L' ALBERO DEGLI ZOCCOLI

ERMANNO OLMI

ΔΕΝΤΡΟ ΓΙΑ ΤΣΟΚΑΡΑ

ΚΑΛΑ ΧΡΙΣΤΟΥΓΕΝΝΑ !

CHRISTMAS CARD FROM A HOOKER IN MINNEAPOLIS

Charlie, I'm pregnant
Living on 9th Street
Above a dirty book store
Of Yukeland Avenue
Stopped taking dope
Quit drinking whiskey
My old man plays a trombone
Works out at the track

He says that he loves me
Even though it's not his baby
Says that he'll raise him up
Like he would his own son
He gave me a ring
That was worn by his mother
Takes me out dancing
Every Saturday night

Charlie, I think about you
Everytime I pass the fillin' station
On account of the grease
You used to wear in your hair
Still have that record
Little Anthony and the Imperials
Someone stole my record player
How do you like that?

Charlie, I almost went crazy
After Mario got busted
Went back to Omaha
To live with my folks
And everyone I used to know
Is either dead or in prison
Came back to Minneapolis
This time I think I'm gonna stay

Charlie, I think I'm happy
The first time since my accident
Wish I had all the money
I used to spend on dope
Buy me a used car lot
And I wouldn't sell any of em
Just drive a different car everyday
Depending how I feel

Charlie, for Christ's sakes
If you wanna know the truth of it
I don't have a husband
He don't play the trombone
I need to borrow money
To pay this lawyer, Charlie, hey
I'll be eligable for parol
Come Valentine's Day


TOM WAITS

ΓΡΥΛΟΙ ΚΑΙ ΣΤΙΧΟΙ

ALEXANDRE O'NEILL

Periclitam os grilos

Periclitam os grilos:
a noite é nada.
Quem tem filhos tem cadilhos.
(Que quadra tão bem rimada!)

Não espere, leitor, que eu diga:
«Debaixo daquela arcada...»
Não venho fazer intriga:
versejo só - e mais nada.

Assim o terceiro verso
desta tirada
(reparou que é um provérbio?)
não significa nada.

Se a noite é nada e os grilos
não estão de asa parada,
não vou puxar, só por isso,
o fio à sua meada,

leitor que me pede a história
que já trás engatilhada,
leitor que não se habitua
a que não aconteça nada

em poesia que comece
como esta foi começada
e acabe como esta
vai ser agora acabada...

ALEXANDRE O'NEILL (1924-1986)

ΣΕΖΑΡΙΑ ΕΒΟΡΑ

**********

...Assim dxam morrê ô flor
Na sombra di bo odjinho
Dxam morrê ta sonha
Assim c'ma pomba na sê ninho...

...Laisse-moi mourir ainsi ô fleur
A l'ombre de ton petit regard
Laisse-moi mourir en rêvant
Comme la colombe dans son nid...



**********

ΟΠΩΣ ΚΟΙΤΟΥΝ ΤΟΥΣ ΠΝΙΓΜΕΝΟΥΣ

ΓΙΑΝΝΗΣ ΡΙΤΣΟΣ

Ο ΤΡΙΤΟΣ

Κάθονταν κι οι τρείς στο παράθυρο, κοιτώντας τη θάλασσα.
Ο ένας μιλούσε για τη θάλασσα. Ο δεύτερος άκουγε. Ο τρίτος
ούτε μιλούσε ούτε άκουγε΄ βρισκόταν στο βυθό της θάλασσας΄ έπλεε.
Πίσω απ'τα τζάμια φαίνονταν αργές, διαυγείς οι κινήσεις του
μες στο αραιό γαλάζιο. Εξερευνούσε ένα ναυαγισμένο πλοίο.
Χτύπησε το νεκρό καμπανάκι της βάρδιας΄ λεπτές φυσαλίδες
ανέβαιναν σπάζοντας με ήσυχους ήχους. Άξαφνα
"πνίγηκε;" ρώτησε ο ένας΄ ο άλλος: "πνίγηκε", είπε. Ο τρίτος
απ' το βυθό του τους κοίταξε αβοήθητος, όπως κοιτούν τους πνιγμένους.


ΓΙΑΝΝΗΣ ΡΙΤΣΟΣ
Απο τις ΧΕΙΡΟΝΟΜΙΕΣ, Αθήνα, 1972

ΑΛΛΟ ΔΟΛΩΜΑ

GYÖRGY PETRI

I AM STUCK, LORD, ON YOUR HOOK

I am stuck, Lord, on your hook.
I've been wriggling there, curled up,
for the past twenty-six years
alluringly, and yet
the line has never gone taut.
It's now clear
there are no fish in your river.
Lord, if you still have hopes,
choose some other worm. Being
among the elect
has been beautiful. All the same,
what I'd just like to do, right now,
is dry off and loll about in the sun.


GYÖRGY PETRI (1943-2000)