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Four Haiku

ShareSnow snowflakes lingering on a strand where pebbles chime the wind smothers me Water water gushes clear in mid summer parched brooks heart-shaped leaves wasted Read more Diasporic Literature »

Το Πουλί με τις Αλήθειες/The Bird that spoke the Truth

ΤΟ ΠΟΥΛΙ ΜΕ ΤΙΣ ΑΛΗΘΕΙΕΣ Η λήθη σκέπασε το παρελθόν, το άγνωστο πολιορκεί το σπίτι φαντάσματα πραγμάτων που αγαπήσαμε και χάθηκαν και τώρα μόνον οι αράχμες γνωρίζουν τη συνέχεια — αλλά η νοσταλγία για το άγνωστο μας είχε κερδίσει από παιδιά κι η μοναξιά μας είχε υποσχεθεί τις μακρινές αποστάσεις. Ώ το παιδί που υπήρ- ξαμε μ’ εκείνο τον τεράστιο λαιμοδέτη για μια τόσο σύντομη παιδικότητα. Κι η Μαρία που το βραδινό αε- ράκι παράσερνε τις κορδέλες του καπέλου της σε άλλους αστερισμούς — ποτέ δεν τη φτάσαμε. Κι αγάπησα με πάθος καθετί που δεν ήταν γραφτό να γνωρίσω. Κι έζησα όλη τη ζωή μου σ’ ένα όνειρο και την αθανασία σε μερικά κονιάκ. Κάποιο πρωινό ένα πουλί κάθισε στο αντικρινό δέντρο και κάτι σφύριξε. Ώ, άν καταλαβαινα τί ήθελε να μου πει, ίσως να είχα βρει το νόημα του κόσμου. THE BIRD THAT SPOKE THE TRUTH Forgetfulness covered the [...]
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Dimitris LIantinis' "HOUR OF THE STARS"

Ὁδηγητής τῶν ἑφτά βοδιῶν πού λειβαδεύουν στό βιλαέτι τῆς ἔγνοιας σου ἀθροίζεις τόν ἕωλο αἰῶνα. Ἔχτισες τά σύνορα τοῦ ἀγῶνα σου μέ τέσσερες σταγόνες παγωμένου ἱδρῶτα σέ σχῆμα λάβαρου σταυροφόρων. Ὦ Ἀλκάλουροψ, πλοηγέ τοῦ γέλιου τῶν παιδιῶν καί ἀλφαβητάρι τῶν γερόντων. Read more Diasporic Literature »

She Wouldn’t Budge

Strategoula’s square jaw tightened as I pulled her messy, straw-blonde hair hard at the back, like plucking a dead chicken off its feathers. Her head bounced back and forth as if joined with her shoulders by bed springs. She reiterated by kicking me hard in the stomach and then I felt her pincers-firm grip on my left wrist. Read more Diasporic Literature »

Your Toothless Mouth

Konstantina Sozou-Kyrkou You know what struck me the most when I saw you lying flat on the hospital bed? I realized I’d never seen you without your impeccable false teeth. You looked older, defenseless, robbed from authority. A catatonic man with cheeks sunken along the gums that framed a wide dark cave of a mouth, a forehead jutting out of the white pillow, wet wisps of hair drowning underneath. Read more Diasporic Literature »

The Gordian Knot

Athenas street looks abandoned, still, like a dusty street before a duel in a western. Shop windows dim, like the dirty spectacles of a myopic child; cardboard boxes scattered over shabby floors, like presents that have been left unwrapped; dust blanketing the window displays, like stale icing on a cake. On the pavements, in flaky flower stands, yucca leaves cower over brittle trunks, like rusty, weary swords. The economic depression has gravely affected retail sales all over Greece. Chopped salaries mean less money to spend on consumer goods. How do all these redundant people earn a living now, I wonder. Something has to be done soon or lots of people will starve. Read more Diasporic Literature »

Words versus Actions

The skin of my yiayia’s hands dry, like peeling garlic; blanketing a tangle of frustrated veins. Eyes round, tinged with terror, mouth agape, pale legs grappling with the white sheets in an effort to revolt against stagnation. I want so much to comfort her, ease her pain. ‘I’m here for you. I’ll always be,’ I think but never utter the actual words. We’ve always shied away from exchanging soppy phrases such as ‘I care for you’, or ‘I love you’. Read more Diasporic Literature »

Aliki Beach

Aliki Beach in autumn hues, just sandy footprints left by you mystically adored, a dream in colours rare and supreme. On Sunday wintertime set in. Your hands held cloudy skies within. We are with you present in mind, our mortal selves, though, left behind. Read more Diasporic Literature »

City of London

Here books and bookshops have a distinct fragrance like incense rising offering itself to a venerable pious congregation. Here people and palaces have an ancient architecture Roman and Romanesque at once not led astray by flights of abstraction only trusting in the everyday and concrete joyfully signing in the underground at peak hour or biting their lips to not let in the winter Read more Diasporic Literature »

Snow

The snow that falls outside! a God like the ice-vendor of death with eyes bloodshot from fever Read more Diasporic Literature »

The Hotel "Hope"

