσκάλια «Να ζεις, ν’ αγαπάς και να μαθαίνεις»






The Nightingale and the Rose

Oscar Wilde

"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose."

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."

"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."

"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."

"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers - what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."

"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.

"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."

"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"

"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you."

"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."

"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."

"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame- coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - "that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

And the marvelous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."

But the girl frowned.

"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house

"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.