Πρώτα η Γλώσσα

ρ δ’ μς οκ ξ σου τν λεγντων τν κρασιν ποιουμνους, λλ τος μν προσχοντας τν νον, τν δ’ οδ τν φωνν νεχομνους. κα θαυμαστν οδν ποιετε• κα γρ τν λλον χρνον εἰώθατε πντας τος λλους κβλλειν, πλν τος συναγορεοντας τας μετραις πιθυμαις.

The Hellenic drama

The Hellenic drama (A poem by Yannis Politopoulos written in English with Greek words) : In agony to apologize In the hysteria of our prophetic epitaph. The ecstasy of the economic ideology organizes the throne of misery. But Poetry always embarks to her lyrical rhythm without jealousy for her expatriation.

Παρασκευή, 22 Φεβρουαρίου 2019

Γυναίκα της Άνοιξης

Τα μάτια της
είναι χρυσαφένια όνειρα
που ενσαρκώνονται τις νύχτες

Τα χείλη της
είναι κατακόκκινες μνήμες
που πάλλονται γλυκά στο φως

Τα μαλλιά της
είναι μεταξένια χάδια
που υμνούν τρυφερά την αγάπη

Τα χέρια της
είναι αέρινοι κυματισμοί
που μορφοποιούν την αυθεντικότητα

Στις ακρογιαλιές
των θηλυκών ονείρων της
γεννιέται σαν κορίτσι η Άνοιξη της νιότης

Γιάννης Πολιτόπουλος

Παρασκευή, 15 Φεβρουαρίου 2019

The dusty mirror

Summer's evening. In a small room of an old house there is a window to the sea. Right around the corner an old bed covered with a white sheet. Opposite, below the large dusty mirror, an old commode. Upon this an unlit candle. Darkness. A woman, young and beautiful, with white dress, is lying in bed. Quiet. Ten seconds after the opening scene, a strip moonlight light the room. Twenty seconds later heard the voice of the narrator.

Narrator: Then, the day showering in the sun on the sand and the sand was golden summer a wet caress your body. Then you had two breasts red lips and love in the sunbeams. I remember you were barefoot, dressed in a smile of immortality. A neat person indivisible. We must remember the blue skies that remained speechless by your presence damp. Then, the day and a random check was a touch of eternity.

[Pause for ten seconds. The beautiful woman opens her eyes. Lift and sits in bed with the person to the public. For a while, silence. Then the narrator continues the monologue.]

Narrator: Remember too that the words you whisper had an old fisherman with a white beard? He said he knew a lot. How many had seen in his life. But nothing like your eyes. Your eyes, said - is like the depths of the sea. Swayed by the same smile. Deep inside them discover a coral and dreams of naked lights on. Your eyes, he said, is the very vastness. The blue horizon.

[The woman hears the words. Lifts her hands. Brings her face with a gentle motion females. Slightly touches eyes. For a while only. Then download her hands. It seems that she would like to speak. To speak to an unknown voice is heard from the sea and caressing her existence. Her lips, however, seem to refuse. She abandons the effort. She hears again the voice of the narrator says.]

Narrator: And the young one with strong backs and torn from the
saltiness lips are mindful of him? He sat for hours on the high rock and stared with wide eyes, as if you were a miracle. An unexpected summer miracle. Do you remember what he wrote some afternoon in the sand? Those words do not wave the sunset never extinguished?

"Love has the shape of your shadow"

[Pause for thirty seconds. The woman gets out of bed. She walks up and down inside the room. She is barefoot. Her white legs shining in the moonlight. A smile spread on her lips. Almost stopped in the middle of the room. She hears again the narrator speaks. Voice of the urge now.]

Narrator: In the dialog going. Stand there, next to the glass. Look out. What a beautiful moon. What female moon tonight!

[She goes and stands opposite the window. She looks outside. Scanning the horizon, the vastness of the lonely celestial light. The voice of the narrator continues, louder now.]

Narrator: Look, look at the moon. It’s brightest from sunset. The light gild your hair. You know the nights that the glass breaks sometimes. For more comfortable passing the large silver glimmer of the moon and bathe your face beautiful.

[Short pause. She continues to look outside. Raises her left hand and touches the glass with her hand. It touches the glass, as it touches a person, as you touched the moon. As touching the caresses of lovers. The narrator speaks again.]

Narrator: You know we all look at you. The moon. Silence. The shells are still caught in your hair. And with the relentless love of benevolence. Also, the breath of the sea. The whole world is focused on a look of admiration on you.

[The young woman suddenly leaves the window. Began again to come and go in the room. At times, spreads her hands, as if it were to embrace a child. The voice is heard again.]

