Father’s Day

BY IN Poems On 03-02-2014

Στον Πατέρα μου (To my Father)

Την εορτή του πατέρα,
60 χρόνια αργότερα, όπως τον
θυμάμαι για τελευταία φορά.

Στη Βάλτα εις τη Μορένα
ένα Σάββατο βράδυ
εχόρευα το τσάμικο
σαν άξιο παλικάρι.

Ήμουν εφτά χρονών παιδί
με κατσαρά μαλλάκια
μαύρα σκαρπίνια φόραγα
μαύρα παντελονάκια.

Έσερνα πρώτος το χορό
κρατώντας το μαντήλι
που βοήθαγε ο πατέρας μου
με’ έβλεπε σαν καντήλι.

Η τελευταία ανάμνηση
που’ χω με τον πατέρα
είναι αυτή που χόρευα
εκείνη την ημέρα.

Γιατί ο χάρος πρόβαλε
με ατσάλινο δρεπάνι
για τρυπήσει την κοιλιά
να κόψει το κεφάλι.

Του άτυχου πατέρα μας
που έφυγε προώρος
μας άφησε πεντάρφανα
εις της Αγιάς το όρος.

Που μας θωρεί από ψηλά
απ’ της Αγιάς τα ύψη
και βρίσκουμε παρηγοριά
στον πόνο και στην θλίψη.

Κυριάκος Ανδρινόπουλος
Μάιος 2010, Peabody, MA

A Poem for Father’s Day

The following poem was written by Kyriakos Andrinopoulos of Danvers and submitted to the newspaper The Sun of Lowell, Massachusetts by Joseph McGuane of Chelmsford on June 17 2012

To My Father

And even now, on Father’s Day,
though sixty years have passed,
I see him just as I did then
Though that would be my last.

At Balta, in Morena’s hills
There was a country dance.
My father took me there with him
to share the happenstance.

Though just a boy of seven years
With thick and curly hair,
And dressed in a black scarpina,
I was a young man there.

My father joined a Tsamiko
Which danced around the floor,
Then took my hand and placed in it
The kerchief which he wore.

Then it became my turn to lead
With him to guide the way,
And in his eyes saw the pride
Which beamed from him that day.

Together than we led the line
Of dancers through the room
Mid clapping hands and robust song
Dispelling any gloom.

Soon after that in Agia,
Without a warning sign,
Death’s reaper struck him with his blade
So soon before his time.

Five orphans then were left alone,
No father to replace.
Who’d see their winters turn to spring
Or feel his warm embrace?

We know he’s looking down on us
From Agia’s steep height
Yet even though our grief remains
We’ve comfort in our plight.

That night, that place, the Tsamiko,
Their memories linger still.
And time alone will not erase
The love these thoughts instill.

Kyriakos Andrinopoulos
May 2010 Peabody, MA


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