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Η Κατερίνα Γώγου (1940-1993), ποιήτρια, ηθοποιός, πανέμορφη γυναίκα, αναρχική, αυτόχειρ, είναι η κορυφαία γυναικεία ποιητική φωνή του ελληνισμού κατά τον 20ο αιώνα. Το ποίημα “Μοναξιά” αποδίδει με χαρακτηριστική δηκτικότητα την οξεία, οργισμένη, επιθετική διαμαρτυρία της.

Οφείλω ευχαριστίες στη φίλη και συνάδελφο Σταυρούλα Τσιπλάκου, της οποίας οι παρατηρήσεις βελτίωσαν τη μετάφραση σε πολλά σημεία.

Δείτε την ποιήτρια να απαγγέλλει το ποίημα στην ταινία του Παύλου Τάσσιου Η Παραγγελιά (1980).


Does not have the sad colour in the eyes
of a chick in her nice little bubble.
She does not wander sluggishly and purposelessly
shaking her hips in concert halls
and freezing museums.
She is not the yellowing frames of “good” old times
and the mothballs in grandma’s chests,
mauve ribbons and wide-brimmed straw hats.
She does not spread her legs with muffled giggles,
ox-eyed stares, sharp heaves
and matching underwear.

She has the colour of the Pakis, loneliness does,
and she is measured plate by plate
along with their shards
at the bottom of the light shaft.
She queues standing patiently
Bournazi – Aghia Varvara – Kokkinia
Toumpa – Stavroupoli – Kalamaria
in all kinds of weather
her head all sweaty.
She screams when she cums, smashes windowpanes with chains,
occupies the means of production,
sets fire to private property.
She is a Sunday visit in prison, 
the same steps in the courtyard, criminal offenders and revolutionaries alike.
She is sold and bought minute by minute, breath by breath,
in the slave markets of the earth –– Kotzia Square is here, close by ––
wake up early in the morning.
Wake up to see her.
She is a whore in rancid whorehouses
the ‘German’ guard duty for the soldier
and the last
endless kilometers, NATIONAL HIGHWAY – CITY CENTRE,
for the pieces of meat from Bulgaria dangling on their hooks.
And when her blood begins to clinch, and she can no longer bear
that they are selling out her kind,
she dances zeimbekiko barefoot on the tables
holding in hands that have turned blue
a well-sharpened axe.
Our loneliness, I say. I am talking about our loneliness.
She is an axe in our hands,
over your heads it rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls…