English Language Literature

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Foretaste

A little further from the light cast by the lamp there begins another world, an unknown world - who has ever gone there? who has every returned from there? - and then there are nights - ah! how many adventures there are dreams, so many that you life becomes insignificant (and hence dangerous) - Continues »

Four Haiku

Snow 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 Continues »

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. Continues »

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. Continues »

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. Continues »

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. Continues »

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’. Continues »

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. Continues »

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 Continues »

Snow

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

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 Continues »

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 Continues »

A Short Story

The café where I drink my coffee is empty only I exist and so the café is completely empty Continues »

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 Continues »

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. Continues »

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. Continues »

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 Continues »

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, Continues »

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... Continues »

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... Continues »

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. Continues »

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!”, Continues »

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, Continues »

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 Continues »

Voices

Ideal and beloved voices of the dead or those who for us are lost like the dead. At times they talk in our dreams; at times our minds hear them when in thought. Continues »

VI

The orchard with its fountains in the rain you will see only from behind the fogged up glass of the lower window. Your room will be lit by the fireplace flames and sometimes, the distant lightning will reveal the wrinkles on your face, my old Friend. Continues »

V

We didn’t know them deep inside it was hope that said we had met them in early childhood. Perhaps we had seen them twice and then they went to the ships cargoes of coal, cargoes of crops and our friends vanished beyond the ocean forever. Daybreak finds us beside the tired lamp Continues »

Winter Approaches

Manolis-w-1With each tick of the clock a yellow leaf falls. You had a straw hat with lilac flowers. Now in there, chickens lay eggs and a snail climbs on the leg of the chair. Continues »

Floating in air

With the first cold spells, the trees leave stooping in the wind. In the evening, the sky becomes a large closed glass door. In there, many have gathered talking in low tones and smoking, because we see, behind the steamed glass Continues »

Fear of Life

Stony day stony sun stony silence. The horses died on the mountain the trees died in whitewash you didn’t die. Continues »

Healing

Years of sky. Τhe street and the sundown. Τhe white houses are serene like the memory that doesn’t feel sorry for you anymore. Two poplars vanished in the dusk two poplars two poplars. Continues »

Hour of Song

Hour of Song Next to the wine jugs next to the fruit baskets we forgot to sing. On the evening of our separation Continues »

Keami Maha Tahandra

maidenIn my dream last night you did appear uttering “ Keami Maha Tahandra” in my ear. To what end is this exotic phrase? Are you chiding me, or is it praise? Continues »

The Sin

They left, they left – he said. They stayed – he said in a while. They stayed. They exist. Gullible days, wasted. And there were a few trees. The roofs leaned their shoulders more impressively. George, on top of the ladder, was fixing the plaster festoon of the neoclassical house. Further down in the harbor the longshoremen were creating a havoc. They carried large wooden boxes tied with ropes. Two dogs walked edge to edge in the street. Continues »

Finch's song

If it wasn’t for the finch’s song he wouldn’t know spring had arrived. With blurry eyes he looked through the open window deep into the irises of March... Continues »

Seabed

The rupture in the voice propels the course of the blood clot and at the summit there gapes the joy of the coming of another long-headed woman. Her petals folded and the necklace she bent over to grab provokes and protects her copulation far from the corncobs and velvet of the seashore. Continues »

Desire

Prostrate and with sugar on her lips she lay down on the luminous wreath of love. It was not long before the summons was heard. Initially two birds took her, followed by the wires of the compassionate conspiracy, and finally she was taken away by five roosters which looked like horses that were literate, and they touched her private parts. Continues »

Roses by the window

The purpose of our life is not servility. There exist infinitely better things than even that statuesque presence of the bygone epic. The purpose of our life is love. Continues »

Bitter thorn

Bitter thorn The young lady I encountered in my drawer appeared and then vanished. In her place a wisp of smoke carries the phosphorus of her frieze. Emigrants exploit the expanses she left behind but the child of our memories brings the tentacles which resemble the six different delights of the young lady who was basically a mother to her child and my mother. Sometimes I live inside the drawer. But every time when some event is not given any name other than that of a cloak underneath which the foundations of a tragic curtain are being undermined I take her last handkerchief and I beg my toad to destroy all wailing which could possibly exist _____in the chairs and on the curtains. Poems by Andreas Embeirikos Translated by N.N. Trakakis The poems translated here are by the renowned modern Greek writer Andreas Embeirikos (1901-1975), and they appear here in [...]
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The Virgin Mary with the fish

ShareBetter even than the soil we give to the friends of water lilies, the getaway signal was spurned. Lying down she feeds her donkeys and the lean ravens without abiding in the injustice of fierce appeasement. That’s why she will still bloom, that’s why she will cry out, that’s why the supine and spineless men and all the secret ravines will be demolished and she will remain a lustrous and likeable crucible thriving in the colours of matter. Continues »

Raven

Years like wings. What does the motionless raven remember? What do the dead remember near the roots of trees? Your hands had the color of the falling apple. And this voice that always returns in a low tone. Those who travel focus on the sail and the stars hear the wind and beyond the wind the other sea like a closed conch near them, they hear nothing else, they don’t search among the shadows Continues »

An angel in the steam engine

When with the weight of the wind which sweeps away the brooms between the mothers’ legs the shooting star trumpeted the last commandments of the god-men, the phoneme proudly stood up and with the suppleness of complete automatic subtlety carried felicity away towards the waters of an enormous tide. Continues »

Alone, from the depths of the drawer...

…the second mistral took off. The motions of the slender hairbrush against my self were successfully negotiated. A tropical warmth, but one transformed before martyrs who had been set on fire, was definitively registered in the proceedings of the giant warriors, instead of the worthless honour of an esteemed odalisque. On her legs anklets glowed, on her face tears, on her breast three droplets. Continues »

Hunger

The night passed its mouth stuffed by speechless water. At daybreak the sun shone wet on the coiled cables. Faces – shadows, masts – shadows, voyages – perhaps saw them, perhaps not – our hunger was never satisfied. Continues »

A Face

It is a bright face, silent, all alone like the entire loneliness, like complete victory over loneliness. This face looks at you between two columns of still water Continues »

Summer

The four windows hang rhyming quatrains made of sky and sea inside the rooms A lonely daisy is a small wristwatch on the arm of summer showing twelve at noon. Thus you feel your hair entangled in the hands of the sun Continues »

Waterclock

It is a clock-drop we give one another. If you can give and accept it, you live. Though it become an ocean, you will never lose bearing, you will never drown. Continues »

Matala

With bleeding feet dry lips and copper breath, I find myself at the end of the world. And then, I hear one birdsong I see the shaft of just one straw of sun… the pine… Continues »

