ΛΟΓΙΑ ΤΟΥ ΑΕΡΟΣ… ΤΟΥ ΑΤΤΙΚΟΥ ΑΕΡΟΣ ΛΟΓΙΑ…

ΛΟΓΙΑ ΤΟΥ ΑΕΡΟΣ… ΤΟΥ ΑΤΤΙΚΟΥ ΑΕΡΟΣ ΛΟΓΙΑ…

Θ. Θάνατος

Ανήμερα του Αγίου Περικλέους του Μάρτυρος εκ των Τεσσαράκοντα, 10 Απριλίου 1910, ευρέθη νεκρός (;) ο Περικλής Γιαννόπουλος.
Μεγάλη Πέμπτη, ωστόσο, είχαν γίνει τα μαγικά:
eam Thessaliam ex negotio petebam.

ΛΟΓΙΑ ΤΟΥ ΑΕΡΟΣ…

ΤΟΥ ΑΤΤΙΚΟΥ ΑΕΡΟΣ ΛΟΓΙΑ….

Ἀλήθεια εἶνε Λόγια τοῦ Ἀέρος… τοῦ Ἀττικοῦ Ἀέρος Λόγια… Τῶν Ῥοδίνων Ἀέρων τῆς Αὐγῆς, τῶν Μενεξεδένιων Ἀέρων τῆς Δύσεως. Δὲν τὰ λέω ἐγώ… Καθισμένα ἐλαφρότατα αἴρονται μόνα των, αἰωροῦνται εἰς τὸν Ἀέρα καὶ σὰν ἄρωμα πλέουν εἰς τὸ Φῶς – τὸ θυμαρόεν Φῶς. Χρυσοῦν στάχυ παῖζον εἰς τὸν ὦμον καφεοροδίνου βράχου, γράφει μὲ τὸ χρυσόν του δάκτυλον, εἰς τὸν σμαράγδινον οὐρανόν, ποιήματα τρελλότατα. Εἰς τὰ κολπούμενα πλάγια λόφου μακρυνοῦ, φαίνεται ἀναπαυομένη ὡραία Νύμφη, λέγουσα τὰ ὄνειρά της εἰς τα φῶτα. Ἀπὸ τὴν λιγυρὰν γραμμὴν λόφου ἄλλου, ἀφίπταται σὰν πτερωτὴ Νίκη, ἔρχεται, ἔρχεται ὅλη χαρά, νεοτάτη, ὡραία Ἰδέα. Ἀπὸ ἀργυροκλίνοντα κλῶνον ἐλαίας, τρυφερότατον ἀποκρεμᾶται αἴσθημα, ὅπως πίπτουν τῶν ἀνθισμένων δένδρων, τὰ πέταλα τῶν ἀνθέων. Ἀπὸ γυρμένων ἀκτίνων πεύκου, πίπτει βροχὴ ἀκτίνων ἄλλη, φωτοραίνουσα ἡδονικώτατα τὴν ψυχὴν. Ἀπὸ ἀναπνοὴν κύματος ἱοθωπεύτου ἀκτῆς, ἀμβρόσιον ἐκπνέεται συναίσθημα. Καὶ ἀπὸ τὸν χορὸν τῶν ὀρεινῶν κορυφοσειρῶν, ποῦ στεφανώνουν τὸ οὐράνιον Ἄστυ, ἐπουρανία ἐκπορεύεται μελῳδία. Δὲν τὰ λέγω ἐγώ… Καθισμένα εἰς τὸν ἀέρα, αἴρονται μόνα των, μόνα των ἔρχονται τὰ Λόγια τοῦ Ἀέρος καὶ θωπεύουν τὰ αἰσθητήρια τοῦ ἐφήμερου διαβάτου τῆς Ζωῆς.

