Το ακούω και μού 'ρχεται κάθε φορά να δακρύσω, και δεν είναι φτηνό συναίσθημα αυτό που βγαίνει απ' τη μείξη αυτή. Θἄλεγα πως σου ξυπνάει συλλογικές μνήμες και μια νοσταλγία του Παραδείσου.
The Gifts Today I wore a warm red blood. Today people love me. A woman smiled at me. A girl gave me a shell. A child gave me a hammer. Today I kneel on the sidewalk, nailing to the pavement the bare feet of passersby. They are all tearful, but no one is frightened. They all remain in their places as I reach them. They are all tearful, but they look at the celestial billboards and a beggar selling pastries in the sky. Two people whisper, "What is he doing? Is he nailing our heart?" "Yes, he is nailing our heart." So indeed, he is a poet.
Mine (the) I write to you, filled with fear, from inside a night arcade illuminated by a tiny lamp like a thimble. A carriage passes carefully over me, checking its distances so as not to bump into me. Sometimes I pretend to be sleeping, other times I mend an old pair of socks because everything around me has strangely aged. At home yesterday, as I opened the wardrobe, it vanished, turned to dust with all the clothes inside it. The dishes shatter as soon as someone touches them. I’m afraid and have hidden the forks and knives. My hair has become something like a mop, my mouth has turned white and hurts. My hands are stone, my legs are wooden. Three small children surround me, crying. I don’t know how it happened, but they call me “mother.” I wanted to write to you about our old joys, but I have forgotten how to write about happy things. Remember me.
He Is Not Oedipus [A vast sky full of swallows, enormous halls with Doric columns, the hungry ghosts sitting in chairs in the corners, crying. The attics with the dead birds, Aegisthus, the net, Kostas, Kostas the fisherman, the tormented, a room full of colorful tulles fluttering, bitter oranges shatter the windows and come inside.] Kostas is dead, Orestes is dead, Alexis is dead. They break the chains on the windows and Kostas, Orestes, Alexis come inside. Others wander through the streets from the festival, with lights, with flags, with trees, calling Maria to come down, calling Maria to come down from the sky. Achilles’ horses fly in the sky, bullets accompany their flight. The sun rolls from hill to hill, and the moon is a green lantern full of alcohol. [Then night falls, silence fills the streets, and the blind man with his cane emerges. Children follow him on the tips of their toes. He is not Oedipus. He is Elias from the vegetable market, playing an exhausting, mortal flute. He is the dead Elias from the vegetable market.]
nomiza to apospasma apto poihma,tsampa me piran ta zoumia psaxnontas diavazontas pali ta poihmata tou saxtouri gia na to thimithw. duskola pragmata zitas k sy
Δυὸ ἄνθρωποι ψιθυρίζουν
τί κάνει τὴν καρδιά μας καρφώνει;
ναὶ τὴν καρδιά μας καρφώνει
ὥστε λοιπὸν εἶναι ποιητής
_Ὀρυχεῖο _
Σοῦ γράφω γεμάτη τρόμο μέσα ἀπὸ μιὰ στοὰ
νυχτερινὴ
φωτισμένη ἀπὸ μίαν ἐλάχιστη λάμπα σὰ δαχτυλίθρα
ἕνα βαγόνι περνάει ἀπὸ πάνω μου προσεχτικὰ
ψάχνει τὶς ἀποστάσεις του μὴ μὲ χτυπήσει
ἐγὼ πάλι ἄλλοτε κάνω πῶς κοιμᾶμαι ἄλλοτε
πῶς μαντάρω ἕνα ζευγάρι κάλτσες παλιὲς
γιατί ἔχουν ὅλα γύρω μου παράξενα παλιώσει
Στὸ σπίτι
χτὲς
καθὼς ἄνοιξα τὴ ντουλάπα ἔσβησε γίνηκε
σκόνη μ᾿ ὅλα τὰ ροῦχα της μαζὶ
τὰ πιάτα σπάζουν μόλις κανεὶς τ᾿ ἀγγίξει
φοβᾶμαι κι ἔχω κρύψει τὰ πηρούνια καὶ τὰ
μαχαίρια
τὰ μαλλιά μου ἔχουν γίνει κάτι σὰ στουπὶ
τὸ στόμα μου ἄσπρισε καὶ μὲ πονάει
τὰ χέρια μου εἶναι πέτρινα
τὰ πόδια μου εἶναι ξύλινα
μὲ τριγυρίζουν κλαίγοντας τρία μικρὰ παιδιὰ
δὲν ξέρω πῶς γίνηκε καὶ μὲ φωνάζουν μ ά ν α
Θέλησα νὰ σοῦ γράψω γιὰ τὶς παλιές μας τὶς χαρὲς
ὅμως ἔχω ξεχάσει νὰ γράφω γιὰ πράγματα
χαρούμενα
Νὰ μὲ θυμᾶσαι
Το ακούω και μού 'ρχεται κάθε φορά να δακρύσω, και δεν είναι φτηνό συναίσθημα αυτό που βγαίνει απ' τη μείξη αυτή. Θἄλεγα πως σου ξυπνάει συλλογικές μνήμες και μια νοσταλγία του Παραδείσου.
Εντάξει δεν είναι ντροπή και να κλάψεις. Ριχ'το ολόκληρο
Από το 2:29 αρχίζει το πανηγύρι....! Απλά τέλειο!!! Καιρό είχα να ακούσω τέτοιο ήχο!
Φοβερός ο Σαχτούρης!
Amazing !
ανατρίχιασα..μπράβο..
Απίστευτο , μπράβο παιδιά.
