Παρασκευή, 14 Ιουνίου 2013

ΤΟ ΤΡΙΑΝΤΑΦΥΛΛΟ (THE ROSE)



Το Τριαντάφυλλο

Κάποιοι λένε πως η αγάπη είναι ένα ποτάμι
που πνίγει το τρυφερό καλάμι.
Άλλοι λένε πως η αγάπη είναι ένα ξυράφι
που ματώνει την ψυχή σου.
Μερικοί λένε πως η αγάπη είναι μια πείνα,
μια ατέλειωτη, οδυνηρή ανάγκη.
Εγώ λέω πως η αγάπη είναι ένα λουλούδι,
κι εσύ ο μοναδικός του σπόρος.

Η καρδιά που φοβάται τον πόνο, 
ποτέ δεν μαθαίνει να χορεύει.
Τ' όνειρο που φοβάται το ξύπνημα,
ποτέ δεν ριψοκινδυνεύει.
Εκείνος που δεν μπορεί να δώσει,
είναι αυτός που δεν θα πάρει,
και η ψυχή που φοβάται μην πεθάνει,
ποτέ δεν μαθαίνει να ζει.

Όταν η νύχτα είναι αβάσταχτα μοναχική,
και ο δρόμος πάρα πολύ μακρύς,
και νομίζεις πως η αγάπη είναι μόνο
για τους τυχερούς και δυνατούς,
τότε, απλά, θυμήσου πως στο καταχείμωνο,
πολύ πιο κάτω από το παγερό χιόνι,
κρύβεται ο σπόρος που με την αγάπη του ήλιου,
την άνοιξη, θα γίνει τριαντάφυλλο.

(Απόδοση: Αγγελική Μπούλιαρη)
 http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6448557



The Rose

Some say love it is a river
that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love it is a hunger,
an endless aching need.
I say love it is a flower
and you its only seed.

It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance.
It's the dream afraid of waking
that never takes the chance.
It's the one who won't be taking
who cannot seem to give
anf the soul afraid of dying
that never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been too long
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong,
just remember in the winter,
far beneath the bitter snow,
lies the seed that with the sun's love
in the spring becomes the rose.


The Rose Song Lyrics Information
The Rose was recorded by Bette Midler in 1979
Other popular recording have been by:
Conway Twitty in 1983 and Leann Rimes in 1997
Lyrics and Song Music by Amanda Mc Broom


Ακούστε το τραγούδι εδώ:

Τι λέει η στιχουργός και μουσικοσυνθέτης για το τραγούδι:  


How "THE ROSE" came to be (by Amanda McBroom)
People often ask me what inspired me to write The Rose. Here is the story:
I was driving down the freeway one afternoon, some time in 1977-something. I was listening to the radio. A song came on. It was "Magdalena" by Danny O’Keefe, sung by Leo Sayer.  I liked it immediately. My favorite line was "Your love is like a razor. My heart is just a scar." I thought," Ooh, I love that lyric."
As I continued to drive the thought came, I don't agree with the sentiment. I don't think love is like a razor. (I was younger then.) What, then, do I think love is? Suddenly, it was as if someone had opened a window in the top of my head. Words came pouring in. I had to keep reciting them to myself as I drove faster and faster towards home, so I wouldn't forget them. I screeched into my drive way, ran into the house, past various bewildered dogs and cats and husband, and sat down at the piano. Ten minutes later, The Rose was there.
I called my husband, George, into the room and played it for him, as I always did with my new songs. He listened, and quietly said to me, "You've just written a standard." I protested that no one but my pals would ever hear it. (This is long before I had ever recorded anything.) He said," Mark my words, something is going to happen with this song."
A year or so later, a professional song - writer friend of mine said, "Listen. There is this movie coming out called "The Rose". They are looking for a title tune. Do you want me to submit this to them?" I had never really tried to submit this song to anyone. I didn't consider myself a song writer at the time. So I said, "Sure."
She submitted the tune to the producers, who hated it. They thought it was dull and a hymn and not rock and roll and totally wrong. They put it in the reject box. But the divine Paul Rothchild, who was the music supervisor on the film, and had been Janis Joplin’s producer, hauled it out and asked them to reconsider. They again said no. So he mailed it to Bette Middler. She liked it, and that’s how it got into the film and changed my life forever.
I have never written another song as quickly. I like to think I was the window that happened to be open when those thoughts needed to come through. I am eternally grateful... to Bette Midler... to Paul Rothchild... to Bill Kerby, who wrote the screenplay...to my friend who first submitted it for me... and to the Universe for speaking to me in the first place and for showing me what I truly believe..........
.......... Originally the film was to be called "The Pearl", which was Janis Joplin’s nick name. But her family refused permission to use that name. Lucky for me. "Pearl" is much harder to rhyme than "Rose".