Truth is, what is spoken, flies. Words they are of the Wind… Of the Attic Wind. Of the Rosy Airs of Dawn, of the the Violet Airs of the Dusk… I do not say these… Sitting smoothly the rise on their own, they float on the air and like an aroma they waft to the Light – the Light of Thyme. Golden cob playing on the shoulder of a brownred rock, writing with its golden finger, up on the skies of emerald, poems of insanity. In the engulfed slopes of a faraway hill, you can see a resting Nymph, narrating her dreams to the lights. From the clear line of another hill, flapping away like a winged Nike, she is coming, in joy, young, a beautiful Idea. From the declining branch of an olive tree, tender feeling is swining, same as the pedals of flowers from blossomed trees fall. From the declining beams of the pine tree, another rain of rays is falling, sprinkling sensuously the light on the soul. From the breath of a wave on a shore that is carressed by the violets (ἱοθωπεύτου ἀκτῆς) ambrosiac, immortal feeling is pouring. And from the dance of the mountainous peak line, that are crowning the City of Skies, a heavenly melody is marching ahead. I do not say these. Sitting in the skies, they are risen on their own, alone they come, the Words of the Wind and they caress the senses of the ephemeral flaneur of Life.

Ἐλαφρά, αἰθέρια, μὲ τὰ χρωματιστά των φορέματα καὶ τὰς μουσικάς των γραμμάς, ἀεροποροῦν εἰς τὸν Ἀέρα, μέ μαλακότατον ταξιδεύουν ῥυθμόν. Ἄλλοτε ἔρχονται σαν ἴα · ἄλλοτε σὰν τριαντάφυλλα, προσφερόμενα ἀπὸ ὡραῖον χέρι · ἄλλοτε σὰν κρίνοι, κρίνοι χωρὶς ἄγγελον, φέροντες Εὐαγγέλια Χαρᾶς. Καὶ ἐνίοτε ἔρχονται καὶ περικάθηνται γύρων τῶν κροτάφων, σὰν πράσινα στεφάνια κισσοῦ · ἐνίοτε σὰν ἀργυρόχροα Στεφάνια ἐλαίας. Κάποτε ζητοῦν, ψαύουν, θροοῦν, ψιθυρίζουν, σαν χείλη · καὶ κάποτε καίουν, σὰν φιλήματα. Ὤ ναι! σὰν Ἀφροδίσεια βίσινα χείλη, φιλοῦν τὰς αἰσθήσεις μεθυστικώτατα τὰ ὡραῖα Λόγια. Λόγια τῶν Ῥοδίνων Ἀέρων τῆς Αὐγῆς, τῶν Μενεξεδένιων Ἀέρων τῆς Δύσεως. Ἀλήθεια δὲν τα λέγω ἐγώ. Ἀλήθεια εἶνε… Λόγια τοῦ Ἀέρος… τοῦ Ἀττικοῦ Ἀέρος Λόγια…

1.Εἰς ἕνα μέρος τοῦ Ἐλαιῶνος, τοῦ ἱεροῦ Ἐλαιῶνος, ποῦ ἔχει ἀκόμη ἐλαίας τοῦ ὡραίου καιροῦ, εἰς ἀγρὸν φυλαγμένον ἀπὸ τὰ ἀργυρᾶ του φύλλα, ἀγρὸν φουντωμένον ἀπὸ κλήματα νέα, ἕνας νέος, ξανθὸς νέος, κύπτει σκάπτων, εἰς τὴν ἱερὰν τῆς πρωΐας σιγήν.

Καὶ ὁ μόνος κρότος τῆς ἀξίνης, ὁ χανόμενος εἰς τὸ ξανθοπράσιον κῦμα τῶν κλημάτων καὶ τὸ ἀργυροῦν ἁβροσάλευμα τῶν ἐλαιῶν, λαλεῖ ῥυθμικά καὶ λέγει:

Light, aethereal, with their colourful dresses and their musical lines, their they airflow in the Air, with a soft rhythm they travel. Once they come like violets; whilom they come as roses, offered from a beautiful hand ; whilome they come like lilies, lilies without an angel, bearing Gospels of Joy. And sometimes, they come and circle around the temples, as green crowns of ivy; some times as silvercoloured Crowns of olive. Every now and then, they ask, they touch gently, they rustle and they whisper, as lips; and every now and then, they burn, like kisses. Oh yes! Like Aphrodisial sour cherry lips, they kiss the senses in the most entoxicating manner those beautiful Words. Words of the Rosal Winds of East, of the Violet Winds of the West . I really do not say these words. They really are Words of the Wind… of The Attic Wind the Words…

1. In a part of the Olive Grove, the holy Olive Grove that still hase the olive trees of the beautiful times, on a meadow kept safe from it silver leaves, a meadow blooming with new grapevines, a young, blong man, leans, digging, in the sacred silence of the morning.