Narrator: You know how the world embrace you. The whole creation in a gentle caress your alabaster chest. Woman's love, woman of moon’s dreams, everyone would like to know your name. This hidden secret. This intoxicating secret moonlight.

[Pause twenty seconds. She tries to speak again. This time the lips open. Still without uttering a single syllable. She then abandons any attempt to speak. Do what the voice of the states.]

       Narrator: The candle. The candle on the nightstand. You must lit it. I want to see the name I want to come out in the mirror.

[The woman does. She goes to the nightstand, opened the drawer and removes a box of matches. Light up the candle. Outside the moon is covered by clouds now. Now, only the light of the candle lights in the darkness. There is complete silence. The woman standing motionless in front of the old commode. Higher up above it is hanging a mirror. The woman lifts her head to confront her idol in the dusty mirror. She sees then formed in the dust on the mirror a woman's name. And she sees the world with her name: Cloud the looks and smiles. Opens lips and finally pronounces. Pronounce her name in the vastness of the small room. Soon the moonlight again invades the room, more intense now. Now everyone knows. The secret was lost. Outside, the sea is now calm. The voice is not heard anymore. Now it sounds just the breath of the woman.]
Yannis Politopoulos

Παρασκευή, 8 Φεβρουαρίου 2019

The principle of writing


The script started from her hands. From the gentle hands of the girl with blue eyes. In fact, started from the fingertips of his right hand.
To celebrate the indescribable beauty of words poured in thin veins, bloody words, love words, words, unexpected, silent words about the world, about love, for the cheerfulness of things.
And began to climb towards the shoulders of nude dreams. Dreams that cause perpetual birth of writing. Dreams flesh poem pinned to the presence of life. Dreams naked twinkle in the darkness of daily life.
And then the words have gone. They painted her neck with seasonal flowers in spring colors and came on her lips which gave full tender kiss vastness.
Words on her lips, her eyes words, words everywhere on her face.
Words of desire for the girl's desire. Matching words in her life.
Words that are written just for her in the window of love. In the backdrop of dreamy nights of silence.
And the pretty face, the words went to the heart and penetrated deep into the writing of a new scenario of eternal summer. The scenario of a stroke that does not allow any silence to silence.
Words flowing river in the divine feet of future gazing. Words dancing in the ocean waves of long hair. Words rain watering the joy of friendships, her embrace of night love. Words that beautify her beauty.
The words that she writes the paper's life and have something out heady aroma, something of the certainty of physical feminine eyes, a powerful kiss that rises to the dreams of boys.
The tireless words, the tireless writing the agreement and disagreement, the silence, wandering in the body, their eyes encountered her own in a play of light.
The girl is the dream girl of bare, unprotected of words.
The words of those who were born and waiting for the order or the request of.Of words that fall in love on her face and eyelids to thrive as the ultimate love, like love that weaves the veil of femininity.
Of words spoken from the lips of the girl with blue eyes until the end of the world.
Yannis Politopoulos

Παρασκευή, 1 Φεβρουαρίου 2019

The naked look of writing


All stories are realized in places uninvited, endless. The writer starts from the intimate immensity, the embarrassment of thought to incarnate word.
And time is always the elusive light of silence. So, writing somebody realizes the path to the lack of love.
This is, of course, a recurring creation. In particular, it is thought that hatched, the words that follow, the words that mate, the words that escape from the open heart.
The look remains pinned, puzzled brief idea of chastity. The look once strays from his lips.
The look is nude. Words are naked. And then, suddenly, silence speaks, feels, experiences, negates promises, falls creates.
The whiteness of the paper succumbs to excess, indulging in stroke.
The text breaks, soul stirred. Nothing resists, cast all joints on the edge of reason.
People internalize without secrets. Like love, like the original silence as the austere beauty before experiencing loneliness east infuser infinity of thoughts.
Then the silence is the end, the naked, the unprotected eyes of writing.
It happens. A text with authentic life immensity, a text that extends till the sunrise of a barefoot wandering. Text stutters the gross shape of the importance of the initial words. Text of writing that writes happening, an act of the writer who writes his lips and announces his desire to light another verbal creation.
On the verge of life, at the turn of the light at the intersection of writing passion waves life grows occult and steep edge of thought which flows at the foot of the narrative, on the outskirts of a poetic verses test for the first time in the world smiling.
Then the new writing is always a new text with unripe lips, naked in the writer’s eyes and naked at the first innocent look towards the darkness of the birth of art.
And there is no time no space. The components of the text still remain to be discovered, everything to win, such as the blue vastness of emotion.
For no apparent reason wearable light eyes, writing activates the process of reading and then the lonely process of imagination.
The naked gaze falls on the sense that the other authority and ultimately brings another life.

Yannis Politopoulos