Poetic Movements

  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...

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.

  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.

  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...