Δευτέρα, 10 Ιουνίου 2013

THE AUBERGINES

The aubergines

a short story by Angeliki Bouliari  

Both my mother’s husbands passed away prematurely, a short while after they had reached their sixties. The second at the age of sixty-three. In May of that year he received his pension, in June he was diagnosed with cancer. The doctors gave him a small extension of life through a serious, that is painful, operation, and so he had time to say farewell to us and we on the other hand to get used to the idea.  My own father was the first husband, but I don’t have much to tell you about him. They took a divorce when I was a little girl and saw him in no more than three or four occasions.

My mother is a very dynamic and independent person, though with a somewhat harsh and primitive behavior at times, perhaps because she was deprived of education, which became an obsession for her. Luckily things balanced out with me and my brothers, since we were all able to get proper education under her constant encouragement and through our will. Her brain is female, bears ideas all the time, however her boldness and heavy hand resemble a general. It would have been better if she were born a man. This would have helped her to impose her own opinions and realize many of her plans which never went further than this stage, since the first and best signature, that of the husband, was needed, which unfortunately was not available.

From this point of view, the husbands represented rather an obstacle in her way. But if she was young enough when she divorced the first one hoping for someone better, no matter if he finally didn’t meet her expectations either, when the second left her alone, too, she was by then of a mature age herself, in her early sixties, commonly considered old for new plans. Having often thought that her path of life in the role of a wife was predestinate, I told her once: “Oh, mother, whichever you had chosen, yet again you would be a widow now.” I meant, of course, that she would be alone, without company and support. I guess she didn’t like what I said, because she stared at me with severe eyes and asked me in a sibylline way: “You think so?” I suppose, now that I am thinking about it again, that she didn’t like this image for herself, of being a weak woman needing a man.

After the required mourning period had passed, Mother started driving regularly the car, enjoying her coffee with the accompaniment of some cigarettes and renovating her parental house in the country. When all works were completed, she announced to us that she would move there permanently. Ourselves we were concerned about her, whether after living her whole life in the city she would manage to get used to living in the country, and we hoped that she would spare her time between the country and the city, where we, her children and grandchildren, lived.

Soon it was proved that there was no reason for us to worry. Apart from her occupation with the housework, her energy was redirected to nature. She acquired a garden where she grew plants and seasonal vegetables and all kinds of herbs. A small poultry farm on the bank of the river passing nearby with hens and some geese were added in her occupations, while the ‘family’ was complemented with a fertile little cat and her six cute kittens, which, to her great joy, ran towards her upon her appearance on the path at usual lunch time and followed her everywhere like obedient little dogs.

 Soon, too, our hopes vanished that Mother would visit us in the city.

Of course, we were aware that since she had never been a conventional mother, she wouldn’t become a conventional grandma and elderly, yet again we had difficulty in accepting that all her life was now defined by the vegetable garden and the poultry and that there was no time left for us.  The plants, she said in a manner so authoritative that no objection or protest could be raised, needed continuous attention, so she had to be always present in order to protect them from the adverse weather conditions, and as far as the animals were concerned, they should be given food and water on a daily basis. There was nobody to undertake this duty with her own sense of responsibility. And she concluded with the suggestion that we should visit her, so she could see us and give us our share from the crop. Why was she getting tired anyway if not to provide us with fresh vegetables and eggs? On the other side, it was meaningless for us to talk about the family, work and children demands of each one of us. Our words were in question, hers never.

On such a visit of mine, on a like a lightning trip, last summer – I arrived midday and next morning I would leave – apart from the afternoon coffee-time, little other time we spent together. Mother was very busy with that whole new world she had created and of which she was very proud. To catch up with her and break my own news to her, I followed her everywhere running, because in spite of her age she walks upright so very fast that when I realized it, I stopped worrying about her health and smoking. So, I accompanied her as far as the drugstore where she bought medicines for two or three alone and impotent ‘elderly’ persons, and stayed with her afterwards while she was feeding the animals and putting water in the watering hole, and later on I watched her gather all hens and geese in their little houses and close tightly the doors, constantly watching out for her handsome but aggressive rooster who was very likely to attack her.

