Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
A Selection of Poems
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DROSS OF IMMORTALITY
May 1989
2
I PENETRATED MATTER
HOWLING
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POEM ON A TAPE RECORDER
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ROMANTIC EPILOGUE
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SOLEMN DRUMS OF TRAGEDY
6
SOLOMOS IN MY DREAM
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SUSPENSION
To Thanos Konstantinidis
29 August 1990
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somewhat conventional respects.
He, however, had a terrible kind of
seriousness
paying no attention to their innocuous
respect
moreover he never depended on it
but suffering most profoundly his very
self,
the visions which sometimes slapped
together like
the wine-cooked wings of a
slaughtered cockerel,
he would suddenly throw his head
back
and become that merciless terror he
Mary Meimaraki-Karouzou once was
From: Collected Poems opening his mouth in utter devastation
like a hideous monster of wintry
THE MELLOW BEHAVIOR OF prehistory
BARBAROSSA and detaching his dentures with a crack
would drop them in a glass of water,
Un Pote sauvage avec un without any delicacy,
plomb dans laile without any sense of inferiority,
TRISTAN CORBIRE everyone around looking at him;
hed clap his hands and a two-faced
Turkish woman
would come in silently and invisibly
An old man now and former smoker, with heavy silk rustling
all alone with his beard, strolling the how sorrowful the spectacle, a quick
heights in vain, curtsy
from cloud to cloud, the human course, the white chair shoved up next to him.
what a road it is, He then sat down (with obvious effort)
with tiny steps, comic and exhausted making bizarre movements,
hearing in their pitiless music his eyes fixed on his dentures.
his cheap wooden shoes shuffling, The bystanders left, one by one, with
Barbarossa used to say: Forgive me exaggerated kowtows,
I cant help it, the senses lead me to the the hours moved steadily on, in line
senses. with a bad
Thats how he talked, he didnt say and sorrowful custom: reality.
anything else, But he stayed there staring gloomily at
licking his lips with delicate emotion. his dentures
He was oppressed by a large black submerged
hole in his chest which had now boundless
become old integral . . .
with flesh spilling out lamentably! Sometimes, of course, sleep which
Speechless, everyone wept for him, as knows about obliteration
if for a tame and pitiful brought an end to his situation,
dragon of bygone times but the next day the same thing:
and as if shocked, truly, for centuries Forgive me
the liars paid him, with hollow piety, I cant help myself, the senses lead me
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to the senses. ..
A band of cloud around the middle of a With such thoughts, truly wretched as
mountain thrills me . . . figs
These words of Barbarossa which gape out in nature in July
half-idiotic, I would say, and anyway a rattle-trap the poor old man or rather
despairing, a wide open door and winter itself
went day after day around the streets, thrusting in the numerous
the houses, the gardens contradictions
and indeed in Constantinople, had and his shuddering turned stiff as wood
become a common topic, a joke how strange,
at the bakers, the grocers, the in such tender seconds.
confectioners, The world couldnt contain such
the sunbathing hodjas who took despair,
pleasure in the futility there was no God to strike the spark.
of the wailing town-crier, the very Nature had now become for him even
cunning vizier, more fantastic,
of the boatmen on the Bosphorus, the the grey rock layers, the saintliness of
Beauty of Peran, the shrubs.
but even of the acrimonious Sultan Painting, this miserable man would
himself then decide on a Turkish bath,
as the fishmongers said who sat in full without resurrection, there amid the
fragrance stuffy foggy steam,
in the most aristocratic neighborhood. and dreamt in his fruitless sensual
But Barbarossa had his own drama . . . nakedness,
Reduced to nothing by age and full of of his destroyed loves all so very dead,
ashen of the easy erection in the bath with
terrors and hallucinations, the one-time slaves like pure white lutes
trophy-bearer of blood caressing now and then his
every now and then sidled up to the inexplicable groin
bitter windows that old age had so disgustingly
to drive the full-bodied hallucinations bagged.