One Night

Κωνσταντίνος Καβάφης και Ερωτισμός/ Constantine Cavafy and Eroticism Sensuous, erotic, exact Cavafy does not so much tell a story as create an atmosphere, sweeping the reader away on a blue Aegean sea of longing. The endurance of his work is in his approach, embodying both the immediacy of the Hellenic past and the direct moment of an imagined erotic encounter. Translated by Manolis Aligizakis Continues »

At the entrance to the Cafe

ShareConstantine Cavafy and Eroticism Translated from the Greek by Manolis Aligizakis Continues »

Autumn Comment

ShareThe gist of my story was a black reclining chair—though where is the house now, where is the fruit bowl with the old invitations, the napkins that concealed our laughter—only the lamp is lit in the empty room, like someone who talks to himself ignorant of the danger or like a woman you never Continues »

Peisistratos

When, finally, after all the begging, the woman lied down and lifted her dress, I chose to pick all the coins that fell—and all this for a Peisistratos, as was the name of the café where I drank my brandy and then the patrons laughed as I fell asleep on the chair Continues »

Perverted Passion

MANUAL FOR EUTHANASIA 1979 ΕΓΧΕΙΡΙΔΙΟ ΕΥΘΑΝΑΣΙΑΣ ~So many stars and I starve to death. ~ Τόσα άστρα κι εγώ νά λιμοκτονώ Τάσος Λειβαδίτης Manolis Aligizakis Continues »

Reminder

ShareThe room was in the suburbs, with a few pieces of furniture, like a Gospel quotation—so everything finished quickly and Joanna cried and run back to the station, on the other hand it was a secret that I’d forget as I tried to mention it, then I opened the violin case—and only, at sometimes, when I grieved I put on my tie Continues »

Afternoon Delights

MANUAL FOR EUTHANASIA 1979 ΕΓΧΕΙΡΙΔΙΟ ΕΥΘΑΝΑΣΙΑΣ ~So many stars and I starve to death. ~ Τόσα άστρα κι εγώ νά λιμοκτονώ Manolis Aligizakis - Or perhaps to be more accurate it all started by this clock, a stupid, baldheaded clock, it wasn’t my fault— every afternoon I simply sat quietly on the sofa and ate my aunties is young age, but one by one, Continues »

Poem

Today I shall write a poem: exquisite images crafted to mesmerize the readers’ minds eloquent contours devoted to Terpsichore’s dance philosophical depth meant to guide people forever ethereal compositions designed to awe the on-lookers Continues »

Nude

Here, in the untidiness of the room, between the dusty books and the old people’s portraits, between the yes and the no of so many shadows, one band of motionless light here, in this position where you undressed one night. Continues »

Summer in the City

In this place the light is beyond hope. This heartless month doesn’t allow us not to be two. You are not enough. The monotonous clank, the streetcars turning the corner the marble-masons cutting stones in high noon. Above the fence-wall you could see the conventional funerary stele marble flowers marble ribbons the bust of a banker the face of a child shadowed by the wing of an angel. Continues »

Saturation

N.N. Trakakis The sky and its thousand stars stare back in sadness as do I in the pre-dawn hours resigning the world without sleep that better it might be regained with dreams only that cannot stand under the southern lights that cannot shake off the northern nostalgia of people, buildings _____monuments, landscapes forever granting more than can be received. N.N. Trakakis “Clearings” – 2011, Melbourne Continues »

The Armenian Mother

ShareThe earthquake struck Armenia quickly And spread its devastation swiftly; From its innards the earth rumbled Then its outer surface crumbled And everything standing on it tumbled. Shocked and stunned, the Armenians ran, Fearful and tearful and shattered, As the ground sputtered and shuddered- The horror and terror in their voices Echoing nature's destructive noises. Continues »

Duty

ubermensch_coverHe stood by the fireplace and after He shifted the logs He said: ‘nothing you can do for the wilted anemone at least try to push your empty cart uphill perhaps one day it may find its way back to the desolate house with you or without’ and I bent down to pick my defeated ego, it had all started because of our devout narcissism, Continues »

The Street That Was Not Named “Pasolini Street”

Wide morning in Rome that widens the consonant l amid the vendors yelling, the tires of buses and the statues’ silence. Ocher shadowed in the eastern facades of stores and buildings. Doors and doors uphold the semicircles of shadows at one time. Strange – he said – Continues »

Vatican Museum

da Vinci Raphael Michelangelo, – how they incised the greatest skies in the human face, in the human body toenails and fingernails, leaves and stars, nipples, dreams, lips, – to red and the light blue the tangible and the inconceivable. Perhaps from touching of these two fingers the world was reborn. The space between these two fingers still measures accurately the earth’s pull and duration. Continues »

Emotions

Swirling emotions, once a sea of distinct black and white feelings - flow together into a gray, misty sunset One teardrop at a time Continues »

The Flame

Olympic Torch, the flame of Greece,
Of Hope, of Creativity,
Do light the path that leads to Peace
To Love, and to Eternity.
You watched the great Olympians
With grace and sinewy eloquence
Defeat their fellow citizens;
Crowned heads did mark their excellence.
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Nature's Caress

Remember when the cardinal sings, On a branch with its crimson wings - It merrily chirps its happy tune, All day long when Lilies bloom. Remember that the sun, so high Brings peace and love within its light. It shines its steady glow of love, Even though clouds do form above. Continues »

Guilt

Then, what they searched for, what was I guilty of, I, who’s only crime was that I grew up always chased, where could one find time, for this I stayed gullible and I always hugged the cold railing of the bridge. Continues »

Night

There is a door in the night that only the blind see, darkness makes the animals hear better, and him, staggered, not from being drunk Continues »

Signs of The Times

And the episodes continued with minor variations, the epidemic advanced, confused messages, we didn’t know who they had left out, the saints in fear took refuge in the calendars, scarecrows no longer took off their hats when the trains passed by, large membranes appeared under the women’s arms, Continues »

Artan

The park is situated on the highest point of the town overlooking the Corinthian Gulf. A multicoloured bed of roses lines one perimeter and tall conifers and fir trees are scattered over the grass. Asphalt paths, edged with wooden benches, lead to the ornamental iron gates located on each side of its four perimeters. A small bridge stretches across a lake hidden by pampas grass and shrubs. The townsfolk, who live in the surrounding high rise apartments, gather in the park to walk, talk and relax. The boys find an empty bench and Artan twists off the caps of two bottles of beer and offers one to Bekim. They take long gulps and wipe their mouths with the sleeves of their work clothes. Continues »

Creation

Creation - He would sit out in the fields and draw birds on the soil. But the birds yearned for the sky. Then, all around them, he drew the infinite sorrow. Continues »

Secret Gate

Secret Gate Wings stirred under the furniture and at the end of the hall the dark mirror made the children often sick, because they didn’t want to grow up, Continues »

On a Ray of Winter Light

Είπες εδώ καί χρόνια: “Κατά βάθος είμαι ζήτημα φωτός”. Καί τώρα ακόμη σάν ακουμπάς στίς φαρδιές ωμοπλάτες τού ύπνου ακόμη κι όταν σέ ποντίζουν Some years ago you said ‘Basically I am a matter of light.’ And still today when you lean on the wide shoulders of sleep even when they anchor you Continues »

