FOR THE STAR OF PAN
For the unreachable dream
of Don Quijote
The laceration of the loss
The Sea that overspread
endless
The crying in the arms
of a friend
The minimum noise
of the morning dawn
The Art
The Proud
The Dignity
The Dreams
The Dreams
The messages
millions of years ago
from the stars
The voice on the telephone
The accomplishment of the Impossible
And one sleep
with the moon between the arms...
Those are merit
And the rest
just words
and words
just like that
for the time to pass away
and the years
Who cares about the moments?
-------------------------------------------------------
BLADE AS ZEIMBEKIKO*
And when all comes
against me
I stand up
I spread my arms
like the Crucified
and I dance
Slowly
Heavily...
Just in case I grip
the blade
in my feast
and if I get dizzy
I’ll bleed
my own hands
again...
* The Zeibekiko dance and rhythm, bearing something nostalgic, but yet brave and audacious became naturalized. A zeibekiko dancer does not dance to impress, nor to consciously make a point. He/She dances purely for him/herself, in the strange mixture of deep introspection and flamboyant display that people in the eastern Mediterranean are capable of. A man (or a woman) will generally not dance this until late and just as he/she begins to come down from an alcohol (or other substances) induced high. Such is the state of mind that suits this dance. Seeing this dance before midnight is rare, before sunset unthinkable...
-------------------------------------------------------------
JUST A POET
They found her in pieces
lying on the shadow of the Statue
Years after they said:
"she was just a poet"
------------------------------------------------------------
Some of the Poems in MNEMOSSYNE Gallery
BALANCE
There are nights
when I feel
I’m hanging
by a
single
thread
on the ceiling
Sensitive
stretched and
unmoving
And in lieu of a floor
water
water everywhere
menacing
silent
The entire room
an ocean
And yet
I don’t talk
or stir
or look
or weep
lest
the thread
should break
lest
I should fall
in this
sea
of silence.
------------------------------------------------------------
COURSE
I walk
bare-foot
on muddy soil
Half-hero
Half-traitor
Time
sets traps
for me
in dark passages
At night
now I escape
now I hit myself
now I run
now I wake up
now I scream
now I forget.
Half-man
Half-ghost
I walk
barefoot
on muddy
soil
--------------------------------------------------------------
MORNING POEM
If I had the know-how
I’d gather the hours
the wee moments
one by one
with due care
I’d arrange them
like in an album
of photos
taken on holidays.
That no hug be lost
in the morning
sleep’s heavy hand
fumbling for it
on the sheets.
Kisses hitched
on the body
the eyes
the hair
the breaths
the nape
the dreams
the back
the lips.
There
on the edge
of the slight curve
the smile left
stood
all words.
----------------------------------------------------------
SYNTHESIS
When you are silent
I hear you
better
I’m afraid
of your words
They are loud
and painful
to my ears
they wound them
make them bleed
tear them
incise them
cut them up.
Afterwards
when I pick up
the pieces
I put them back
wrongly
and from sounds
what a comedown!
they become
notes.
------------------------------------------------------------
WORDS
So many words
waiting
painfully
from moment to moment
for hours on end
on sleepless
murderous moonlit nights
to test
the stamina of youth
on days of heroism
raising their fists
beyond the sun
and in the end
always
coming croppers
on mirrors.
Words
that for years and years
stood up
bravely
to the larynx’s
intensity
lest they should end up
− God forbid −
lest they should become
whispers.
Now
lost
in brief messages
on third-generation
mobile phones.
-------------------------------------------
“SOME DAY THESE SEAS WILL TAKE VENGEANCE”
Odysseas Elytis
No smell of homeland
ever comes to me now
and my words
I know
will soon
be lost
I look up words
and verbs
in other dictionaries.
Verbs…
Every night
on my way home
I hear my feet
dragging
along
the street
like those of thugs
knocking about in search
of their next victim
for blood
to charge
once more
their childhood dreams.
I scare myself at night
and for this
reason
I seal myself hermetically
in dank rooms
with the TV on.
I shan’t return
to the seas
Thugs like me
are not
to their liking.
--------------------------------------------
ADDICTION
I pay off
my memories
with substances.
No matter what
anything will do
as long as I can
get rid of them
- Today’s a scorcher
I’m melting
Please bring me
some poison
something
to freeze
my blood... -
--------------------------------------------
DEVELOPMENTS
How is it there
where once
while looking
with frenzied rhythms
in a haughty
or yet
contemptuous manner
you overcame
the stillness
with dreams?
(A glimpse at the sea
and there it is:
the new day’s
music!)
Now
that everything
has fallen off
how does it feel
dancing alone
with the statues?
What is it like being
without fires?
How does it feel
to scream
without phonemes?
How is it to be
self-exiled
in oblivion?
How are
the nights-cum-knives?
What is it like
looking
in the mirror
and seeing yourself
gradually turning
from man
to shadow?...
----------------------------------------------
ENDURANCE
In time
you can bear sorrow
You can bear silence
The touches on the body:
knife wounds that heal and,
in time, as they say,
you can bear
looking at the scars,
feeling
and tolerating
tears,
admitting to nothing
not breaking your heart
not clenching in your hands
memories
and kisses
You can bear
not lending yourself
to strange lips
You can bear seas
that flow away
and not looking at
barren coasts
You can bear staying behind
praying
that ships and sails
shall appear
on the horizon
You can bear dreams
faces and bodies
breaths and nods,
all yours to hide
and long for
all the time.
What you can’t
bear
are the shrilling
notes
once
the music’s
over.
------------------------------------------
ON A MONDAY
Who’s to tell me
there’s no end
to the hordes of statues
Who’s to show me
the books that are shut
the children with dreams
and torn trousers
that have taken to the roads
once with standards
for a silent
thankless
uprising
revolution
and now
numbers and orange pages.
And the city
the calmness
the soft
sway
of music
The guilty
and heroic
silences
ill-timed
aimless
petty
The damp dawn
on the misty
roads
shadows
shadows
shadows
Let me be
I’m tired
I’m going home
that she’ll find me
by her
when she wakes
and not be scared
of Monday’s
loneliness.
Besides
who’s to give me back
the lost kisses
the words of love
These too are forgotten
in time.
----------------------------------------
CALL ME SNAKE
She escapes
slides
snake-like − disappears
In the morning she recalls
her visions
she is saddened
What she so desires
What she rejected
future outbursts
already formed
aberrations:
girls, hair
plaited
with olive twigs
statues exposed
to the sway of weather
(or should I say
of time?)
Astral influence
at the time of her birth
taught her not to stop
winding her way
on “other roads“.
----------------------------------------
IT’S ME AND I’M FINE
I’m fine
I’m fine
don’t you ever worry
about me
I’m well
and ready
I’m looking for a pen
to write it down
as proof
confirming it
on paper
for you to believe
as well as me.
Lest I should
forget it.
Lest I should
sink into
oblivion
again
into obsession
not remembering
not seeing
All alone
in the dark
with ghosts
and bleeding moons
...For screams
to cease
in the silence.
But
have no fear
I’m fine
and ready
as the times
demand.
------------------------------------