On the way back home and as it had got entirely dark outside, I felt certain that all kinds of her occupations were over and that we would have at last the opportunity to spend a lovely quiet evening together. In front of the garden gate, though, she suddenly stopped. “You go upstairs and I’ll come in a short while. I want to collect some aubergines that you take with you tomorrow.” There was no point in my saying that she didn’t have to do this or insisting on my keeping her company. It was getting chilly and cold, she said decisively, mosquitoes were always fond of biting me, the nettles would sting me and my legs would swell up and moreover my sandals would get dirty. Herself she was equipped with rubber boots, gloves, a knife and a torch. I obeyed.




I went home. I made myself some hot tea and drank it while watching the news on the television. Time passed but Mother still hadn’t appeared. I put a shawl on my shoulders and went out in the balcony overlooking the garden. In the total darkness I could only see a dim light and a human shadow going back and forth from one plant to the other: My mother and her torch.




“Enough with the aubergines! How many more am I going to take with me?” I said as calmly as I could.

“Aubergines you think I am collecting? I have other business more important to do”, she replied bent over a plant without looking up.

“What is going on?” I asked puzzled.

“There are some bugs here which go crazy for aubergines.”

“And what are you doing?”

“I am picking them up one by one from each aubergine plant.”

I stayed stunned. “One by one! Do you have to do that now? Can’t you do it in the morning?”

She laughed ironically. “It is at night they come out, and if I wait till morning, I will find no aubergines on their place tomorrow, not one. And it is a pity. I’ve grown them and taken care of them for so long”, she said and went on picking up the bugs carefully.

“And what are you doing with these bugs?”I asked without having got over the surprise yet.

“I put them here in a little bucket and I will throw them away on the other side of the road near the river. There they’ll find a lot of blackberries to eat!”



THE END

P.S. This short story first appeared in Greek, on : http://www.logwn-paignia.gr/tauepsilon973chiomicronsigmaf-15.html









Βρείτε την Αγγελική Μπούλιαρη εδώ:
Find Angeliki Bouliari here: 







Τρίτη, 4 Ιουνίου 2013

ΟΙ ΠΡΟΒΛΕΨΕΙΣ







 Έγραψα τον αριθμό της 
Κασσάνδρας στο κινητό μου, 
για να πάρω σε κάποια στιγμή ησυχίας και υποσχέθηκα να ενημερώσω σχετικά τη φίλη μου. Ήταν απ' αυτούς που σε χρεώνουν 2,5 ευρώ το λεπτό.

Η Κασσάνδρα δεν ήταν διαθέσιμη και με συνέδεσαν με μια συνεργάτιδά της, τη Σεμέλη. Γλυκύτατη κυρία, δεν μπορώ να πω, όλο 'γλυκιά μου' και 'γλυκιά μου' μ' έλεγε, αλλά μιλούσε αργά, μάλλον με είχε περάσει για αλλοδαπή και το έκανε επίτηδες, για να την καταλαβαίνω...



«Σε θέλει, σε θαυμάζει» μου είπε με σιγουριά. «Του αρέσεις και ως γυναίκα και ως άνθρωπος. Συγκεντρώνεις όλα όσα ψάχνει σε μια σύντροφο, γλυκιά μου». Μου ζήτησε να της πω έναν άλλο αριθμό και αυτοσυγκεντρώθηκε ξανά για λίγο, ενώ εγώ ήδη πετούσα στα ουράνια από τη χαρά μου.
«Τον βλέπω πολύ κοντά σου. Συνάδερφός σου είναι;»




«Όχι, ακριβώς, αλλά βρισκόμαστε μερικές φορές την εβδομάδα».
«Έλαβες λουλούδια τώρα τελευταία;»
«Όχι. Μονάχα ένα κόκκινο τριαντάφυλλο την ημέρα της γιορτής μου από έναν άγνωστο», μουρμούρισα.
«Αυτός στο έστειλε! Σε σκέφτεται συνέχεια, γλυκιά μου. Σε ζηλεύει. Ζηλεύει τον άντρα σου που σ’ αγκαλιάζει. Δεν είναι σίγουρος για σένα, για τα αισθήματά σου, και διστάζει. Φοβάται. Με τη μητέρα του μένει;» 


«Δεν έχω ιδέα», απάντησα.
«Τον επηρεάζει αρνητικά για τέτοια σχέση», συνέχισε η Σεμέλη, αγνοώντας με. «Βλέπω κάποιες δυσκολίες, γλυκιά μου», μουρμούρισε σκεφτική, κι εγώ προσγειώθηκα απότομα σε ανώμαλο έδαφος. Μου ζήτησε ακόμα έναν αριθμό και σώπασε για να συγκεντρωθεί. Ενώ περίμενα με αγωνία, κόπηκε ξανά η γραμμή!