Flowers of the rock before the green sea

Flowers of the rock before the green sea with veins that reminded me of other loves gleaming in the slow drizzle flowers of the rock, faces Continues »

Summer Solstice

Soft island hills lapping on sea froth cicadas fire up their endless arias come close to me, I beg you, before me stand like Hermes naked, Continues »

The birds and the bees

May we catch our breath for now may we escape of dreams to distant shores, let shaded laughs among our cries and all our thoughts we let them find what it is that they may seek appearing oh so desperately meek? Continues »

Prof Loula Rodopoulos

In fond memory of a friend, a writer and a scholar… There are times when one comes face to face with life’s reality, reaching the limits of human power over nature. Today was one of these times when we were informed of the passing away of one of Diasporic Literature’s most prominent members Prof Loula Rodopoulos, at the age of 68. Loula has been a talented writer, a great supporter of Diasporic LIterature, a friend and a exemplary scholar. Her work has been published in several literary journals and university publications. At Diasporic Literature she has been working with her friend V. Tsaconas to organise the Reading Salon titled “Curate or Create” which was going to be held during March 2013. Diasporic Literature and all its members would like to extend our sincere condolences to her husband George. We will always remember her as a friend who was there to help [...]
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Family Photograph

ShareThe photograph is black and white and was possibly taken about the year of 1900.  It is a photograph of the nine children of the Wood family.  My grandfather George was one of these children. I feel a great attachment to the photograph.  It is like looking at a still from a movie as I take a peek into the story of their lives.  They are all dressed in high fashion of the day and are posed in the garden having a tea party. Grace looks to be the eldest and sits at a small table with a cloth draped over it.  She looks very poised with her eyes lowered to the teapot raised in her hand.  She wears a beautiful wide brimmed hat, a sash around her waist and a dress high to the neck with puffed sleeves.  Louie stands to the left of her facing the camera and [...]
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Tomorrow, perchance, a coin I'll thrust

ShareMismatched robes in strategic pose sculpted from birth feigning hurt? Lady, lady please a drachma for a sandwich,Good Easter. Infant nursed empty purse on carpeted display destitute path convey. God bless you lady a drachma for her milk,Good Easter. Continues »

For a Woman

Do you remember the nights? To make you laugh I’d walk over the glass of the night lamp. “How was it possible?” You asked. But it was so simple: since you loved me Θυμάσαι τίς νύχτες; Γιά νά σέ κάνω νά γελάσεις περπατούσα πάνω στο γυαλί τής λάμπας. “Πώς γίνεται;” ρωτούσες. Μά ήταν τόσο απλό αφού μ’ αγαπούσες. Continues »

Pigsty

Things had changed, these days they don’t kill, they only point at you with the finger, it’s enough. Then, they make a circle that always becomes smaller, they slowly get closer, you retreat, back against the wall, until in desperation, you, alone, open a hole to hide into. Continues »

Healthy Explanations

The father of medicine, Hippocrates, set primarily in each new doctor a definition along with the standard oath, that: "You cannot be good a doctor without being a philosopher at the same time." We know that the philosopher besides the reflective, observant and intellectual learning is also a strict naturalist, which rightly so that the ancient Greeks used to call them Iatrophilosophers. For this reason I would like to expand a bit on this definition for the ordinary person with a slight variation: "You can never be cured completely by a physician when he is unable to explain to you in simple language, the cause of your illness." Continues »

Simple Words

The night almost same as all others: tediousness, the faint light, lost paths and suddenly someone says “I’m poor”, as though giving you a great promise. Continues »

The Defeated

He kneeled and laid his forehead on the floor. It was the difficult time. When he got up, his embarrassed face, that we all knew, had stayed there, on the planks, like a useless upside helmet. Continues »

Parthenon Marbles

Who is talking about marbles? These are not marbles any more. These are the flesh and blood Of our forefathers, who fought For centuries to preserve. Continues »

unearthed

4 I stand on waves of earth - χωμα nurtured by blood- -and-bone of my ancestors Continues »

My Sun

I try the warmth of poppies, Like a substitute sun They light the corners of my sight. Armful, eyeful, I fill and overflow with gathering. From my fingers The urchin trusts his darkness And takes a single flower. Continues »

to look at water

to look at water     when I open (up) my heart         - is to fill it             with the stillness Continues »

The Secret

Brother, you stole my secret and went. Noon and midnight quit the sky. Nothing's secure nor quite obscure, without. One, two, and a third gone orb of light. Within the night, zenith and nadir converge. Continues »

Ψυχοσαββατο − Soul Saturday

I wait for my mother and her sister outside church. They go to every ψυχοσαββατο. To commemorate our dead. The night before, Mum prepares κολυβα a mix of boiled wheat, bread crumbs, walnuts, sesame seeds and sultanas covered by a layer of icing sugar and decorated with slivered almonds, puts the προσφορο she has bought from the bakery next to her bag so as not to forget it and writes a list of the dead. Continues »

Crimes

Black water, black sky And I sat river watching. From the perimeter cold They charted all heat of my waiting And punished me. Continues »

Two poems with no title

I say, therefore, I’ll come someday to hide, like before, aloft and let them knock, let all that loved me knock, let all those that I loved knock, all those that I loved so dearly and I will not open, Continues »

Nineties Suite

Burly grizzled man with foreign designation seeks compensation Suffered work place accident troubling hurt recalls healthy youth in village of birth Life unfolds within the claws of legal and medical dispute his character in disrepute Three members sit aloof listen peruse submissions scribble question direct interrupt deliberate Why can’t they anglicise their names? A senior member berates Time to do something for Australians too! Another sceptic asserts If I were king for a day I’d grant to all! The cynical majority considers him a shirker unlike the dissenter who affirms the injured worker Continues »

Ωδες

1 the songs my mother sang me are the songs I heard at birth: my mother’s lament for her still-born child – the one before me are the songs I heard in my sleep at ten: her grief for her mother left behind never seen again Continues »

Περσεφόνη in between

king of death, curly hair and eyes as black as salty olives, you abduct me at dawn when I am dreaming of carousels and strawberry ice cream, filch me away to the serrated tip of Πελοποννησο − Continues »

the damp seeps in

in this room faded lime green paint is chipped touched-up photographs remind me of the origins of my name ikons blessed at the village church and a makeshift καντηλι behind a hand-embroidered curtain keep vigil over me Continues »

What is a pixel worth?