And only the clash of the pickaxe, lost within the blondegreen wave of the grapevines and the silver courteous move of the olive trees, sing rhythmically and says:

Ὄργωνε, ὄργωνε, σκάπτε καὶ δούλευε, ὅλην τὴν ὥραν, χωρὶς ἀρχήν, χωρὶς τελειωμόν, χωρὶς νὰ πάρῃς ποτὲ ἀνασασμόν. Ὄργωνε, ὄργωνε, σκάπτε καὶ δούλευε τὴν ἄμπελον ποῦ σοῦ ἔδωκεν ὁ Κύριος, τὴν χρυσοφωτισμένην Ἄμπελον τῆς Ψυχῆς, ποῦ δίδει τὸ μεθυστικὸν τοῦ Ὡραίου ποτόν. Ἐντὸς ὀλίγου θὰ περάσῃ ὁ Κύριος τῆς Ἀμπέλου κουρασμένος, καὶ πρέπει νὰ ἔχῃς χρυσοφώτεινα φύλλα διὰ νὰ στεφανώσῃ τὰ νυκτόχροα μαλλιά του, καὶ πρέπει νὰ ἔχῃς ὡραῖα σταφύλια διὰ νὰ δροσίσῃ τὰ ῥοδόχροα χείλη του.
Ὄργωνε, ὄργωνε, σκάπτε καὶ δούλευε, χωρὶς ἀρχήν, χωρὶς τελειωμόν, χωρὶς νὰ πάρῃς ποτὲ ἀνασασμόν. Ἑντὸς ὀλίγου θὰ περάσῃ ὁ Κύριος, ὁ Ἀπολλώνειος Κύριος – Ο ΘΑΝΑΤΟΣ.

Plow, plow, dig and work, all the time, no beginning, no ending, without ever taking time to breathe. Plow, plow, dig and work the vine that the Lord has given to you, the golden lighted Vine of the Soul, that gives out the entoxicating drink of Beauty. In a while, the Lord of the Vine shall pass tired, and you must have golden bright leaves to crown his nightly coloured hair, and you must have good grapes to cool his rosecoloured lips. Plow, plow, dig and work, no beginning, no ending, without ever taking time to breathe. In a while, the Lord, the Apollonian Lord shall pass, – DEATH.

2. Πλησίον τῆς θύρας τοῦ Ἐρεχθείου περνῶ ὥρας ὡρῶν, καὶ ὅπου γυρίσουν τὰ μάτια, εἰς τὸν Ἐλαιῶνα, εἰς τὰ πλάγια τῶν καφεοροδίνων λόφων, εἰς τὰ πλάγια τοῦ Πεντελικοῦ, ἢ τοῦ Πάρνηθος,ἢ τοῦ Αἰγάλεω, ἢ τοῦ Κορυδαλοῦ, τὰ μάτια μένουν μαγευμένα, καὶ ἕνα πάντα συναίσθημα πλημμυρίζει τὴν ζωήν.

Σὰν μία μουσικὴ νὰ ἔπαιζε παντοῦ, ᾆσμα χαρᾶς ἡδυτάτης καὶ λύπης ἀκροτάτης, σὰν μία ὀρχήστρα νὰ ἔπαιζεν ἐκεῖ καὶ νὰ μὴ ἔφθανεν ἦχος ἕως ἐδῶ, ἀλλὰ δόνησις αἰθέρος ἄηχος, νὰ ἔφθανε μόνον ἕως ἐδῶ καὶ να ἔπαλλε μουσικώτατα τὴν ψυχήν.

Τί θαυμασία ποῦ εἶνε ἡ ζωή ! τί θαυμασία ἡ αἴσθησις τοῦ νέου Σώματος εἰς τὸν ἡδονικὸν Ἀέρα ! πῶς αισθάνεται θαυμάσια εἰς τὸ κυανορόδινον φῶς καὶ ποθεῖ, ποθεῖ, ποθεῖ τὸ κάλλος ! τὸ ἐξωτερικὸν κάλλος τὸ ζωγραφιζόμενον ἐντός του μὲ φιλήματα μουσικά.

