Poetic Movements

Monday morning. At the camping. A relaxing tune comes from the background and I am aimlessly gazing at the sea for a moment. A boat is floating, not much far from the shore. My senses are all alarmed. I walk to the camping fence with a sped up pace. From there I can easily see two bodies diving in the sea, perhaps even posing before the actual dive. The remaining third person on the boat starts paddling. A warm breeze whispers in my ears; a boat close to the camping, bodies instantly hovering above the easy wave... the y are on vacation, what else did you expect? For a second I expected to se e bodies struggling to reach the shore, any shore. I expected there would be no paddles, just a hull left to sink. I expected to face the Mediterranean collapsing right under my feet. But that was another time. I am on Samothraki now. Yet Turkey is not that far. It’s only a 3-hour sail, to be exact. If there were a Customs Office on Samoth

Caves rose from where seemingly was nothing & there was labour there were dancing figures making their way flawlessly to the waters. At the end of the horizon attached to the eye’s pupil shadows balanced light & darkness desire & s(k)in human & divine. The eyes exploded into colours that were the roads stretching & stretching miles & miles land to land to an abyss of lecher clouds & satyr goats drinking from salty water pouring down filling the caves petrified. July 2018, Samothraki. Photographs: Gardens (‘Kipoi’) of Samothraki, landscape details, 10 July 2018. 

Your loneliness screams for isolation and to be a foreigner amongst people known at times. What it feels like to drown, yet to be again and what a privilege it is to talk about feelings. I can’t rationalise the melted sunsets colours fighting the greyness of clouds all lashing out to the sea for better, or for worse. Inconceivable icons the life and the death rolling like rocks mountains to heels heels to rivers rivers on me rivers washed washing all that is and all that could be off off off and off again. My feelings are spread across the rampage each inhabiting a hanging rock either to root or to cease. Chóra, Samothraki, 8 July 2018. Photograph: landscape view from Pyrgos, Chóra, Samothraki, 8 July 2018.

I was swimming to the sun head on and I swear getting closer I could feel his warmth intensifying enveloping the body like gloves reanimate hands in deep winter; but the sea’s obscurity called my body in the promising depth of forsaken places; so I could let the flesh disintegrate into bubbles across the surface of the water. And all things that were found their continuity. 3 July 2018, Samothraki. Photograph: sunset in black & white, Samothraki, 03.07.18.