Kadmos For a want of a better title, I didn’t even know what the word “Pixel” meant some years back, but when I started to feel it in my bones and in my head I learned very fast. And as I look towards this screen typing I can again feel it in my eyes and in my brain; “pixelating” that is. However let me explain, and remember, l am not here to make your day, only to tell you what I have experienced through many years of sitting on my bottom making pixels work and break images, making shadows behind my eyes, making screens and pages before the Internet even existed. Are you interested? What is a pixel worth? Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know. That doesn’t mean to say nobody knows. I am sure some wizard mathematician out there would have the exact value of a pixel, in more than [...]
Continues »

Epiphany, 1937

The flowering pelagos and the mountains in the waning moon the great rock near the cactus pear trees and the asphodels the water pitcher that wouldn’t go dry at the end of the day and the vacant bed near the cypresses and your hair golden, the stars of the Swan and that star, Aldebaran Continues »

As a litany

Circumstances squeezing me organise a feast of terror in my soul made me passing out free skeleton paraded in fields of fury and hastiness as a litany shadows of human errors hanged in magazine stalls announced from papersellers or trumpets of triumph of everyday life Continues »

"Antipodes" issue 58

I was present at the launch of the literature periodical "Antipodes" on Sunday October 7th and I was witness to the proceedings and performances that took place on the day. There were three parts to the whole function organised by the Greek-Australian Cultural League and supported by a large number of members of our literary community in Melbourne. Continues »

That I am

Today into my hands and not for the first time I held a handful of soil... Trying again to count all of its grains Continues »

Cypriot who died in the Turkish invasion

I wish I had died in an important world war, at least but I was shot in action at an insignificant skirmish of a small and insignificant country, as I doubt they will ever erect a monument to our war dead, and even if accomplished, it cannot be compared, of course, with similar monuments of the larger states, with similar monuments of the larger wars, Continues »

An Old Man On the River Bank

And yet we have to consider how to proceed. To feel is not enough, nor to think, nor to move nor to risk your body in the ancient embrasure, when the boiling oil and molten lead groove the walls. And yet we have to consider to what direction we go ahead not the way our pain desires it and our hungry children and the chasm of our comrades’ call from the opposite shore not even the darkened light whispers it in the improvised hospital, Continues »

Sprig of Silver Wattle

Fur encumbered women swing designer label bags hold sprigs of silver wattle push into Caffé on Condotti walls lined with burgundy damask wallpaper settle at marble topped tables seated under ornate gilded mirrors and framed memorabilia – Goethe Stendhal Milosz Liszt Keats Shelley Byron heavy curtains cocoon grey suited man who fondles his young blonde lover the resident artist Baccellieri sits alongside the espresso machine winks at the couple he wears silver glasses shabby hat and a thick woolen coat draped with a long red scarf Continues »

Spring of Wisdom

swathed in stone gargantuan imposing blindfolded she beckoned me through the University portals into the quadrangle surrounded by the expansive portico and erudite grey stone buildings busts of male scholars her heirs scientists doctors philosophers serpent at her feet symbol of medicine Continues »

Frail Wings

Perspiring bodies with frail wings Submerged on the mountainous planes of Achaia Levitate towards the starry sky Co-drinking nectar with the Olympian family. Yearning to transcend the earthly plane Horizons untouched by human despair Epiphanies of deities at Eleusis: Continues »

Jetty Cafe - Dennes Point

Stillness prevailed. You could hear the sound of bird wing. A Sea Eagle sweeping A Dolphin leaping. Sea – a great swatch of interference colour, Opalescent, blue and then orange in my peripheral vision.   The door open. Kris and Ray give welcome As though I was the Prodigal Son. Such is their style in all they do.   Pass the intimateArtGallery Into the communal gathering space. Fireplace, leather lounge, books on cookery dominate free standing shelves.   Chalkboard menu Demonstrates the passion, flare and personality of the cook. Ray Nourishes the soul.   On the bench, Mulberry, Frangipani tart, Gold foil hued biscuits. A pan of fish on the stove, Dutch potatoes being smashed.   Vivaldi music gently permeates the air. I sit and drink my tea.   The D’Entrecateux Channel now forms relief patterns.   My miniscule notebook/sketchbook is being scribbled in. Like Flaubert, I observe intently, Oh!  [...]
Continues »

Sunset over the Water

My palette of synthetic pigment.  Pure paint. I am going to paint ‘Nature!’ I suffer from absurdities of theory. Empedocles,  Democritus,  Plato and Aristotle. Their eyes could not even see the true nature of things. Apelles said, “Four colours only.” And here I daub a cornucopia of excitement from many a tube. Is it possible to capture, ensnare, light distorted? Blue and Green have been removed. Turns to the travesty of sunset observed.   Continues »

Bruny Island

Enchantment and total connectedness made the stones speak.| My soul and body, my breath, Life force. My relationship with the water gives me knowledge. Effortless, I conjure up ancient history. My imagination is rife. Luna Wannaaloonah. The Nuenone People. Their spirits give a brooding frisson to my present time. Sixty thousand year old burnt remains of shells lie in a sandwich of ochre and mud. Continues »

Newspaper

I found an old newspaper filled with heroes and widows thousands of orphans from bygone days today’s war or yesteryear’s no difference wars always talk of the brave generals and their wonders Continues »

Shetland Elegy

The wind had a memory, It told me of things that had never been said, Storms of history, ancient runes, broken, dismembered, Then thrown into my face in spume. ‘Saat.’ The sickle edged moon etched, Acid formed in the backdrop of my world. Continues »

From Dusk to Dawn

At Diasporic Literature Spot, being a literary website, from time to time we receive books from established as well as aspiring writers. I would say that in most cases these books can be a hassle to read and an even bigger problem to write about. However there are those certain books, by certain emerging or inspiring and aspiring writers that we feel privileged to receive, to hold in our hand and to read deepest thoughts in creamy or white colour pages. These specific books are the reason why Diasporic Literature is in existence Continues »

Thinking and Destiny

Nothing in life arrives by luck or accident without first being planted by our own thoughts and deeds? Wealth, poverty, happiness, unhappiness, success, failure and what else, are all part of our thinking process. We become what our thoughts and deeds are -and harvesting exactly what we have planted there. Good luck, co-incidence and external opportunities for success in life, are only random voices of ignorance and superstition. They resemble the hooting of the owls in the night, which only the daylight will calm and silence. Continues »

Aged Soothsayer of Olympia

This is not Cassandra’s crying ‘Troy is being subjugated’, nor is it Tiresias howling ‘alas, what an ugly destiny for Theba.’ Δεν είναι η γυμνή κραυγή της Κασσάνδρας, εάλω η Τροία, ούτε του Τειρεσία ο σπαραγμός, αλί η τύχη των Θηβών. Continues »

