Ποιητικές συλλογές
Κώστας Καρυωτάκης, 1928
The poet of Greek disillusionment: ironic, musical verses about failed hopes, dull offices, and the strange comfort of knowing nothing lasts.
1896–1928
He published only three slim collections in his lifetime; his suicide at 32 in Preveza turned him into the emblem of a generation's despair, though the poems are far funnier than their reputation.
Feels like melancholy, death and solitude.
On being a broken guitar, a snapped antenna, a set of unfocused senses.
Εἴμαστε κάτι ξεχαρβαλωμένεςκιθάρες. Ὁ ἄνεμος, ὅταν περνάει,στίχους, ἤχους παράφωνους ξυπνάειστὶς χορδὲς ποὺ κρέμονται σὰν καδένες.Εἴμαστε κάτι ἀπίστευτες ἀντέννες.Ὑψώνονται σὰ δάχτυλα στὰ χάη,στὴν κορυφή τους τἄπειρο ἀντηχάει,μὰ γρήγορα θὰ πέσουνε σπασμένες.Εἴμαστε κάτι διάχυτες αἰσθήσεις,χωρὶς ἐλπίδα νὰ συγκεντρωθοῦμε.Στὰ νεῦρα μας μπερδεύεται ὅλη ἡ φύσις.Στὸ σῶμα, στὴν ἐνθύμηση πονοῦμε.Μᾶς διώχνουνε τὰ πράγματα, κ’ ἡ ποίησιςεἶναι τὸ καταφύγιο ποὺ φθονοῦμε. Κώστας Καρυωτάκης, 1928
The poet of Greek disillusionment: ironic, musical verses about failed hopes, dull offices, and the strange comfort of knowing nothing lasts.
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