out with his hands, He would come out of there utterly
spitting at the defenseless flowers in relaxed
the large harmless garden and the books say that one day in
and cursing the nightingales on the spring
branches two or three lunious water nymphs
lamenting and leaning outward. shoved him into ten paradises
Indeed it is said that once he called out burning in an enamelled abyss, where
to a servant: he saw
Life is a strong opponent, like the the Prophet lying down with bandy-
Koran, legged nights
the crown of my glory is too large. when one of them lighting up her lips
A throw-away phrase. cried out to him:
Nevertheless, the admiral would have Haredin, the tempest is the flowering
meant it. of the sea
And another time its said he passed and the poor man fell asleep.
out roaring these words:
Ah, if I could only eat the light! and
not see
the iron pieces crossing on the clocks . Translation: Philip Ramp
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THE NIGHT IS IN MY INTEREST
12
THE SECOND DEATH
13
THE STARRY PHOTOGENIC
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WITH A LITTLE LEAF-MOULD
15
WOMAN, OBSTINACY OF ASIA
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Nikos Karouzos
(Greece, 1926 - 1990)
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I suckle divinity / it suckles me
Nikos Karouzos
For a reader like myself who (fortunately) still has not managed,
in so many years, to find an answer as to why he places two of
Nikos Karouzos poems (Solomos in My Dream, and The
Meek Ways of Barbarossa) amongst the crowning moments of
modern Greek literature, it is highly unlikely that I may begin to
believe in the effectiveness of literary interpretation. My first
observation entitles me to the right of flatly stating, from the
very start, that, in my opinion, Nikos Karousos has already
become a classic of our letters . . .
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these numerous ideas, so much so that you get the impression of
repetitiveness when you attempt to approach Karouzos poetry
in your own way. I am trying to say that you are compelled to
regurgitate words like existence, language, time,
appearances, being, ontology, etc.
This concept may very well have never been used by any other
poet the world over with so much intensity, anguish, lyricism
and wry humour. This elemental word, shattered or rather
proteanly transformable in Karouzos verses, offers magical
flights, diverse hues and an unfathomable depth that simply
astounds. In the hands of Karouzos, all the previous obvious
and fundamental concepts were invariably stripped, scrutinised
and observed as they took the form of monsters or angels, lost
their weight or crushed him under, limiting him to their inner
core sometimes as a prisoner and sometimes as a supplicant.
A famous verse about which a great deal has been said. For
Karouzos, existence as a concept carried the meaning, I believe,
of a paradoxical reflexivity or idiopathy: in medicine idiopathy
is a state occasioned in and of itself, whilst in grammar,
reflexive is a person whose action returns back to him or
herself.
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action seemed to begin and end in himself, whereas at the
same time this whole process was controlled by an external
force. This was because, he thought very simply, things in
which I find myself and which I consume (and supposedly also
deplete) are not mine.
Karouzos believed in language (in its core and sounds) but not
in logos, which he considered to be a commentary (prolixity) on
reality and not part of it. Conversely, he maintained that
charismatic poetry served language (or the reverse, it did not
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matter, since he spoke of a fusion between the two) and that
through some kind of miracle an apparition of language takes
place in great work. That is why he wrote very little prose, since
he was adoringly devoted to poetry and the awe of writing it.
Tassos Goudelis
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enlarge and intensify the void of existence and the anguish and
agony of death to their very limits.
Even so, leaving the thematic ideas aside, Gods face appears
again and again in the poets books in yet another aspect:
featuring incarnate in the form of Jesus, Gods face is invested
with the venerable garb of Christian rituals and traditions and
serves as a usually effective poetic ploy that enhances the power
of suggestion of his language and intensifies its emotive force.