About Friendship

‘Honest friendship is a better choice than emotional love for a steady diet, says an American thinker. Suspicion, jealousy, prejudice, and strife follow in the wake of passionate love; and disgrace murder and suicide lurk just around the corner from where lovers cooing like mating pigeons. Emotional love is a matter of proximity; it makes demands, asks for proofs and wants frequent reassurance. Friendship seeks no ownership –it only hopes to serve, and it grows by giving even from a distance. Unfortunately, this does not apply the same with passionate love. Love bestows only that it may receive, and a one-sided passion turns to hate in a night, and then demands vengeance as its right and proportion. Friendship asks no foolish vows, it is strong in absence and most loyal when needed. It lends ballast to life and gives steadily to every venture’. Continues »

Birthday

At this age The wind would always blow me southward pushing me down a childhood avenue and pointing to an obscure horizon, that winds through a busy city but I follow. At this age like an old lady cherished who betrayed me I stumble in thoughts endless while people traverse in so much rush and I wonder. Continues »

Σκεπτόμενος Εν Ολυμπία - Mediating on Olympia

«Αλίμονό μου! 'Ολη η ζωή μου πήγε χαμένη», έκραξε με δέος κυριευμένος o Ροντέν σαν πρωτόειδε τον Απόλλωνα στην Ολυμπία --------- “Alas! My whole life was in vain” Rodin overawed cried out when he first saw Apollo at Olympia. Continues »

Sunrise

Suddenly a sunrise perhaps it was a new day full of vigor and stamina and all comrades woke staring at each other, counting bodies that moved instead of the motionless, let them be cursed and let them keep away from us but when the sergeant came in Continues »

Ερωτευμένη Θεά

Άλλα ζήταγες, Αθηνά, με τον Ηρακλή σαν μας έσωζες απ' τις Στυμφαλίδες 'Ορνιθες. Ούτε τιμές, ούτε εκατόμβες. Σε βλέπω αθόρυβα να αφαιρείς την πανοπλία, χαμαί να ακουμπάς την ασπίδα, το δόρυ σαν τούφα χιονιού, ---------- When you, with Hercules, saved us from Stymfalides Birds, the reward you wished was neither honours, nor hecatombs. I see you, Athena, getting rid of your panoply, laying down shield and spear to fall as snow bunches; Continues »

Reflected Moments

‘How delightful it will be to converse intimately with someone of the same mind, sharing together the pleasure of uninhibited conversation on the amusing and boring things of this world; but such a friend is hard to find. If we must take care that, our opinions do not differ in the least from those we are conversing with, we might just as well be alone”. It will be more pleasant sit alone in a reclining chair and with a book in our hands to read the thoughts of a distant friend silently without arguments and quarrels. Great thinkers love to be alone; they are willing to give their hands into society but they prefer to keep their thoughts private’. Continues »

Winners of 2012 Literary Awards

Winners of the 2012 Prime Minister’s Literary Awards announced Prime Minister Julia Gillard and Arts Minister Simon Crean today announced the winners of the 2012 Prime Minister’s Literary Awards at a ceremony at the National Library of Australia. Continues »

The Art of Words

There is no difference between a precious stone and a common stone in their building structure, except only in the rearrangement of their particles. The carbon in the charcoal and diamond, for instance, is the same, except for the different arrangement of their molecules, namely the crystallization. Yet… how far apart are they in beauty and value compared to each other. The pearl and the seashell have also identical structural synthesis; yet the pearl is superior in beauty and as cosmetic value. Similar situations we observe also in human beings. Two humans have the same ideas and words to speak and write, yet one produces literature and the other platitude. Why does this happen? What element made them differ so widely? Continues »

"KATI"

I carved her name above the entry to the cave, my chisel picked from the rock-strewn shore, then beckoned to the girl to see the… inscribed lore! She dived and was carried on the rise of a wave. The word “KATI” should bear an echo of her name, casting a swell to a foamy crest in a rainbow band, to its final rest on a sea-soaked strip of land, as the wind whispered ”KATI- KATI”, all the same. Continues »

The King of Asini

We looked all around the citadel for the whole morning starting from the shaded side there where the sea green and without reflection, breast of the slaughtered peacock, welcomed us like time without any chasm in it. The veins of the rock descended from high up twisted vines, naked, multi-branched turning alive at the touch of water, as the eye following them struggled to escape the tedious rocking of sea growing slowly-slowly weaker. Continues »

New ways of Living

I've had to learn a new language to write you this and you've had to learn a further language still to read it. There are those, I've heard, who can read the weather patterns Continues »

Embellishment...

Our lives, countless rays wandering around in the shadows escaping briefly into the grace of a sun with so much hope. Wishes splattered upon volcanic rocks and trapped inside tiny holes and fissures, for the waiting... Waiting not in vain but someone to break the hardened rock someone looking for the missing man, someone loving to an ardent woman... Continues »

Early asphyxiating cry

Hurled upon rocks is the fair amulet And my hopes lie Hurled upon rocks In the city there are new ones to be bought Deep in the seas, it's openly sung the waste of young blood Far in deep seas Continues »

A Torrent of Angry Words

Torrential rains and winds thrash us as we alight from the bus and negotiate oncoming traffic. Cars - windscreen wipers on full speed, headlights full beam, begrudgingly slow down to allow us to cross to the hospital. There are no traffic lights or pedestrian crossings. As we reach the other side of the road and step on to walkway, the umbrellas snap in our hands. We wade through spreading puddles of mud, splashed by water from the footsteps of other commuters. I fear slipping so, head down and bags tucked under my left arm, I tread warily. By the time the warmth of the hospital heating hits us our clothes are dripping wet. It is 8.45 am. We left home from a nearby township at 7.40 am. Continues »

Erotikos Logos II

The secrets of the sea are forgotten on the shore the darkness of the depths is forgotten on the surf suddenly the memory corals shine purple… Oh do not stir it…carefully listen to its soft momentum…you touched the tree with the apples the arm stretched out, the thread points the way and leads you… Oh dark shivering in the root and on the leaves were it just you that would bring the forgotten dawn! Continues »

Embalming

Manolis Aligizakis, Vancouver All night long, sleepless you thought of how to tell the novice embalmer to grant him his final wish to present him with a faint smile and an imperceptible yet discernible erection for the pleasure of the women who would lean and kiss his forehead and for the amusement of all the other women whose most concealed contours he had expertly explored Manolis Aligizakis, Vancouver   Continues »

I'll leave you now so you can read

SharePerched on hearth’s edge we sip mountain tea in silent companionship as flames sculpt the olive tree stump slowly reduced to charcoal like her black dress & scarf tied over her grey hair & pallid face mother in law Maria lived through poverty hunger wars miscarriages birthed six live infants laboured on the land harvesting grapes olives corn gathering wild vegetables cooking baking spinning weaving cleaning Eau de Cologne a luxury Should widows wear perfume? she’d asked after I bathed her minimal primary education reliance on the spoken word unlike my pen that rekindles village experiences - the procession of goats that paused & stared at the stranger reading in the square disheveled farmers who asked Why do you write? Continues »

