Kostis Palamas, The Twelve Lays of the Gipsy; Κωστής Παλαμάς - Ο Δωδεκάλογος του Γύφτου. Clarinet and Violin

The text of Palamas' poem in Greek

Reading of complete poem in Greek, on YouTube

The Violin Part 1

The Violin Part 2

Some extracts from the fine translation by George Thomson (Lawrence and Wishart, London, 1969) - but note well that Palamas uses the word Zournas (shawm), not klarino or clarinet: Thomson's decision to translate the word as clarinet is misleading. Constantine Trypanis translates it as "Gypsy trumpet" in The Penguin Book of Greek Verse.


Canto I

"...they were travellers from afar, who had been on the road
Day and night, year in, year out, for generations,
As though they had lost their way...
A people with no homeland behind them and none ahead.

Players were murmuring unspoken sorrows on their flutes.
From tambourines, trumpets, clarinets they drew torn, tormented notes."

Canto II

"I threw away the hammer, put out the furnace, and picked up a Gipsy clarinet,
And set out from country to country to be seen and heard by all, a strolling player...
all stood before me spoiling for a brawl
And clamouring for my clarinet to accompany the cabaret...

All night festivities, on with the dance!
...A host of demons is milling round the shrill music of my clarinet.
All night festivities, on with the dance...
everywhere the stranger, the spectator,
Round the whirlpool of passion I was the calm;
I was the pure spirit in the midst of confusion....

Drakolimni

Lake Tzaravina

One day I found myself far from the bustle of the world,
Alone, beside a lake,
Without a companion, alone, myself and I.
I was gazing into the smooth expanse of water
And into the depths of my own being...
It was the great stillness of great Nature, stooping
To give ear to the great secret that had never been heard before.
A sudden temptation seized me to insult that holy silence
With a loud blast from my Gipsy clarinet.
I killed that silence....
I smashed the clarinet and flung it into the road".

Canto VII

"...one thing they never exchange, fruit of misfortune and melancholy.
What they have fashioned out of melody, rhythm and dreams,
That is their language, their unique, mysterious, inalienable possession-
The Gipsy musicians"

Canto IX

"I bent down and found a violin...
A rare, unique, inimitable instrument...
Strike, bow, create!
Between my hands a world is brought to birth-
O what a birth!
... you, my violin, only you exists.
There is only one speech-your voice; only one creator- I;
And the word that works miracles is music...
Bow, cut into the strings like a sword, tear them and rend them to create harmony!
Life is always brought to birth out of the wrestling of bow and string...

...from the sounds around me and the songs of my people
I wove a new music on my Gipsy violin.

And the other gipsies...
They were infuriated.
While I played on, head bent, with my bow-hand
Sweeping, burning, flying, crushing, shaping, blazing, bringing to new birth
On those four strings the blue flower of my fantasy,
Throwing my whole soul, the whole spirit of my people, into that music,-
Men and women, old and young, ran away, refused to listen,
Stopped their ears...
And they said to one another: 'Who is this fiddler,
Who instead of bringing good cheer shocks and outrages us...
Who does not see what we see nor cherish what we cherish,
Who on a happy holiday stands before us like a nightmare,
Traitor, assassin, destroyer of our national genius?
Never before has a Gipsy bow or violin produced such senseless, worthless music".

Canto XII

"Come, Gipsy, with us be first to live that last and loftiest future
On your prophetic violin!"

(Note: Palamas' Gipsy represents the poet, addressing the Greek people).

  By Lake Tzaravina

Another great poem by Palamas: Anatoli

Ἀνατολή

Γιαννιώτικα, σμυρνιώτικα, πολίτικα,
μακρόσυρτα τραγούδια ἀνατολίτικα,
λυπητερά,
πῶς ἡ ψυχή μου σέρνεται μαζί σας!
Εἶναι χυμένη ἀπὸ τὴ μουσική σας
καὶ πάει μὲ τὰ δικά σας τὰ φτερά.

Σᾶς γέννησε καὶ μέσα σας μιλάει
καὶ βογγάει καὶ βαριὰ μοσκοβολάει
μία μάννα· καίει τὸ λάγνο της φιλί,
κ᾿ εἶναι τῆς Μοίρας λάτρισσα καὶ τρέμει,
ψυχὴ ὅλη σάρκα, σκλάβα σὲ χαρέμι,
ἡ λαγγεμένη Ἀνατολή.

Μέσα σας κλαίει τὸ μαῦρο φτωχολόι,
κι ὅλο σας, κ᾿ η χαρά σας, μοιρολόι
πικρὸ κι ἀργό.
Μαῦρος, φτωχὸς καὶ σκλάβος καὶ ἀκαμάτης,
στενόκαρδος, ἀδούλευτος, διαβάτης
μ᾿ ἐσᾶς κ᾿ ἐγώ.

Στὸ γιαλὸ ποὺ τοῦ φύγαν τὰ καΐκια,
καὶ τοῦ μείναν τὰ κρίνα καὶ τὰ φύκια,
στ᾿ ὄνειρο τοῦ πελάου καὶ τ᾿ οὐρανοῦ,
ἄνεργη τὴ ζωὴ νὰ ζοῦσα κ᾿ ἔρμη,
βουβός, χωρὶς καμιᾶς φροντίδας θέρμη,
μὲ τόσο νοῦ,

ὅσος φτάνει σὰ δέντρο γιὰ νὰ στέκει
καὶ καπνιστὴς μὲ τὸν καπνὸ νὰ πλέκω
δαχτυλιδάκια γαλανά·
καὶ κάποτε τὸ στόμα νὰ σαλεύω
κι ἀπάνω του νὰ ξαναζωντανεύει
τὸν καημὸ ποὺ βαριὰ σᾶς τυραννᾷ.

Κι ὅλο ἀρχίζει, γυρίζει, δὲν τελειώνει,
καὶ μία φυλὴ ζῇ μέσα σας καὶ λιώνει.
Καὶ μία ζωὴ δεμένη σπαρταρᾷ,
γιαννιώτικα, σμυρνιώτικα, πολίτικα,
μακρόσυρτα τραγούδια ἀνατολίτικα,
λυπητερά.

And a folk song from the British Isles, The Wraggle Taggle Gypsies, O

For more stereotypes, another version