Threshold

I’ve written over again about this water running down the body

and, oh, how much I still remember this;

coming off age.

You freeze time – or so you think –

but all that stays is the heat of summer,

and you hate it;

the sticky body

the dry hair

the dazed eyes.

A smoky smell arriving from the kitchen

the pasta getting burnt

and you were worried about the weather;

what to wear if it rains?

Now you cook with mastery

brush your hair

pick the clothes

ignore the weather;

all at the same time.

The air is salty outside

and it makes you think you should have cooked fish instead,

but not everybody likes fish.

Food is always consumed quickly

no matter the number of people

and it makes you wonder if it’s a worthy profession.

The throat is rough

some summer cold catching up

through the wet hair;

it wouldn’t have been so bad to leave it dry after all, would it?

Writing is not an easy job

and you don’t call it a job either.

It pulls you through

time

and suddenly you see your hands throwing food away;

and again it’s pasta

never some fish

you have been cooking all day.

You ’ve never cooked for the whole day.

You walk across the harbour

or all the way down to it,

your feet are nonetheless tired

your spine seems restless to the burden

but it’s not.

Time has passed and you are way off.

Some cold is catching up

and you decide to dye your hair

-your much longer hair-

before you see more white;

you can’t make peace with snow

though you spent your childhood seeking for it.

It’s summer now

is it not?

It’s another summer

but

you try to find a different word for it.

30 July 2017,

Athens.

Photograph: port of Hydra, Greece, 14 July 2012.

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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...

Mountain stars (a collection of irregular haikus)

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.

Μικρό καλοκαίρι

Ι Η υγρασία της θάλασσας σκεπάζει τη στεριά αντικριστά και μπαίνει μέσα μου. (Βρέχει ανεπαρκώς.) ΙΙ Τα δρομολόγια των πλοίων φεύγουν κανονικά μα δεν επιστρέφουν πια. ΙΙΙ Ο βραδινός ουρανός διαστέλλεται το ίδιο και η κόρη του ματιού · κάθε νύχτα ο ορίζοντας τρώει λίγο ακόμα από τη στεριά και κάθε ξημέρωμα η θάλασσα μας έχει κυκλώσει λίγο περισσότερο. IV Βουλιάζουμε. Σεπτέμβριος 2024, Σαμοθράκη.

Safe place

What it feels like to watch the ferry sail from ashore an island remote urged to absorb and write about all; the smallness of the houses the vastness of the stars the firmness of the mountain and the thriving sun the stove warmth the cricket songs the raven flights the goat bells from within the heights; what it is like looking for the winter in the uncanny light of the dusk and wanting to stop, eat up the day, and again start. Once, I walked at night in the dark crossing the ancient forest and ever since I walk, the forest every night. Samothraki, November 2024.

Bosphorus

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.

Composition

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: Tavist...

Τι σχέση έχει ο Πάνακτος Βοιωτίας με τον Λουτρόπυργο Νέας Περάμου; Η κατάρρευση της οικειότητας

Καμία. Τα χωρίζουν 32 χιλιόμετρα, ένα όρος, ένα τεράστιο δάσος και τα “σύνορα” νομών Βοιωτίας και Αττικής. Απ’ όσους οδηγούς έχουν σταματήσει ανά τα χρόνια έξω από το εξοχικό μας στον Κάτω Λουτρόπυργο για να ζητήσουν οδηγίες, κανείς ποτέ δεν κατευθύνθηκε προς τον Πάνακτο, ή προς τα Δερβενοχώρια. Κι εμείς ποτέ δεν θεωρήσαμε ότι ο Πάνακτος ή τα Δερβενοχώρια είναι κοντά προκειμένου να πάρουμε το αυτοκίνητο και να πάμε βόλτα προς τα εκεί. Πώς γίνεται λοιπόν μία φωτιά που είχε ξεκινήσει στον Πάνακτο Βοιωτίας να βρίσκεται δύο μέρες μετά στον Άνω Λουτρόπυργο, και συγκεκριμένα δίπλα στην Ολυμπία Οδό; Και πως γίνεται άλλες δύο μέρες μετά από αυτό η φωτιά να έχει σχεδόν κάνει κύκλο περνώντας από τα Μέγαρα και να έχει επιστρέψει στην Οινόη; Βρισκόμαστε μπροστά στην κατάρρευση της οικειότητας, αντιμέτωποι με την αδυναμία πλέον να ορίσουμε τι μας είναι γνώριμο. Το γνώριμο γίνεται γρήγορα άγνωστο, ακόμα και άγονο. Οι αναμνήσεις δεν βρίσκουν τόπο να σταθούν · μετά από κάθε οριοθέτησή...

April’s fools

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.

From Katrina to Samothraki: Another Deluge.

The Chóra of Samothraki two years ago, on Tuesday 20 October 2015. It was two years ago that I was arriving in Samothraki, no longer a tourist but in preparation for my PhD fieldwork application. It was the same days as this year’s floods that I, ambitious and with a questioning spirit, was stepping foot on the island, just two years ago. Two years following those first days everything is so different. Pictures depict a landscape all the sudden alienated, a stranger. Questions bear no longer their fruitful character, but instead awake nightmares. Words do not flow; and experience is a repetitious limbo stuck in mind. Walking amongst the debris and mud last week, in the aftermath of the pouring rain and squall, I could not raise my hands, hold the camera steadily and take pictures. Who would like to remember this anyway? Who would possibly like to store and return to such pictures in time? Four years ago, while taking a semester of my BA course in Social Anthropo...

Before

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

Poetic Movements

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