Epistrophe: The Return

charred tomb parked outside police station blackened mudguard shattered tinted windscreen hang over cliff’s edge opposite soccer stadium wall farewell seascape of his youth parents died without seeing their émigré son again he served rich diners in New York saw the twin towers fall dreamed of retirement reunited with siblings and friends in village of his birth Continues »

Pues sola hay una

Todo lo que hoy escriba me va a saber a poco. Describir su sonrisa diaria de amapola y esas bromas conjuntas de jardin de verano, sus lagrimas de escama cuando el desprecio hiere, sus pasos de gorrion o su dormir de nube, se me hace muy escaso o suena a prototipo. Hablar de sus poderes y consejos de bruja, sus estudios de master en "Pocimas de Amor", de su orden obsesivo de dicator febril, su paciencia de Santa, su entrega transparente como fuerza del rio, sus rabietas de cria o lo bien que le sale la comida el domingo no parece que sean materia para halagos o versos de marfil. Continues »

Mother's Day Remembrance

I walked under the old elm trees. It was a cold winter’s day and the air was sharp. There was no one to break the stillness. I was conscious only of the dank smell of wet leaves underfoot and the sheep and cattle grazing peacefully in the paddock across the creek. At last it was possible to be myself, away from people. My thoughts were in emotional turmoil. Watching death creep insidiously through my mother’s body as cancer claimed her was hard to bear. I tried to grasp the inevitability of losing her. She was noble in her dying, never complained. “Andy’s randy today,” was all she would say when beset with pain. Continues »

Amulet

Years pass prise open tomb of migration Amulet brown roughshod stitched leather Nestles in palm of aspiration Flaminia buffeted across seas Piraeus to Fremantle stormy weather Amulet brown roughshod stitched leather Loving maternal hands prepared it in sorrow Flaminia buffeted across seas Piraeus to Fremantle stormy weather Her son leaves for the antipodes tomorrow Continues »

Emigre

I held my youth like a knife sharpened by the sun, by the smooth sirocco and I cut myself in two Continues »

The Hill

Someone had a lot of dead people He dug the ground he buried them himself Stone by stone earth on earth he built a hill On top of the hill he built his cabin facing the sun Continues »

without borders

living in the bottom of a dirty rubbish bin a prosperous life a promised career never started and nowhere finished unfloating a tremendous lie for golden dragons and wealthy princesses hurling like a stone hold by an angry peasant the future likes a promise without borders Continues »

Acrobatics

ShareAcrobatics on a stretched rope you know the world through graves old paintings are reproducing the blood of miserable prayers and ordeals οf jumps and deliverances The question is if immortality can release us from the bonds of necessity… The poetry of our bodies is the most perfect impetuously perfect multi-standard step… Whoever doesn’t adhere to this poetry is buried alive by regimes of disaster in white posthumous circles with stones erected in the soul dying in an unequal battle. Continues »

George Aslanis

George Aslanis has been an artist and involved in art education all his adult life. He is the Coordinator of the Glass and Ceramic Studio in the Faculty of Art Design and Architecture, Department of Fine Arts, Monash University, Melbourne, Australia. He has taught many Australian contemporary glass artists throughout his academic career. Continues »

Rioting at the mist

Dancing at the moon trembling as midnight passengers at a drunk train of spooking endings we try to move towards an absolute way of loving within times of cantakerous living rioting at the mist of a total crisis putting our passions into practice is the most revolutionary stance of today. Continues »

Loose ends

ShareAll night long, sleepless you promised not to cry to drive to downtown to the family lawyer and tie up loose ends Continues »

The Meaning of Myths

Centaur an ancient myth ?The soul of man possesses the capabilities to recognise and respond to truth that the myth carries, even before the mind grasped and analyse it. Most of us have been touched with this type of phenomena in the past and especially in our youth, before our minds and souls have been wounded and cobbled by dogmatism and wrong education. Soul responds sensitively to truth and its poetical beauty that encompasses the myth –and which has been lost through countless incarnations. Here, we see clearly the Socratic theory that our soul pre-existed and that all knowledge is nothing more than αναθύμισης=anathimisis= recollections from the past. Continues »

Methodical

He kept his dreams ambitiously hidden in his heart placing hope in separate crystalline vase along with monotony and at the time of the longest shadows he walked Continues »

First Kiss

Under the scandalous moonlight her body shone like a drenched statue of Aphrodite Continues »

Ecumenical Olympia

Ave archon enthroned above, Olympia, Compete fairly, based on love, Eceheria, Reform my soul crystal adamant, Athlete brave, classic dynamism; Ecumenical my phone. Citius, altius, fortius, Olympia. Continues »

After the War

The houses stayed the same windows firmly shut always longing for a hand’s quiver inside a widow always lamented a mother for her son’s death in the front line Continues »

Grieving

In your mind all night long sleepless promised to go, not to cry arrange flowers in plastic vase fill it with water from cemetery fountain Continues »

Chestnuts

chestnuts brood in embers of cynicism hiss their anger weeds engulf railway lines supplanted by unfinished road works lone cinema hotel closed denuded shops plastered with yellow For Rents signs hospital staff unpaid closure rumoured decaying rural properties entice foreign takeover austerity measures elderly recall famine hooded masses protest politicians grovel to EU youthful gloom lines coffee bars overlooking the bay of Nafpaktos Continues »

Lives Momentarily Entwined

lives momentarily entwined construction of fountain – Harmony Square Athens hub – celebratory memorial – end of Civil War 1951 brimming escalators link underground railway station commuters in peak hour crush roaring motorbikes – cars – buses ceaseless merry - go - round Continues »

Date

A blind date is set for you by fate to meet your Death this morning Continues »

View

Panoramic view through your eastern window toward the plaza where the naked statue of Eros Continues »

Four Poems on Verse

You have uttered some nonsense, to be fair, a lot of nonsense. Continues »

You Dawn

The Tayrona dawns from under your skin, Through each one of your mango kisses, With the tingling of your fingertips walking the subtle paths of pleasure transporting the green sighs of your freshness. It dawns within your eyes, Where the night fireflies are hidden, From the inner tide of your look carrying me out with the swell of your blink to the deepest bed of a blissful ocean. Continues »

The City

You said: “I’ll go to another land, to another sea; I’ll find another city better than this one. Every effort I make is ill-fated, doomed; and my heart —like a dead thing—lies buried. How long will my mind continue to wither like this? Everywhere I turn my eyes, wherever they happen to fall I see the black ruins of my life, here where I’ve squandered, wasted and ruined so many years.” Continues »

Promise

I know it well—he said that no one will come to greet me I know it for the words I spoke bounced hopelessly off their ears the children’s innocence became today’s concern struggle for a breath of air how to pay this month’s rent Continues »

Paniaras' ultimate sea

Over a career of fifty-five years, Kostas Paniaras has developed a rich code of media and moves from painting to sculpture and special installations, freely adopting various materials through which he gains access to the illusion of the new image. In the process of his quest for the truth, artistic acts/reflections of an undefined inner self and memories resurfacing from a remote past take part in the constant game of the alternating presence and absence of 'subject' as well as in the various possibilities for the final verdict of his temporally-and above all spatially-displaced work. Continues »

