Poetic Movements

  I Irregular images go by quite naturally. II A pull deep inside the wave plunges before the shore. III A procession of doors shutting firmly behind me. IV A further pull the water mumbles far from the shore. V Gardens how in their beauty spread in front of me. VI Hooded crows paired in the skies time-travellers alike. VII Stairs beneath my feet rise in rambling buildings. VIII A single white feather by the wind carried across horizon deep. IX The train with all its nine coaches drags in tunnels stoically. X Sky creatures bizarrely by me undisturbed in the same sea. XI Words of use written or spoken lavishly, kindly. XII Thick shadows of the olive trees for a moment still unnaturally. XIII In a bookstore’s poetry section we speak for ten minutes then never again. XIV All the sounds finally surrender to the eyes’ silence. Summer 2024, London – Samothraki. Picture: Tavistock

I Your dreams are lately red. In the defiant light of the sun we appear less clean. What if I hide underneath the surface of the sea? Love was supposed to be effortless at start. Same songs same rain all the things you are doing with others. Storms unleashed threads pending cuts; your dreams are red. II Night butterflies fill the room night flowers drop tears reflections of us populate the walls underneath the sky I inhale the stars. The sea will expand to the world’s end (I know now) mountains will for once retract is it possible is it thinkable to stand here still? May 2024, Samothraki.

I All our traumas sat around the table to dine courteously and with crooked smiles (too civilised for their own good). They exchanged words superfluous and untherapeutic. They drank until it was late and memory appeared to dissolve into nothingness. II Sometimes even after all this time, when the restaurant is empty and the music has stopped, I hear them trying to re-emerge from the surfaces that surpassed them the flowers that outlived them the lights that fooled them – intoxicated and vindicated by no one – into the shadows. I ask myself, sometimes, what will happen if they ever escape the shadows only to find that the dining table has since been replaced and most of their torturous attachments have ceased to be? What hidden and unresolved traumas will we have then? April 2024, Athens. Photograph: March 2024, Loutropyrgos.

  Your wild eyes I picture them devouring the landscape as if the landscape was made to be by your needs consumed. Your wild eyes rest at night whereas mine check the lights, and the clouds, and the stars if they are in place or if by some monstrous doing they have now moved. The view this view the landscape bring peace to my mind my senses except for the eyes that keep looking even when closed and abandoned under the sun. When is quiet and when the winds stop when all the scents in the atmosphere are of the water the water that has poured and the water to come then all that is to see from this room with a view is the lighthouse the firm end of the land the piercing light in the dark longing to be discovered. March 2024, Syros.

I shouldn't have said a word to begin with. Because words hit like waves against coastal cliffs; they make an impression and then retreat to the their chaotic origins – be it sea or sin. 26 Jul. 2020 Photograph: Thessaloniki, Oct. 2023

  Christmas lights shine outside otherworldly and insecure. The island is now farther away amidst the sea withdrawn someone on it standing still. Too early for blossoms and too late for regrets, the winter progresses. Jan/Feb 2024, Athens. Photograph: Gülhane Parkı, Istanbul; Jan. 2024.

In their cracky voices the seagulls talked – they truly did talk – about things that parted continents and seas. The crowd moved in a mass dance a choreography of nothing momentarily interrupted by streetcars. And the waters howled underneath they howled like a heartbeat soon (any moment now) to cease. Souls passed me by; some lost some wandering and some mine. Jan. 2024, Istanbul.

  Cold shimmer – winter takes hold of your hands like an old, devious friend. Your hands are frozen, you wake up. Dreams, reflections in the subconscious twice-mirrored objects at midnight past. Nothing lasts but time. Shadow selves take over trying their luck. Hollow are the stories to be told, hollower the bodies hollower their moves hollower the looks of what is to be/come. You scream at midnight past, yet sound has died. November 2023, Athens. Photograph: moon meets Jupiter in the night sky; 1 Oct. 2023, Samothraki.