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into a dreamlike mist that travels beyond objective, historic
reality and returns to dwell in consciousness only as a shadow
and reflection of the real world. What is essential in this
particular matter (as well as in the lonely deposition from the
cross in Griefs of 1969) is not faith in metaphysical
transcendence but the awareness of a dramatic divine death,
which is repeated every day ad infinitum at multiple levels and
in diverse dimensions. Karouzos continues to identify Christ
with joy and the offering of love (the typical repertoire of
teachings in Christ), yet he does not expect anything from his
redemptive coming and sacrifice. Whatever remains, whatever
gets salvaged, belongs definitively to the mythical or the
idealised past, whereas the issue of salvation or exit is in its turn
transformed into an inner (bitterly accentuated) condition of
literature.
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take charge of Judgement Day:
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a catalytic factor in the staging of the poem and the creation of
the mood; a lyrical morsel and symbol of love and despair,
Karouzoss God remains in all cases a constant means of
expression whose variations expand over a broad spectrum of
revelations, disguises, or even metamorphoses.
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directly represented by the ego of the speaker or symbolised
indirectly through a third-person hero, who, willy-nilly, ends up
facing death, an exile in the gutter or wayside of History and the
world:
From the spiritual fall and the zero degree of existence to the
pregnant symbolism of a purely poetic God; from the terror of
void to the world-shaping order of literature, Karouzoss course
is at the same time both cyclic and centrifugal. At each of its
stages, however, it has new possibilities to offer, new prospects
to offer. It is time then to try them and make the most of them.
And let us not forget that the work has just begun.
Stones of Dreams
February 3, 2004
Exploring mathematics and the opera in the context of
Karouzos poetry, Dimitris Kalokyris makes some wild leaps of
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imaginative interpretation. Every word, taken as an
alphanumeric, becomes the visual representation of the software
of the reader in the poets memory.
Night has come, and the bed is the opera of the poor, as
somebody said in some film. Taking into account the
epigrammatic dissuasion of Karouzos: Do not read me if you
do not know any pluperfects, we vaguely filter into a prolonged
dream of February, in the present year, where I find myself, in
the full moonlit night of a countryside confectioners,
conversing with an adjacent person who is supposed to have
ownership of several pages of the poets letters from his youth
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and is keen to get them published. In one of the turns of sleep, it
is revealed that the owner of the valuable manuscripts is a
famous actress, only at a younger age. I dissuade her persistently
with disjointed yet strong arguments, until, rising resolutely
from her seat, she throws on the table a handful of thick green
glass shards, possibly broken pieces of bottles smoothed by the
sea, and quickly whispers: This is our correspondence during
more than six years. And then, in a soprano voice, she
concludes: The crystals of Karouzos!
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Te voglio bene assai
ma tanto tanto bene sai.
29
Five years after Carusos death, Nikos was born, in Nafplion
(sired by the Argonauts), a few hours before and three centuries
after the assassination of 37-year-old Caravaggio. There, too, we
can discern an odd alliance with that painter, for Nikos passed
away in 1990, but on September 28, the exact date when
Caravaggio saw the light of this world in 1573. It so happened
that on the same date Melville, Auden and Breton also died. It
seems that everyone of us, secretly, defines the language of his
or her death.
Issue 2.699 of the 57th year (August 9-23, 1979) of the French
weekly literary review of the time Les Nouvelles Littraires,
included a folio supplement with a densely printed tribute to
modern Greek art and literature. This six-page supplement was
edited by D.T. Analis, who was also responsible for most of the
translations. I also contributed to the collection and partially to
the choice of the material. Amongst the eighteen authors that
were invited to express their personal relationship to writing
was, of course, Nikos Karouzos. He wrote the following self-
explanatory text, typed in red ink and in the traditional polytonic
system:
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but to overcome it. The true poet creates outstanding business
with existence thats what I believe and his vision, a chimera
if you wish, is to break the fetters of reality. For me, poetry is an
ontological self-illusion, unless the poet meets and achieves the
freedom of existence (i.e. the extinguishing or reduction of the
ego to the intellect of the heart i.e. what used to be called
holiness) which shatters reality and leads man to the living
infinity of universality.
Dimitris Kalokyris
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