Red Wind

In the Sacred City of LuritjaMen The Wind twirls in concentric circles and it is placated, in its streets, its rocky tail. The Wind twirls Twirls the Wind Twirls. Drilling the stone, Aboriginal sediment, It creates painting caves where the Myth stays Continues »

Coaxing

Anywhere I go I carry him along that my soles firmly attached to gravity and earth’s bosom I carry my death along to John’s birthday party and to Kostas and Helen’s wedding Continues »

Listen

Listen: this could all be false, I know the brilliant light in the park on that Saturday no promises, not today stranger things we could not say but you could see the hand that held you Continues »

La-Z-Boy

Body dives in La-Z-Boy wine glass in hand and remote control flickering scenarios idly looking for meaning in a football game or the old movie its trivia mesmerizing your mind belly button ready to explode Continues »

Space

Whisper over song silking through maiden pubic hair its lust searching for tender vulva Whisper over rhythmic resonance its kiss of fingers in their excitable hunt for youthful consummation Continues »

Daybreak

You always get up first light rustle of bed-sheet you walk to the bathroom I stretch my leg to feel your warmth outline of your missing body I feel your heartbeat Continues »

Four Poems on Poetry

Is there such a word or isn’t it I will write it anyway whether there is such a word I will write it. I have no choice. Continues »

Κάλεσμα λευτεριάς - Call for freedom

-Έλα μαζί μας εδώ στο κάτασπρο βουνό Ψάξε και βρες τις φωλιές μας μέσα στα δέντρα. Τα χνάρια μας δε σβήστηκαν πάνω στο χιόνι το απλωμένο στην άγρια φύση που τα σεβάστηκε. Continues »

Scandalous

He stops shaving razor floating in air hand absentmindedly creates a circle in mid-void like a bird stilled by camera lens her scandalous vulva visits his mind from days of that August Continues »

A tribute to Costas Montis

Kostas Montis, the man and his poetry that touched my life like no other, the undercelebrated and overshadowed poet of the 20th century is hereby offered a minor compensation by Diasporic. So minor that his remembrance should really never mention it. For his memory should remain pure like the words in his verse, unbiased like his thought, benevolent like his love for virtue. Continues »

A Tale of two Loves

One way to approach this stubbornly difficult question is to look at it from two seemingly opposed and irreconcilable perspectives that we’ve inherited from Greek Mythology: that of Aphrodite and Apollo – the two extreme ends of the spectrum or should we say, kaleidoscope of love. If indeed irreconcilable, do we choose carnal love as inspired by the Cyprian Aphrodite, goddess of Eros, which grounds love in the hedonistic pleasures of the body, and which, as the chorus in Antigone warns us, drives men and women mad, or the spiritual love of the mind, as inspired by the Sun god, Apollo? Continues »

Awareness

Serene eyes lacking rapid eye movement sun-bleached creamy curtains light warmth in your mind Continues »

Saunter

He sauntered by the ancient grounds sold to yellow haired tourists took notice of the innumerable dead under the soil and above it Continues »

Blessing

May you always seek the unbound—I said bitter-sweet pinch of nettles the untold may you always eulogize like a sob in your most profound silence may you always bless the unachievable like an uncontested summer dream Continues »

Temptation within

What am I? Nothing more than single flashes of a light Staying suspended in the future and the past Never fearing I could glow again so bright With the latter on my back clinging steadfast. Continues »

Tides

With patience and persistence you coach your body to the ebb and slow current of melancholy tide and you go forth and recline back Continues »

Silent Water

The water is deep the water is silent I can see its reflection upon my face. Continues »

The philosophy of loneliness

If we’re so inadequate in simple situations how could we pretend we know what truth is? Why should we torment our lives to something we may never know? And I heard the agnostics say, "I don’t really care what truth is and what a lie is". But is all we want to consider that we are whatever we are and we will make the best of it so that we can deny ourselves the possibility of leading a tormented life? Do we feel comfortable with what is occurring around us, as we try to avoid situations that affect us negatively and “go with the flow" so to speak? But then why do we need to think and seek? Continues »

The truth about loneliness

Something has been upsetting me lately. Something that crept into my philosophical thoughts without warning and left me sleepless at night, when the moon shines high outside of my window and the wind that visits me cannot take away feelings of helplessness. Something has come as an uninvited guest into my night to shed light where there was darkness and shade where the light was blinding me; an aide to help me deal with the pain of emptiness. Continues »

Trespass Not!

Five mothers in black wail Courtroom overflows with outrage Five mothers in black cradle photos Villagers congregate in corridors, conspire Five mothers in black weep Media crews perch on window sills Continues »

The Pine Tree

Laden with snow dumps, undisciplined branches, entangled with sparking electricity wires, overhang the balcony, camouflage the distant seascape, plead to be pruned. Earthquake cracked exterior, overwhelmed by its alpine girth, thirsts for a coat of paint. Continues »

Avoidance

Comfortable and cozy you are safety of four walls pasted in lavish satin soft hues and golden threads Continues »

Women on the Rock

Anna sees her Ancient Greek counterpart sweetly shimmering in the sea's spray dressed in the delicate thread of sorrow Ariadne, she calls, how can I ever let him go? Continues »

Old Couple

Long and narrow rusted table hardly stands motionless bleached out tablecloth as though thrown in debts of river for a long time faded like her eyes gazing the sea’s agony that reaches the foreign land where her son has vanished Continues »

Do relationships ever die

Do relationships ever die or do they merely fade to grey losing their colour their vibrant glow and fervor refusing nevertheless to let go Continues »

Peloponnese Sunset

How can you be lonely, you make love to this environment, the hills have slopes you can swoon on they have views you can open your thighs to they have Venetian structures ready for you to take Continues »

Burden

He put his bag on the floor lied next to me he raised one leg and leaned it against the wall as though to leave on it Continues »

Saunter

He sauntered by the ancient grounds sold to yellow haired tourists took notice of the innumerable dead under the soil and above it Continues »

Revolving Door

Open Shut In Out Revolving door welcomes optimism. Mini-skirted struts, loud-mouthed business suits mingle with pessimism. Continues »

Delphi

Even this solemn remnant of the ancient temple standing like an anchorite in meditation by the slope of the tired hill even this they shall defile remember this—I said Continues »

Sandwich

Jet lagged, ordered toasted cheese sandwich After impatient wait servile English asked Toast Bread? No. A toasted cheese sandwich please! Eyes drooping, finally served withered lettuce, ham and cheese wedged between two slices toasted bread Continues »

Salon

Morning cacophony escorts friends through diesel fumes, on trolleys in overload, over sleazy footpaths ready to implode , under bitter orange trees to her door where coffees brews Tortes and pastries await Continues »

Card Games

Speculative companions crunch village snow to kafenion join in amiable chatter, coffee cup clatter deft hands shuffle cards, winnings slow Continues »

Shattered Dinner Plate

Georgia, bring wine, mezethes. Tonight we gather with hovering swallows, flitting wrens, grieving grasses, valedictory vines, voice less valley, courageous conifers, for the blackened vigil. Continues »

Until Next Time!

