Poetic Movements

What a liberty to be a fool and not to know, to be the dust resulting from disaster and not to know, to be yesterday’s shadow and to ignore,                             to be haunted by memories and to forget. The sun came up, yet another day and as the wind was blowing its soul out waves were urging for a piece of land, like a child urging for a piece of bread. No morning started by Boreas is a day to promise.  October 30 th , 2015, Samothraki. 

Go; the people wake the morning up, they rise the sun up, they breathe the rain out, they expect you to know their routine, to be it.   I write the night and the morning to be the same in a timeless place of time. I see no sun and no moon, but the people crafting them. Go; every place in every time is loneliness and fuss; a fuss around the world; moving endlessly, uniquely in fashion; we all say we are unique, but our crafts are the same: Art. October 25, 2015, Samothraki.  

Are you a long lost friend; someone I met again in the crowd; the one sharing the same going of the sun; are you what it takes to build a world; the difference of a child’s dream; the muse of a poet; are you the poet; the script of a day’s end; the right to hope; are you all to expect; a goodbye left alone; a promise never kept; are you the journey; or yet the destination; the loved-ones awaiting; are you the same again and again; a person anew; no one to mention; are you a lust’s breath; a sense’s blind force; a touch; are you a rose into the winter; the snow killing the blood; the gloves on the hands; are you the torch for a night’s deep dark; the moon hiding behind the clouds; the mythical beasts; are you the freedom; the slavery of the care; the giving of a smile secretly shaped; are you the flâneur’s restless figure; the one who goes; or the one who stands? The wind flapped her hair as ...

Πώς φτάνουν οι αλαλαγμοί σου εδώ από μιαν απόκρημνη στεριά, εδώ · σκάνε στα βότσαλα κι αντηχούν σ' ολόκληρη την θάλασσα. Κι ο ήλιος χάνεται πίσω από σύννεφα για να βγει ξανά, κι εγώ πόσο συνεχίζω να σε ψάχνω. Έως το βράδυ που κάθε προσανατολισμός μου μ' εγκαταλείπει κι εγώ εξίσου χαμένη κοιτώ στο κενό. Και μόνο το χώμα μπορεί να με σώσει τις μέρες πριν βρέξει που μυρίζει αλλιώς και με κοιμίζει. Και συνεχίζει να με θάβει μέσα του, για να σε συναντήσω. Αύγουστος 2013, Ναύπλιο.

There was a plane crossing-by, unusual for such a place; so we all looked up seconds held our breath and then let the plane go, go higher.                               There was a light a light that leaves a light that abandons, shining no more; like desire. And there was a drive to climb further this mountain further this life; spread like flames of a fire invisible and harmless.   Touched memory for this instant of existence there has been the past and there has been the future already in place streaming life as holy water. Someone was already sounding whisper “I want to reach the Moon”, and he was serious; someone was always rooted to earth, but to know him you had to catch a tree’s remotest branch. Or dance around it, our circle b...

Στα έγκατα του νου άπειρες σκέψεις χάνονται σαν ψυχές στον Άδη, τα λόγια μου ακούγονται σαν όνειρο που έσβησε στο ξύπνημα και οι ώρες μετράνε πάντα κατά. Ανύπαρκτες μορφές περπατούν τα ξημερώματα δίχως προορισμό, σαν μία ιστορία παλιά που πάει να εξιστορηθεί στο παρόν και χάνει τον ειρμό της. Ένιωθα την ύπαρξή σου να ανάβει και να σβήνει να ανάβει και να σβήνει σα φάρος το βράδυ στην άκρη της στεριάς, μα τώρα δε θυμάμαι. Ποιος είσαι και ποιος ήσουν; Ανάγλυφη σα πίνακας μια στιγμή χάνεται στα έγκατα του νου, στον Άδη. Ήθελα τόσο να την αγγίξω… Θα ‘θελα τόσο να γράψω μία ιστορία για όλα αυτά, μα η μνήμη χάνεται μαζί με το σώμα που αλλάζει το σώμα που απομακρύνεται που βγαίνει πάνω στο νερό να αναπνεύσει σα μόλις να γεννήθηκε απ’ το αλάτι · άγραφο ακόμα άοσμο ξένο. 6 Οκτωβρίου 2015,                                         ...

[Scroll down for the Greek version. / Κατεβείτε πιο κάτω για την Ελληνική έκδοση.] Words of a Sunday It‘s Sunday morning. Someone is killing cigars in his fingers, someone is walking the dog, someone is reading a story, someone is cooking breakfast. Still asleep, I sense you waking up beside me. I know I blackened the sheets writing about these people, I know I promised to change them, you know I never do; I love the sight of sheets’ blackened spots by ink. I fell asleep sometime once again on your shoulder a night I’ve been writing to exhaustion a night the people stood as a disappointment, not an inspiration and you vividly lullabied me with Sunday mornings; an image of the future. Standing up always first you will step on some poems of mine, dropped and scattered everywhere on the floor, and before you pick them up I will ask you to come back to bed. Because the hours walk indolently today and they will have silently pacing left ...