Kostas Karyotakis

(1896-1928 / Greece)

Kostas Karyotakis Poems

If you see a poem only with title, it is listed that way because of copyright reasons.
1. Strophes 9/17/2010
2. Posthumous Fame 9/17/2010
3. Destruction 9/17/2010
4. A Clerk 9/17/2010
5. Critique 9/17/2010
6. They Betrayed Virtue And The Last Came First... 9/17/2010
7. My Verses 9/17/2010
8. March Mournful And Vertical 9/17/2010
9. Return 9/17/2010
10. Bitter Oranges 9/17/2010
11. A Story 9/17/2010
12. Tombs 9/17/2010
13. Nobility 9/17/2010
14. A Tree 9/17/2010
15. Imaginary Suicides 9/17/2010
16. In The Garden The Chrysanthemums Were Dying... 9/17/2010
17. Preveza 9/17/2010
18. We Are Some Disjointed Guitars... 9/17/2010
19. Athens 9/17/2010
20. Ζωές (Lives) 9/17/2010
21. Νοσταλγία (Nostalgia) 9/17/2010
22. Ballade To The Forgotten Poets Of The Ages 9/17/2010

Comments about Kostas Karyotakis

  • Felix De Villiers Felix De Villiers (1/7/2014 3:19:00 AM)

    I find the poems of Kostas very moving. The is a feeling of underlying despair in them but it is covered by a veil of bitter-sweet melancholy. I have read quite a few of them but will read them all soon. Thanks to Facebbok the has come back to see the light of day.

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Best Poem of Kostas Karyotakis

Ballade To The Forgotten Poets Of The Ages

Detested by both men and gods,
like nobles who have bitterly decayed,
the Verlaines wither; wealth remains
to them, of rich and silvery rhyme.
With 'Les Chatiments' the Hugos are intoxicated
by their terrible Olympian revenge.
But I shall write a sorrowful
ballade to the forgotten poets.

Though the Poes have lived in misery,
and though the Baudelaires have suffered living deaths,
they ve all been granted Immortality.
Yet no-one now remembers,
and the deepest darkness has completely buried,
every poetaster who produced limp poetry.
But I make as an ...

Read the full of Ballade To The Forgotten Poets Of The Ages


A sweet hour. Athens sprawls like a hetaira
offering herself to April.
Sensuous scents are in the air,
the spirit waits for nothing any more.

The silver of the evening's eyelids
droops, grows heavy up above the houses.
Queenlike the Acropolis puts on
the sunset's crimson like a robe.

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