The Knight and Death -- Ο Ιπποτης κι ο Θανατος

The Knight and Death, Durer etching, 1513.

The night before 9/11, I was working on a translation of Gatsos' great poem, "The Knight and Death," a title he took from this Durer etching. The next morning as I stood in the crowds watching the astounding beauty of minute red flames flickering in the pillars of cloud, fragments  kept buzzing in my head - - I saw your descendants like birds / rip open the sky of my country / and I saw the cypress trees of the Morea stop breathing on the plain of Nauplion . . . Gatsos speaks of April 1941 but the poem has become something of a talisman for me, and I have used its title for my book on the Morea. For this tenth anniversary of that terrible day, I am printing here my translation and Gatsos' original from my translations of his complete poetry.

* * * * * *

THE KNIGHT AND DEATH (1513)

Just so, I see you motionless 

traveling down the ages with the horse of Akritas 
and the sword of Ai-Yiorgi 
I would place beside you
with the dark shapes that stand eternally beside you 
until the place where you are extinguished eternally with them 
until you become a fire in the great Chance where you were born
I would place beside you
an orange from the snow-covered fields of the moon
I would unfold for you the veil of an evening 
with red Antares singing the young men 
with the River of Sky overflowing into August
to weep with the North Star and freeze
I would place beside you meadows
waters that never watered the lilies of Germany
and I would ornament this iron you wear
with a sprig of basil and a handful of mint 
with the arms of Plapoutas and the sword of Nikitaras
And then I who saw your descendants like birds
split open on a spring day the sky of my country
saw the cypress trees of the Morea stop breathing
there on the fields of Nauplion
before the waiting embrace of the wounded sea
where the eons wrestled with the crosses of gallantry
I would place beside you
the bitter eyes of a youth
and the closed eyelids
in the mud and blood of Holland.

This dark land

will someday become green again

The iron hand of Götz will overturn the caissons

and mound them with sheaves of barley and rye

And in the dark oaks with the dead loves

there where time turned a virgin leaf to stone

on the breasts where a tear-stained rose trembled

a star will shine silent as a spring daisy

But you will remain motionless

with the horse of Akritas and the lance of Ai-Yiorgi you will travel

through the years

a restless hunter from the race of heroes

with those dark shapes that stand eternally beside you

until a day when you will vanish eternally with them

until you become again a fire in the great Chance where you were born

until in the caves of the river

the heavy hammers of patience resound again

not for ornaments and swords

but for pruning hooks and plows.


Translation copyright © Diana Gilliland Wright, September 2001.

Ο ΙΠΠΟΤΗΣ ΚΙ Ο ΘΑΝΑΤΟΣ (1513)

Καθὼς σὲ βλέπω ἀκίνητο
Μὲ τοὺ Ἀκρίτα τ᾿ ἄλογο καὶ τὸ κοντάρι τοῦ Ἁη-Γιωργιοῦ
νὰ ταξισεύεις στὰ χρόνια
Μπορῶ νὰ βάλω κοντά σου
Σ᾿ αὐτὲς τὶς σκοτεινὲς μορφὲς ποὺ θὰ σὲ παραστέκουν αἰώνια
Ὥσπου μιὰ μέρα νὰ σβυστεῖς κι ἐσὺ παντοτεινὰ μαζὶ τους
Ὥσπου νά γίνεις πάλι μιὰ φωτιὰ μὲς ατὴ μεφἀλη Τύχη ποὺ σὲ γέννησε
Μπορῶ νὰ βάλω κοντά σου
Μιὰ νεραντζιὰ στοῦ φεγγαριοῦ τοὺς χιονισμένους κάμπους
Καὶ τὸ μαγνάδι μιᾶς βραδιᾶς νὰ ξεδιπλώσω μπροστά σου
Μὲ τὸν Ἀντάρη κόκκινο νὰ τραγουδάει τὰ νιάτα
Μὲ τὸ Ποτάμι τ᾿ Οὐρανοῦ νὰ χύνεται στὸν Ἄγουστο
Καὶ μὲ τ᾿ Ἀστέρι τοῦ Βοριᾶ νὰ κλαίει ταὶ νὰ παγώνει –
Μπορῶ νὰ βάλω λιβάδια
Νερὰ ποὺ κάποτε πισαν τὰ κρίνα τῆς Γερμανίας
Κι αύτὰ τὰ σίδερα ποὺ φορεῖς μπορῶ νὰ σοῦ τὰ στολίσω
Μ᾿ ἕνα κλωνὶ βασιλικὸ κι ἕνα ματσάκι δυόσμο
Μέ τοῦ Πλαπούτα τ᾿ ἄρματα καὶ τοῦ Νικηταρᾶ τὶς πάλες.
Μὰ ἐγὼ ποὺ εἶδα τοὺς ἀπογίνους σου σὰν πουλιὰ
Νὰ σκίζουν μιὰν ἀνοικάτικη αὐγὴ τὸν οὐρανὸ τῆς πατρίδας μου
Κι εἶδα τὰ κυπαρίσσα τοῦ Μοριᾶ νὰ σωπαίνουν
Ἐκεῖ στὸν κάμπο τοῦ Ἀναπλιοῦ
Μπροστὰ στὴν πρόθυμη ἀγκαλιὰ τοῦ πληγωμένου πελάγου
Ὅπου οἱ αἰῶνες πάλευαν μὲ τοὺς σταυροὺς τῆς παλλυκαριᾶς
Θὰ βάλω τώρα κοντἀ σου
Τά πικραμένα μάτια ἑνὸς παιδιοῦ
Καὶ τὰ κλεισμένα βλφαρα
Μέσα στὴ λάσπη καὶ τὸ αἶμα τῆς Ὁλλανδίας.

Αὐτὸς ο μαῦρος τόπος
Θὰ πρασσινίσει κάποτε
Τὸ σιδερένιο χέρι τοῦ Γκὲτς θ᾿ ἀναποδογυρίσει τ᾿ ἁμάξια
Θὰ τὰ φορτώσει θημωνιὲς ὸ κριθάρι καὶ σίκαλη
Καὶ μὲς στοὺς σκοτεινοὺς δρuμοὺς μὲ τὶς νεκρὲς ἀγάπες
Ἐκεῖ ποὺ πέτρωσε καιρὸς ἕνα παρθένο φύλλο
Στὰ στήθια ποὺ σιγότρεμε μιὰ δακρuσμένη τριανταφυλλιὰ
Θὰ λάμπει ἕνα ἄστρο σιωπηλὸ σὰν ἀνοιξιάτικη μαργαρίτα.
Μὰ ἐσὺ θὰ μένεις ἀκίνητος
Μὲ τοῦ Ἀκρίτα τ᾿ ἄλογο καὶ τὸ κοντάρι τοῦ Ἁη-Γιωργιοῦ θὰ ταξιδεύεις στὰ χρόνια
Ἕνας ἀνήσυχος κυνηγὸς ἀπ᾿ τὴ γενιὰ τῶν ἡρώων
Μ᾿ αὐτὲς τὶς σκοτεινὲς μορφὲς ποὺ θὰ σὲ παραστέκουν αἰώνια
Ὥσπου μιὰ μέρα νὰ σβυστεῖς κι ἐσὺ παντονεινὰ μαζί τους
Ὅσπου νὰ γίνεις πάλι μιὰ φωτιὰ μὲς στὴ μεγάλη Τύχη ποὺ σὲ γέννησε
Ὅσπου καὶ πάλι στὶς σπηλιὲς τῶν ποταμιῶν ν᾿ ἀντηχήσουν
Βαριὰ σφυριὰ τὴς ὑπομονὴς
Ὄχι γιὰ δαχτυλίδια καὶ σπαθιὰ
Ἀλλὰ γιὰ κλαδευτήρια κι ἀλέτρια.