Poem

Nikos Karouzos

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Original language

I PENETRATED MATTER HOWLING

Two seas pursue me: life and death
    two currents which, damn them, are in my heart . . .
I am trying to find in my dog-drunk head
    /second possessive pronoun/
    intelligence – can’t be found. I didn’t petrify anything.
    Lets play the winds
        let’s sweetly play the damned.
What a sensuously-seasoned infant the poem and poor Jesus
    wearing orange stained underwear
        is hung up every year in spring.
Our art: the ego’s most horrible disguise.

I PENETRATED MATTER HOWLING

Nikos Karouzos

Nikos Karouzos

(Greece, 1926 - 1990)

Nikos Karouzos was born in Nafplion in 1926 and died in Athens in 1990. He is considered one of the foremost Greek poets of the twentieth century. Karouzos took part in the Resistance and studied Law at Athens University. His first poems appeared in 1949, and between 1954 and 1990 he published more than twenty poetry collections. His final volume appeared, posthumously, in 1991.

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Poems

Poems of Nikos Karouzos

SOLEMN DRUMS OF TRAGEDY

WOMAN, OBSTINACY OF ASIA

I PENETRATED MATTER HOWLING

SOLOMOS IN MY DREAM

POEM ON A TAPE RECORDER

SUSPENSION

ROMANTIC EPILOGUE

WITH A LITTLE LEAF-MOULD

DROSS OF IMMORTALITY

THE STARRY PHOTOGENIC

Close

I PENETRATED MATTER HOWLING

Two seas pursue me: life and death
    two currents which, damn them, are in my heart . . .
I am trying to find in my dog-drunk head
    /second possessive pronoun/
    intelligence – can’t be found. I didn’t petrify anything.
    Lets play the winds
        let’s sweetly play the damned.
What a sensuously-seasoned infant the poem and poor Jesus
    wearing orange stained underwear
        is hung up every year in spring.
Our art: the ego’s most horrible disguise.

I PENETRATED MATTER HOWLING

Two seas pursue me: life and death
    two currents which, damn them, are in my heart . . .
I am trying to find in my dog-drunk head
    /second possessive pronoun/
    intelligence – can’t be found. I didn’t petrify anything.
    Lets play the winds
        let’s sweetly play the damned.
What a sensuously-seasoned infant the poem and poor Jesus
    wearing orange stained underwear
        is hung up every year in spring.
Our art: the ego’s most horrible disguise.

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