Kostas Karyotakis ( October 30, 1896 – July 20, 1928) is considered one of the most representative Greek poets of the 1920s and one of the first poets to use iconoclastic themes in Greece. His poetry conveys a great deal of nature, imagery and traces of expressionism and surrealism. The majority of Karyotakis' contemporaries viewed him in a dim light throughout his lifetime without a pragmatic ... more »
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Kostas Karyotakis Poems
Ballade To The Forgotten Poets Of The Ag...
Detested by both men and gods, like nobles who have bitterly decayed, the Verlaines wither; wealth remains to them, of rich and silvery rhyme.
From the depth of good times our loves greet us bitterly You’re not in love, you say, and you don’t remember.
Death is the bullies bashing against the black walls and roof tiling, death is the women being loved in the course of onion peeling.
In The Garden The Chrysanthemums Were Dy...
In the garden the chrysanthemums were dying like desires when you came. Calmly you laughed, like little white flowers.
They turn the key in the door, take out their old, well-hidden letters, read them quietly, then drag their feet a final time.
A sweet hour. Athens sprawls like a hetaira offering herself to April. Sensuous scents are in the air, the spirit waits for nothing any more.
In your current is the laughter of the gods, Saronica immortal, the blessing of our ship, like your deep calm, and just as deep the tempest
We Are Some Disjointed Guitars...
We are some disjointed guitars. When the wind blows through discordant lines and sounds awaken in the chainlike strings that dangle.
Helen S. Lamari, 1878-1912 Poet and musician. Died with the most frightful pains of the body and with the greatest calm of the spirit.
I speak of lives given to the light of serene love, and while they flow
Make your pain into a harp. Become a nightingale, become a flower. When bitter years arrive,
Oh, our little orange tree all full of flowers and like a bride dressed all in white
March Mournful And Vertical
I stare at the ceiling's plasterwork. I'm drawn into the dance of the meanders. My happiness, I'm thinking, would lie in height.
My verses, children of my blood. They speak, but I supply the words like fragments of my heart, I offer them like tears from my eyes.
Ballade To The Forgotten Poets Of The Ages
Detested by both men and gods,
like nobles who have bitterly decayed,
the Verlaines wither; wealth remains
to them, of rich and silvery rhyme.
With 'Les Chatiments' the Hugos are intoxicated
by their terrible Olympian revenge.
But I shall write a sorrowful
ballade to the forgotten poets.
Though the Poes have lived in misery,
and though the Baudelaires have suffered living deaths,
they ve all been granted Immortality.
Yet no-one now remembers,
and the deepest darkness has completely buried,
every poetaster who produced limp poetry.
But I make as an ...