Step(s) to the Dance.

It's an oxymoron to write about dance, about movement, about bodies; because no matter the motion taken for the hands and the shoulders to write (or type), the body sits still, largely motionless. It's even a more surprising oxymoron to research with dance, to make dance and motion your research partner; abstracts, thoughts, papers, results, all end up written down on document forms. Slowly your dancing fades away, your body aches, your expression feels betrayed and captured.

But yet, in these awakening moments that movement flows back through your body, consciousness grows fast; faster than usually. Touch replaces the senses back to their initial moment of birth, and as the body tires soon enough, having lost its confidence, you are grasping for breath, and when you catch it and balance again, you are starting over.

And over and over again, eyes closed and confidence regained, you relive the first time you created another you, and other thoughts, other universes. In where you find yourself, between the world and rehearsal, experimentation, play and transcendence, there you exist in an alternative space; more sensuous, more personal, more creative.

None of these can be put on paper. None of these described here reach the experience; they barely attempt to. Dance is a constant transition. You can become another only when your feet touch naked the floor and later the body collapses onto it as it falls into the arms of a friend. And you become another; bits of the floor, bits of the mirrors, bits of your co-dancers, bits of your movements previously unexplored.

As another you, all your discovered "yous", you know it is not enough to write, or your hard congregated diversity will stop breathing, stop moving, will abandon the senses. Dance is a transition, though. Once it starts with you, you never get back to who you were. It is a case of fortunate loss. Loss of a rigid self and body posture. Loss of conventions and expectations. You find yourself dancing in your walk along the street and writing on mirrors. You are in transition; you become beautifully unpredictable.

Photo: Rehearsal and creating an alternative space, Art Factory Creative Group, Michael Cacoyannis Foundation, 14/06/2016 @ Eleni Kotsira.

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Wolf nights in Bucharest

My demons sleep quietly under the full moon now, but other nights they stalk and howl like the ghost wolves of Bucharest. The large boulevards are as deserted as many their lights are, and of all the nights tonight with all the remaining Christmas decorations and lit up skylines, it feels the darkest of all. Yes, the city hosts its strangers and the youngest the children the more the milk the greater the need to undo and become again. Far from the shiny boulevards, the sideways remain true to their darkness not faking any kind of virtue not looking for temporary saviours. The animals human and other lick each other's wounds and carry on the hunt of the night before it's too late for apologies and too early for excuses. For every battle lost a soul carrier takes over, becoming and rebecoming never undone never out of opportunities, the last hope of the damning and the damned. The wolves howl tonight, the c...

Windswept

The moon plays with the shadows of the caves hiding and emerging once from the mountain’s peak and once from the dense clouds; it also plays with me. The rain falls liquid and malleable, like the skies it comes from; it carries itself especially forcefully through the island’s irregular openings; the drops are heavier when touched and they stay. The crows have already moved – together but in distance – to find shelter, as the rushed waves wash ashore killed dolphins. I touch the drops to hold onto something or to wash off the horror. The horizon is closer than most nights and I cannot feel the land anymore, nor do I want to. The moon, fuller than ever, shows and goes; until the church bells ring the first hour of the morning. April – May 2026, Samothraki.

Έγκλημα στη Σαμοθράκη

Συγκλονιστικές είναι οι εξελίξεις σχετικά με το μέχρι στιγμής ανεξιχνίαστο έγκλημα στη Σαμοθράκη. Η σωρός του Μολδαβού επιχειρηματία βρέθηκε τελικά σε δύσβατο κομμάτι του βράχου Βρυχού, περιφερειακά του οικισμού της Χώρας. Η αστυνομία κάνει λόγο για δολοφονία, αλλά δεν έχει δώσει προς το παρόν λεπτομέρειες για τυχόν υπόπτους ή για τον τρόπο που αφαιρέθηκε η ζωή του θύματος! Ρίγος στην τοπική κοινωνία εν μέσω καλοκαιριού! Θα επιστρέψουμε κοντά σας μόλις έχουμε νεώτερα... Ο αστυνόμος Μακρής έκλεισε το ραδιόφωνο με αργές, σχεδόν θεατρικές κινήσεις. Όχι πως ήταν λάτρης του σανιδιού · μάλλον το αντίθετο. Τον επιβράδυνε περισσότερο η σκέψη της τελευταίας φράσης που άκουσε. Θα επιστρέψουμε κοντά σας μόλις έχουμε νεώτερα... Ήξερε τι σήμαινε αυτό. Το τηλέφωνο θα χτυπούσε σύντομα. Στην Αλεξανδρούπολη επικρατούσε πνιγηρή ζέστη. Ο απογευματινός παραλιακός περίπατος περισσότερο είχε αυξήσει παρά ανακουφίσει τη δυσφορία που ήδη ένιωθε. Βέβαια δεν ήταν μόνο ο καιρός. Στην πρα...