2. Close to the gate of the Erechteion I pass hours upon hours, and wherever my eyes turn, in the Olive Grove, on the slopes of the brownred hills, on the sides of Mount Pentelikon, or on Parnes, or Egaleon, or Korydallus, eyes remain enchanted, and one sentiment, always, floods life.

As if a music was playing everywhere, a song of sweet joy and extreme sorrow, like an orchestra playing out there and it sound never reaching here, but the vibration, the soundless vibration of the aethereal reaching here and musically vibrating the soul.

How wondrous is life ! What miraculous is the feeling of the new Body in the hedonistic Air ! How wonderful in the cyanrose light the Body feels, and desires, desires, desires the beauty! The superficial beauty painted inside of it with musical kisses.

Πλησίον τῆς θύρας τοῦ Ἐρεχθείου, περνῶ  ὥρας ὡρῶν, κρατημένος ἐκεῖ εἰς τὸν Ἐαρινὸν Ἀέρα, χωρὶς νὰ διανοοῦμαι οὐδέν, αἰσθανόμενος μόνον τὸ Σῶμα νὰ ζῇ, νὰ διαμένῃ μακάριον.

Καὶ κάποτε, σὰν ἕνας πόθος ἀόριστος καὶ φευγαλέος, περνᾷ εἰς τὸ κυανοῦν καὶ αἰθέριον μέθυ τοῦ γλυκοῦ Ἀέρος · περνᾷ, μόνος πόθος ἀόριστος καὶ φευγαλέος, περνᾷ καὶ ἀναπερνᾷ και περιγυρίζει, ὅπως ἡ σκιὰ τῶν πουλιῶν εἰς τὸ φωτισμένον χῶμα : νὰ ἥμουν Ἔφηβος Φειδίου Μαρμάρινος, νὰ βλέπω αἰῶνας αἰώνων τὸ Ἀττικὸν Φῶς.

Close to the gate of the Erechteion I pass hours upon hours, holding myself up there in the Spring Air, without thinking of anything, feeling only the Body live, remaining blissful.

And sometimes, like a vague desire fleeting, passes in the cyan and aethereal drunkedness of the sweet Air; passes, alone a desire vague and fleeting, passes and comes back again and circles, like the shadow of the birds that fly on the enlightened earth; as if I were an Ephebe of Pheidias, Marble, watching eons upon eons the Attic Light.

3. Ἐδῶ, ἐδῶ, εἰς τὸν Ἀττικὸν Ἀέρα, πλέει ὅλη ἡ Σοφία, γεννᾶται καὶ ἐνθουσιάζει ὁ πόθος τῶν Τελείων Καλλονῶν. Ἐδῶ, ἐδῶ ἐπάνω εἰς τὰ Παλάτια τοῦ Ὡραίου, Νίκης, Ἐρεχθέως, Ἀθηνᾶς, τοὺς Θείους Οἴκους, ὁ θειότερος τοῦ κόσμου Ἀὴρ ἐκδύει τὴν ψυχήν, ὅλων τῶν χυδαίων φορεμάτων, ἐνδύει καὶ κοσμεῖ αὐτήν, δι᾽ ὅλων τῶν βασιλείων ἐνδυμάτων.

Ἐδῶ, ἐδῶ ἐπάνω, εἰς τῶν παγκάλων Ἱερῶν τὸ θεῖον θέαμα, εἰς τοῦ θείου Ἐρεχθείου τὰ πρόθυρα, ὅπου οἱ λευκοφόροι ἱερεῖς τοῦ ὡραίου καιροῦ ἐρέμβαζον μὲ τὰ θεῖα, διαμένω ὥρας ὡρῶν, μακαρίως λησμονῶν τὴν ταπεινῆν ζωήν, μὲ ἄφωνον ἔκστασιν ἀκούων τὸ Νέον μου Σῶμα νὰ ὑμνῇ ἀφώνως, τὸν Θεὸ τοῦ Ὡραίου.