Ξανακοίταξα το ρολόι του τοίχου. Ναι, δεν χωρούσε αμφιβολία, ακόμα ένα τέταρτο της ώρας είχε περάσει! Ο λογαριασμός του κινητού θα έπεφτε ως χαράτσι επί της κεφαλής μου, αλλά έπρεπε να μάθω…

«Λοιπόν, Σεμέλη, τι βλέπεις για το Νίκο; Υπάρχει άλλη; Τι θα γίνει; Τι να κάνω;» μπήκα κατευθείαν στο θέμα, μόλις με συνέδεσαν.
Η Σεμέλη αυτή τη φορά ακούστηκε κάπως παραξενεμένη που με άκουσε πάλι, κάπως κουρασμένη, δεν ξέρω κι εγώ τι να πω. Μάλλον είχε εξαντληθεί από την πολλή αυτοσυγκέντρωση, η καημένη…

«Δεν υπάρχει άλλη. Υπήρχε μια σχέση και τέλειωσε», είπε η Σεμέλη και σώπασε για λίγο. «Θα κάνεις κάποιο ταξίδι», συνέχισε. «Έχεις προγραμματίσει κάτι;»
Σκέφτηκα γρήγορα. Δεν είχα κανονίσει τίποτα ακόμα, αλλά πιθανόν να ταξίδευα σε δυο-τρεις μεγάλες πόλεις της επαρχίας, για τις ανάγκες της έρευνας σχετικά με τις προβλέψεις.
«Κάτι είναι στα σκαριά», απάντησα δισταχτικά.


«Θα πάτε μαζί! Θα σε συνοδεύσει. Με αυτοκίνητο. Θα είστε με παρέα, ίσως σε μέρος κοντά σε θάλασσα. Θα κουβεντιάσετε πολύ. Θα τα πάτε πολύ καλά στο τέλος! Τα ζώδιά σας ταιριάζουν, γλυκιά μου. Φαίνεται καθαρά στα χαρτιά μου. Ένας ψηλός, μελαχρινός σε σκέφτεται και μπαίνει στη ζωή σου. Αυτός θέλει να βεβαιωθεί για τα αισθήματά σου, ότι τον βλέπεις σοβαρά. Δεν θέλει κάτι επιπόλαιο, περαστικό…»

Κανένα πρόβλημα, σκέφτηκα, θα τον βεβαίωνα εγώ και με το παραπάνω!


Ήμουν πολύ χαρούμενη τώρα κι ένιωθα ότι βάδιζα σε στέρεο έδαφος. Ήξερα τι συνέβαινε κι επομένως αισθανόμουν μια σιγουριά για το αίσθημά μου και για τις μελλοντικές κινήσεις μου. Είχα ξεχάσει ολότελα την οικογενειακή μου κατάσταση, και ο λογαριασμός του κινητού μου, που πέρασε στιγμιαία από το μυαλό μου, ήταν μονάχα μια σύντομη και έμμεση υπενθύμιση. Έπρεπε να έχω το νου μου να τον παραλάβω εγώ η ίδια και να τσακιστώ να τον εξοφλήσω αμέσως, από φόβο μήπως τον έβλεπε ο γιος μου ή ο άντρας μου. Όχι, ότι θα μου έλεγαν τίποτα για το ποσό, αλλά μήπως κοίταζαν τους αριθμούς κι έβλεπαν το περίφημο νούμερο που άρχιζε από 9001… και μ’ άρχιζαν στην κοροϊδία και στις ερωτήσεις.




Από την ιστορία "Οι προβλέψεις" που περιλαμβάνεται στο βιβλίο "Εγώ αγαπώ, αυτή καπνίζει": http://anemosekdotiki.gr/books/ego_agapo.html