Unconcluded lasting

A shy rain drizzles across the sea almost involuntary certainly insecure. All these empty moments their quietness and the silent awaiting, an unvoiced hope that walks the earth in the morning and fades in the depths of the moon at night, a light that sleeps and wakes wakes and sleeps illuminating nothing at all. Yes, even the light can wither without care without a word or with just saying empty, muted words. The rain drops like gold liquid light trapped in particles unsurfacing an awaiting permanently silenced; an unconcluded lasting. February 2026, Athens. Photograph: Corfu, January 2025.

The Rain vocabulary

The weather came in showers like hours pass in tandem; horizons threw on us gale. I can't imagine a world full of sunshine, said the lonely soil; and opened its hugs to the skies. The windows licked the drops before the wind could carry them away; before they would turn into salt a freezing sensation of ice. The storm had only started; and ducks fled the lake like children flee a war. The river only tried to stand for a second or a moment; the river tried to say it was soon going to go away. October 2023, Athens & October 2025, Lesvos Photographs: contemporary (above) & ancient (below) port of Mytilene, Lesvos, October 2025.

The London collection of short poems

Lambeth / Waterloo Bridge The summer early morning hours smell of fresh cut grass and they come as hesitant as the foxes in the garden; how do I love walking from home to the world’s opening. Tavistock Square An evonym lets itself into the world blossomed and ready – complete and the world takes it instantly; and so I watch the world noticing you and you watch me and there’s some uplift and quietness in this moment that both soothe me. Bloomsbury A radiant cloud settles; all this rain – soft & undecided – transcends London and moves me north while the colours multiply. Trafalgar Square / Westminster Bridge There’s a whole life that with each strike of the clock crosses the bridge and shares herself – so openly; she does so quarter after quarter hoping the right someone will notice. Borough Market / London Bridge I surrender to the controlled chaos and people carry me and at times I carry some stranger, and as I let it all happ...

Vanilla & lavender

You always sleep breathing peacefully in your bed (ever since). The house smells like vanilla and some lavender and you are always sleeping peacefully in your bed (for over a decade now). You will always sleep no matter the flowers in the house no matter the hours that pass. November 2025, Piraeus.

Perceptual haikus

I. The truth gives itself in pieces; it floods my eyes & mind. II. A tribe of hooded crows pulls me back up; or do they plunge me further in the deep? III. A drop falls in the Aegean; the sea licks my wounds unfathomably. IV. Things I’ve known before their time; or things that have crossed their place? V. Fragmented souls flying as dandelions ; they whisper in the atmosphere their fragility. VI. This moon tonight burns transcendentally; worshippers of any kind turn to the sky quietly. VII. The horizon crumbles one star & a cloud at a time; I’ve dreamt of this before with my eyes wide open. August 2026, Samothraki Photos: top – the August full moon rises from the sea on Samothraki; bottom – a hooded crow watches over Chóra of Samothraki.

Inner ocean

The faster I pace the more often I forget to catch my breath. Rarely I catch a glimpse of the waves crashing against the medieval stone walls, or hear the meditating sound of this moment from afar; and history slows me down inadvertently. Does it take an ocean to draw my attention now? I remember noticing once a “day launching itself unaware of what is to come and what is slowly slipping away”. i Today’s day escapes my attention again… If I were to sit on that coastline bench, I would come to realise I ebb and flow, one day to another one life to the next. October 2026, between Greece & Scotland. i Poem ‘Brexit’ (2020): https://poetic-movements.blogspot.com/2020/12/brexit.html

Down the rabbit hole

I. In my dreams I fall off the plane. Underneath me is the dark sea the only source of light the night ferries crossing waters from known to the unknown. I never make contact with the water; instead, as the distance from the plane increases above me so does the reach of the sea under the more I fall the farther I find the sea. The next night I fall all the same the distance longer this time. II. My dream starts and starts and starts again and again and always but never ends. Bound to endless beginnings. Sept. 2026 Kr a k ó w

Poetic Movements

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