Αυτό το κομμάτι είναι ο λόγος που υπάρχω κι εγώ
Νοσταλγία, νοσταλγία, νοσταλγία.
ποιήματα: Τα δώρα, Ορυχείο, Δεν είναι ο Οιδίποδας.
πολλα πράβο
εξαιρετικό !!!!
Υπέροχο!
Bravo!
Αψογο μεγάλο μπράβο
POLU brosta....bravo!!!!!
teleio...mpravo
Σήμερα το ανακάλυψα....νταξει παλι καλα που δε χρειάζονται μεγκαμπαιτ για να ξαναπαιξεις το ιδιο κομματι! 😛
μπράβο ρε παλήκαρε!
Δάκρυα..Κάθε που το ακουω
Nai ναι ναι... αβιαστα
Όταν η τέχνη σου αλλάζει την ζωή
The Gifts
Today I wore a
warm red blood.
Today people love me.
A woman smiled at me.
A girl gave me a shell.
A child gave me a hammer.
Today I kneel on the sidewalk,
nailing to the pavement
the bare feet of passersby.
They are all tearful,
but no one is frightened.
They all remain in their places as I reach them.
They are all tearful,
but they look at the celestial billboards
and a beggar selling pastries
in the sky.
Two people whisper,
"What is he doing? Is he nailing our heart?"
"Yes, he is nailing our heart."
So indeed, he is a poet.
Mágico
αψογο!!!!!!!
❤️
Η μεγαλύτερη καλλιτεχνική σύλληψη στην Ελλάδα εδώ και πολλά χρόνια
Pragmatika eidola kai poso avant garde
Ανατριχίλα σκέτη ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
απλά άψογο
Like polishing a dark orb
Mistico synth
edw kai auto to vrady opws kai apeira alla
💚
φανταστικό (τι έγραφε ο Σαχτούρης.......... )
Mine (the)
I write to you, filled with fear, from inside a night arcade
illuminated by a tiny lamp like a thimble.
A carriage passes carefully over me,
checking its distances so as not to bump into me.
Sometimes I pretend to be sleeping, other times
I mend an old pair of socks
because everything around me has strangely aged.
At home
yesterday,
as I opened the wardrobe, it vanished, turned to dust
with all the clothes inside it.
The dishes shatter as soon as someone touches them.
I’m afraid and have hidden the forks and knives.
My hair has become something like a mop,
my mouth has turned white and hurts.
My hands are stone,
my legs are wooden.
Three small children surround me, crying.
I don’t know how it happened, but they call me “mother.”
I wanted to write to you about our old joys,
but I have forgotten how to write about happy things.
Remember me.
ε ξαι ρε τι κο
😢😢😢😢😢😢😢
He Is Not Oedipus
[A vast sky full of swallows,
enormous halls with Doric columns,
the hungry ghosts
sitting in chairs in the corners,
crying.
The attics with the dead birds,
Aegisthus, the net, Kostas,
Kostas the fisherman, the tormented,
a room full of colorful tulles
fluttering,
bitter oranges shatter the windows
and come inside.]
Kostas is dead,
Orestes is dead,
Alexis is dead.
They break the chains on the windows
and Kostas, Orestes, Alexis come inside.
Others wander through the streets from the festival,
with lights, with flags, with trees,
calling Maria to come down,
calling Maria to come down from the sky.
Achilles’ horses fly in the sky,
bullets accompany their flight.
The sun rolls from hill to hill,
and the moon is a green lantern
full of alcohol.
[Then night falls, silence fills the streets,
and the blind man with his cane emerges.
Children follow him on the tips of their toes.
He is not Oedipus.
He is Elias from the vegetable market,
playing an exhausting, mortal flute.
He is the dead Elias from the vegetable market.]
Πλιζ κάποιος να μου πει από που είναι τα βίντεο
Δέος.
θυμιζει και λενα πλατωνος
Ξέρει κανεις στο 00.49 απο που ειναι το αποσπασμα?
Τὰ δῶρα
Σήμερα φόρεσα ἕνα
ζεστὸ κόκκινο αἷμα
σήμερα οἱ ἄνθρωποι μ᾿ ἀγαποῦν
μιὰ γυναίκα μοῦ χαμογέλασε
ἕνα κορίτσι μοῦ χάρισε ἕνα κοχύλι
ἕνα παιδὶ μοῦ χάρισε ἕνα σφυρί
Σήμερα γονατίζω στὸ πεζοδρόμιο
καρφώνω πάνω στὶς πλάκες
τὰ γυμνὰ ποδάρια τῶν περαστικῶν
εἶναι ὅλοι τους δακρυσμένοι
ὅμως κανεὶς δὲν τρομάζει
ὅλοι μείναν στὶς θέσεις ποὺ πρόφτασα
εἶναι ὅλοι τους δακρυσμένοι
ὅμως κοιτάζουν τὶς οὐράνιες ρεκλάμες
καὶ μιὰ ζητιάνα ποὺ πουλάει τσουρέκια
στὸν οὐρανό
Δυὸ ἄνθρωποι ψιθυρίζουν
τί κάνει τὴν καρδιά μας καρφώνει;
ναὶ τὴν καρδιά μας καρφώνει
ὥστε λοιπὸν εἶναι ποιητής
Lemmy Kilmister το βιντεο εννοω !
nomiza to apospasma apto poihma,tsampa me piran ta zoumia psaxnontas diavazontas pali ta poihmata tou saxtouri gia na to thimithw. duskola pragmata zitas k sy
Aυτά που έκαναν οι Yellow Magic Orchestra στα 70's...
❤️
❤