Cats teach us the importance of laziness. As does Pablo Neruda, in two poems written in his happy fifties at Isla Negra - Oda a la pereza and El perezoso. Translations by Stephen Mitchell and Alastair Reid.

“Quando ti viene una nostalgia, non è mancanza, è presenza…” Words from Rafaniello, the refugee cobbler, in Erri de Luca’s novel Montedidio (2001). Dedicated, in particular, to Greeks far from home who cannot join their loved ones for Orthodox Easter, due to coronaborders. English translation by Michael Moore. 

“Qu’est-ce qui est le plus beau / la main qui s’ouvre / ou les yeux qui se ferment?” Often compared to Neruda and Hikmet for his lyrical humanism, Abdellatif Laâbi is considered Morocco’s leading contemporary poet. Incarcerated for eight years due to his political writings, his prison poems speak from “beyond the borders of what is human”. Laâbi later found refuge in the Parisian banlieue, and continued to write of his homeland from afar. A soft warrior of words, with a constant thread of tenderness despite his hardships. English translations from the French by Breyten Breytenbach, Donald Nicholson-Smith, André Naffis-Sahely, and Michel Breton. With music by Driss El Maloumi (oud), Naziha Meftah (vocals), and Labess.

"There will be other days, / there will be other voices. / You will smile alone. / The cats will know." -- Pavese's final poem to his lover Constance Dowling. In italiano, English (tr. Linh Dinh), και λίγο ελληνικά (μφ. Γιάννης Παππάς).

Glorioula deserves her own playlist too. Short recordings, snippets of wisdom from our favourite authors. We begin with words from Ernest Hemingway, a lover of cats, especially those with six toes.

New playlist by Νίντζα, Don Pablo's best friend. Random poetry recitals, 8 minutes max. We begin with a short poem by Brecht, a list of simple pleasures, written a year or two before he passed on. In Greek first, for the fun of it. Translated by Nadia Valavani. Followed by an English version, tr. Marcy Jarvis. -- Meanwhile, Ninja calls to be let out, but as the door opens...

The final novel in the Montalbano series, kept under lock and key until exactly a year after Camilleri left us. Does il Commissario die? No spoilers. In this podcast we focus on “vigatese”, Camilleri’s very own blend and style of italo-siciliano, taught passively to the reader as it evolves from novel to novel. Una forma d’innamoramento linguistico. The hardback edition of Riccardino offers a fascinating lexical comparison between the “prima stesura”, completed in 2005, and the definitive, more “sicilianeggiante” version of 2016. Featuring Catarella, the clumsy, good-hearted receptionist, also with a language of his own. Ah dottori dottori, dimando compressione e pirdonanza! Plus a little music - in Sicilian - by Franco Battiato and Giuni Russo. 

Planet or satellite, refuge or prison, condemnation or promise of a fresh start. What is an island, but a mini-continent? Are islands as finite and self-contained as we may wish to believe? "L'île, c'est d'abord le voyage vers l'île." Hervé Hamon invites us to journey from island to island alphabetically, or haphazardly, following the whim of countless winds with ancient, musical names. In this podcast we begin from Isla de Chiloé, Patagonia, soon returning to the Mediterranean. Crete, Ikaría. Ithaca isn't in the book, for some reason. Malta is, for the wrong reasons. We'll also hear a little poetry by the late Oliver Friggieri, Odysséas Elytis, Karl Schembri, and music by Theodorákis. Allons-y. Prenons le large, et l'étroit.

Kaliméla! A Greek-Maltese word, meaning good start, good ending, or “bonne continuation”. Welcome to the first episode of Don Pablo’s new podcast series. Books, poetry, language & translation, the wine-dark Ionian sea, islands, and of course, cats. From a future máktaba - a small Mediterranean library - on Homer’s mountain, north Ithaca. In this relaxed, introductory episode, I briefly explain my choice of names, and how Pablito and I ended up on Odysseus’ island. Followed by a little poetry of Státhis Raftópoulos - a modern Thiakí poet -, Alberto Caeiro (Pessoa), and Pablo Neruda. And a song by Radiodervish. Enjoy. Forgive the amateur piano jingle (which will hopefully improve from one episode to the next), and my pronunciation of Greek. Michel / Mισέλ & Don Pablo