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Letter to the Poet Caesar Emmanuel

It seems now that nothing nothing can save us... - Caesar Emmanuel

A few words about the poem and its subject matter: Caesar Emmanuel, (1902-1970) was a Greek poet, cousin of another Greek poet, Jean Moras (Ioannis A. Papadiamantopoulos). The quote above (in italics, aligned to the right under the title) was the inspiration for Nikos Kavvadias to write this poem, which was included in his 1933 poem collection titled Marabou. Parts of this poem were put into a song in the 1990s by Greek singer-songwriter Dimitris Zervoudakis, under the title Letter To A Poet. On the left-hand column, I number the stanzas; the stanzas that were put in the song are numbered in red. In the song, stanzas 9 and 6 (in that order) formed the chorus (that is first heard after the 4 th stanza). Another departure from the original is that, in stanza 11, the word perhaps is omitted from the song's lyrics. Youtube link for the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NxN96eq692I 1 I know something that could, Caesar, save you. Something that is always in an eternal state of change, Something that tears through the blurry lines of the horizons And without pause travels through the endless Earth. Something that would make the crow leave hurriedly, The crow that always covers your study's papers. To leave crowing in a coarse voice, flapping its wings, To some uninhabited valley of the South. Something that would make your wet, strange eyes, That are so loved by tender schoolgirls and silent poets, Joyfully and full of anticipation laugh, In a manner that as they say they have never laughed. I know something that could certainly save you. I, who have never known you, just think of it, I... A ship... To take you away Caesar, to take us away. A ship that I shall be driving very far. On a winter's day we'd depart. The tugboats would blow their horns as they would pass us by, The stinking waters the rain would spray, And the cranes at the docks would turn. The foreign cities would welcome us, The cities the most far-flung And I would introduce you to them so simply, As if to sweet women that I'd loved in times of old.

At night, on our watches, we'd tell Strange stories at the bridge, Of the constellations or the waves of the sea Of the weathers, the windless days, the routes. When the fog so thick would cover us, We'd hear the cries of the lighthouses And the ships unseen we'd hear, Wailing as they passed and drifted away. Far, so far away we'd travel, And the sun would always find us alone; You smoking Camel cigarettes, And me, in a corner, drinking whiskey. And an old lady in Annam, a painter of tattoos, An old lady in a noisy caf, A bleeding heart would paint on me And a bare, on your chest, skull And one night in Burma, or in Batavia, In the eyes of an Indian girl that would dance, Nude among the seventeen daggers, You would, perhaps, see Greta coming back. Ceasar, compared to a death in a bedroom, Compared to an earthen, mundane grave, Would it not be more poetic and beautiful, The translucent depth of the sea and the wild wave? Words grand, poetic, unrealised, Words common, hollow, smoke and ashes, That, as you read them, might make you pity me, Laughing and shaking your head. My sole request, though, would be, My verses not to mock. And as I for a brother have prayed, So I ask that you pray for a madman.

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