A little out from Athens there is the Hotel “HOPE”. Each night in this Hotel, at midnight, two ghosts cry. This bad luck drives the hotel manager to despair, for as you might appreciate these goings-on drive customers away Read more Diasporic Literature »

The Vigil

Everyone is asleep and I lie awake I thread silver moons through a golden string and I wait for dawn for the birth of a new god Read more Diasporic Literature »

A Short Story

The café where I drink my coffee is empty only I exist and so the café is completely empty Read more Diasporic Literature »

Desires

Carnation wilted red colored hope painted by the sun’s endless caress two soup bowls empty two wine glasses empty and the cicadas’ song a summer conflagration Read more Diasporic Literature »

The Concept of Love

The Persian poet Sadi once in his spiritual ecstasy, found himself walking among the burgeon gardens of Elysian Fields (paradise), brimming with exotic blooms and rare perfumed heavenly flowers. He thought to gather a few in his apron for friends at home, but the exquisite fragrances intoxicated him so much that he dropped the apron together with the flowers. Endeavouring to tell his friends of the wonderful sight and the rare aromatic scents of paradise on his return, he found it impossible, because the human tongue was too poor for such heavenly description. Read more Diasporic Literature »

Eleni

Sometimes past midnight the rhythmic hooves of horses are heard from down the road of a delayed carriage as if returning from a mourning matinee of some rundown neighborhood theater with its plaster fallen off the ceiling, with the peeling walls with a huge discolored red curtain drawn that has shrunk from so many washings and in the gap it leaves under it you could see the bare feet of the stage manager or the electrician who perhaps rolls up a paper forest to turn off the lights. Read more Diasporic Literature »

Icy Love

Erotic embrace of crystalline ice with tree branch that it won’t break that it won’t lose it in its endless love it shrouds it with the wings of death Read more Diasporic Literature »

Escape

He sat on the stool by the front yard, his hands so clumsy, they had already overtaken us “someday they will demolish the house”, he says to me, and they’ll discover it” and every so often at the far end of the room someone wrapped around him a bed-sheet, it was the time he escaped, until the bed-sheet fell empty on the floor and we had a friend forever, Read more Diasporic Literature »

The Nails

Sometimes, that special hour, I think of narrating all the details: how, for example, this incurable disease started on the opposite wall or about that woman in the park, whose body was nailed on the bench, and I say this without exaggeration, the nails protruded from her cloths like small buttons, while her purse with her identity card floated down... Read more Diasporic Literature »

Ubermensch

Poetry, EKSTASIS EDITIONS Ubermensch, by Manolis Aligizakis is the most difficult and most philosophical poetry book I have come across. And rightfully so since it is identified with Nietzsche’s “Ubermensch” so much in the plot as much in the concepts. The poet “toys” with the various conventions as he firstly relates Ubermensch to true dimension given to him by the German philosopher and secondly to the misinterpretation given to the concept by the German ‘national-socialists’ with the horrible results that followed and affected the whole world. Before we describe Manolis Algizakis’ Ubermensch, let us quickly look at what Nietzsche anticipated from his treatise. In simple words Nietzsche posited man opposite his abilities and responsibilities which should he had used wisely, he could overcome every obstacle. With the right use of his logic and his instinct as his primal levers man can live in a free and just society where everyone [...]
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The Visitor's Letter

Share Suddenly on an autumn day he left, on the table he left a letter “don’t send me away” it read and spoke of a deep inhabitable emotion; in the house all the lights were turned on that I wouldn’t understand, that perhaps, he had never come, while next to the letter he had left the mystery of his death, already covered by cobwebs... Read more Diasporic Literature »

Education

Education is useful when the student is taught how to think liberally and not just to copy academic literature. Excess of education often produce lower intellect, intolerant and Calvinistic attitudes. It was never meant for humans to study a lot in order to find the right work in their life. All humans where born with certain talents to follow in life, which lead them to a unmistakable happier living with intellectual and spiritual success. Read more Diasporic Literature »

The Third Man

Then the other one came, he carried an old ravished valise, in which he hid all the ghosts of his life, that they never needed chase after him, we were in the same stuffy room and the large animal sawn on the carpet was already biting our knees, “mother”, I asked at some-time, “where can we find some water for my horse?”, “but I don’t see any horse”, “you too, mother!”, Read more Diasporic Literature »

The Carriage

The foreigner chatted with the woman in a low tone, of course, the woman was dead and he stared at his destiny, that useless outline the dead leave on the chair, birds struck the ceiling and fell into the dirty sink where all the stories ended, embalmed old men sat behind the window glass the stoa was dark, the stores wet where they sold tripods for caskets and wreaths for glory we had once dreamed off, Read more Diasporic Literature »

The Empty Coat

Night fell and in the old house only the shadows remained, “aunt Eudokia”, I said to her, “be serious, you are dead now” but she retained the same awkward smile, like back then when she hid something which I wasn’t allowed to know as yet the foreigner narrated stories of signs and wonders, ancient old murders, he also talked about a fly on the child’s glass and that he burnt Read more Diasporic Literature »

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One Comment so far:

  1. Wonderful web site.
    Compliment!
    All the best
    Kind regards

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