Ἀπὸ τὸν Ἐλαιῶνα, ἀπό τὰς μελῳδούσᾳς γραμμὰς τῶν Ὁρέων, ἀπὸ τὰ ἀδειανὰ ἄδυτα τῶν Ναῶν, ἀπὸ κάθε μαρμαρίνην φαεινὴν χορδήν, αἱ εἰκόνες, αἱ ἰδέαι, τὰ ἄνθη, τὰ ἀρώματα, ἐκπορεύονται, ἔρχονται, ἔρχονται ἀπὸ παντοῦ σὰν ἀνοιγμένα χείλη, τὰ ὡραῖα συναισθήματα, οἱ ὡραῖοι πόθοι, τὰ ὡραῖα Λόγια τοῦ Ἀττικοῦ Ἀέρος. Ἔρχονται καὶ θωπεύουν καὶ στολίζουν τὴν ψυχὴν καὶ τὴν φιλοῦν, μὲ τὸν διάπυρον πόθον νὰ τὴν κάμουν Ὡραίαν. Καὶ ἡ Ψυχὴ εὐφραίνεται καὶ μεθᾷ, σὰν Νύμφη ὑπὸ παρθένων στολιζομένη διὰ συνουσίαν μὲ Ὡραῖον Θεόν.

Ἄχ ! τί παραδίσειαι εἶνε αἱ Ὧραι ἐδῶ, ἐδῶ ἐπάνω, εἰς τοῦ θείου Ἐρεχθείου τὰ γαμήλια πρόθυρα. Ἐνίοτε αἰσθάνομαι ἐπὶ τῶν νώτων μαλακὸν πλοῦτον πορφῦρας, καὶ εἰς τὴν κεφαλὴν λαμποβολὴν διαδήματος. Ἐνίοτε τὸ Σῶμα προσκλίνει ἀκούσια ἀπὸ τῶν βαθμίδων, διὰ νὰ δεχθῇ τὰ ἁβρότατα χαρίσματα, ὅπως Βασιλεὺς ἀπὸ Θρόνον δεχόμενος δῶρα. Ἐνίοτε τὸ Σῶμα ὑποκλίνεται μὲ εὐλάβειαν εἰς ὡραῖον ἄγγελον φέροντα κρίνον · καὶ ἐνίοτε μοῦ φαίνεται ὅτι, σὰν ἀπὸ Ὡραίαν Πύλην Ναοῦ, μὲ ἀργυρόμαλλον νεότητα Ὄντος Ἀθανάτου, τείνω ῥοδίνην εὐδαιμονίαν χειλέων, πρὸς ἅγιον φίλημα Ὡραίας Θεότητος.

Θ. ΘΑΝΑΤΟΣ

3. Here, here, in the Attic Air, floats all Wisdom, is born and excites, amuses the desire of Perfect Beauties. Here, here up on the Palaces of Beauty, Victory, Erechtheus, Athena, the Holy Houses, the most divine Air of the cosmos strips off/ undresses the soul, of all the vulgar dresses, attires and beautifies the soul, with clothes of all kingdoms.

Here, here, up here, in the all good Sanctuaries the divine view, in the divine Erechtheion the propylon, where the white dressed priests of beautiful time were daydreaming with the divine, I remain, hours upon hours, blissfully forgetting the humble life, with a voiceless ecstasis listening to my New Body praising aphonically, soundless, the God of Beauty.

From the Olive Grove, from the melodic lines of the Mountains, from the empty Adyton of the Temples, from every marble lightning string, the images, the ideas, the flowers, the aromas, they arrive, they come out, they come from everywhere, like open lips, the beautiful sentiments, the beautiful desires, the beautiful Words of the Attic Air. They come and they caress and they ornament the soul and they kiss it with a burning desire to make her Beautiful. And the Soul rejoices and gets drunk, like a Nymph decorated by virgins, for the intercourse with a Beautiful God.

Oh! How heavenly are the Hours here, here, up here, up on the divine Erechteion the marital/ bridal gates. Sometimes I feel up on my rear a soft wealth of Tyrrean purple, and on the head the bright shining of a diadem. Sometimes the Body leans unwillingly from the degrees, to receive the courteous charismas, like a King from a Throne, accepting gifts,. Sometimes the Body inclines, bows with piety to a beautiful angel bearing a lily; and sometimes it seems to me that, as if from a Beautiful Gate of a Temple, with the Silverhaired youth of an Immortal Creature, I extend a bliss of lips towards the sacred kiss of a Beautiful Deity.

Θ. ΘΑΝΑΤΟΣ – D. DEATH.
Translation: Ilias Kolokouris