Dawn mist rouses him, flings open iced shutters embraces chilled air. He drives to town past cemetery gate. Continues »

Chronos Suite

Valley twilight silence shattered by Church bell. Father asks why. Sons, spades in hand, at cemetery gate that screeches in protest. Continues »

Adagio

Breeze came again with soft lashes and tender unshaven beard to caress your cheek Continues »

Eagle

Canada After the all-night feast wound down and all stomachs were satisfied sparrows woke to claim their share sun rose to caress its horizon Continues »

Greeks bearing gifts

Sadly I now depart. Tonight we said our Goodbyes my farewell gifted as a discourse on Truth Continues »

Making Lace

I see her as I see me, sitting on chairs before the impact of our craft, both intent on making a story out of a sequence, a gift out of repetition, her stitch is my letter, her design is my phrase, Continues »

Sparrows

Flock of sparrows takes charge of the plaza grounds controlling the ebb and flow of bird Continues »

Anecdotes after reading Ritsos

They sit at the table on the balcony, stripping virgin vine stems of leaves, buds and stringy bits. Their voices, with the rustling of the sprouting pine needles, echo in the breeze across the platiea – until the final stem is stripped. Then the aromas of the boiling saucepan – aniseed, garlic, spring onion, olive oil dressing – that blends with the breeze. Continues »

Squadrons lie low

The lone night bird lets its pain soak stranded within the ever mourning moonshine within the dateless rustle of aspen leaves for all vagabonds to fall for all innocents to see that life unconquerable remains a sinuous line of trenches Continues »

Saturation

The sky and its thousand stars stare back in sadness as do I in the pre-dawn hours resigning the world without sleep Continues »

Wounded

Clipped wings flight hovering in our lonely thoughts of the postponement abyss Continues »

Opera Bufa

Opera Bufa is the latest collection of poetry from the Greek poet Manolis. A departure from his more serious poetry of the past, this collection toys with the ideas of Albert Camus and his concept of absurdism. The result is at times comic, poignant, and often striking in the truth revealed in illusions. Continues »

Saltwater in the Ink: Voices from the Australian Seas

Lucy Sussex gives public voice to the private thoughts, experiences and observations of selected nineteenth-century seafarers to the Australian colony. These seafarers kept a record of their voyage either as letters to loved ones left behind in England or in journal entries. The white glossy cover of Saltwater in the Ink, composed of a chair covered in red patterned fabric, a red quill, a laced decorated fan, pewter cup and barrel, is aesthetically appealing and invites exploration. Continues »

Let Them Burn!

Let them burn! Let them burn! Let them pay! Let them pay! Grey suited stooped man carries red rose Stadiou Street Wednesday 5 th May ordered to work, union syndicates claim Marfin Egnatia Bank a burnt out shell molotov cocktails thrown Continues »

Yannis Ritsos Poems

A careful hand is needed to translate the poems of Yannis Ritsos, and Manolis is the ideal poet to undertake such an enormous task. Born in Crete, Manolis’s youth was intermingled with the poetry of Ritsos. Once a young man moved by the Theodorakis version of Epitaphios, he’s now a successful poet in his own right who is still moved to tears hearing the refrains of those notes from half a century ago. Continues »

Ache

What you never realized though had great dreams of creates a void in your heart like the emptiness an urn leaves Continues »

Athens

Cement cubicles imprisoned worlds a smoking barbeque man standing beside his shadow Continues »

Turret

General stood smiling on top of a tank for commemorative photo before the campaign started such images unified country and solidified brave and timid under a flag Continues »

Lamppost

After leaving our marks on the sole lamppost we parted Continues »

Golden Kiss

He threw his hat on the chair took off his shirt to reveal his tan breast where a cross shone reflecting brightness of the sun Continues »

Neighbour’s Yard

To the grass of the neighbour’s yard always greener and fresher than mine I reached with drum echoes of a new April song Continues »

Painting

Smiling little creek stitched in the orange colored soil soft laughter spread on her lips provocative breast upright forever sweet and exposed to the elements that piece of beauty bitten by time Continues »

This morning we could sense

This morning we could sense the sun was powerless to rise Looking outside the window as the instructor was busy explaining tenses and moods our gaze fixed on the cypress tree handfuls of snow caught in its outstretched palms as the instructor’s voice rebounded from the walls Continues »

Now that I matured

I wish to live away from commonplace lies that move quietly by well-lit corridors, creating a final echo each summer in the streets. Continues »

Hypatia's Feud

The Ptolemies, like philosopher kings, endowed Alexandria, with the Royal Library and the Mouseion. They also supported gifted men and women bursting with curiosity and ambition to conduct research in the fields assigned to the nine Muses over three hundred years. Ferdinand Gregorovius (1821–91) the renowned historian of that era documented the importance of the pioneering work undertaken in Alexandria. Continues »

[sun sight light]

sun sight light there is no black one step forward two steps back sun sight Continues »

The British Museum

Outshining the statues of Hathor and Ramesses II truer to life than the coffin lids picturing Osiris, Isis and Horus the bright Aegean light revealing the half-clothed and voluptuous Aphrodite Demeter seated on throne Apollo holding kithara Continues »

She who inspires

She who sits there unmoved all evening looking out at the planes as they ascend and descend what is she thinking? Continues »

[so much for the sunshine]

so much for the sunshine it’s complicated it always is still have time for summer but how many winters will it take who knows Continues »

Inheritance

Wherever I go, whatever I do I carry within me my Father: that look, that sigh of one thrown onto alien land without hope of returning home for home has ceased to exist. Continues »

When was it?

When was it? that Germans and Turks of Central Powers- pulled from their uniforms, Continues »

One of those days

A day of silence, Without your breath A moment of unjustified peace Without your warmth; Continues »

Aristotle’s Ethics towards his view of humanity

Before writing this philosophical exploration, my third year political philosophy Professor asked us (his students) a question which to me, at first, seemed to be one of the easiest questions one can ever be asked: What is happiness? Naturally, some students were throwing answers and theories such as ‘happiness is the absence of worries’, or ‘the absence of pain and hardship’. - Continues »

Parks Victoria

Thank you for contacting Parks Victoria to support your competition, “Our Forests, Our Lives”. - As the manager of more than 4 million hectares of parks and waterways, Parks Victoria is pleased to endorse Diasporic Literature’s efforts to raise awareness of the importance of forests. Continues »

Dr George Kanarakis

Καθηγητής Γιώργος Καναράκης Ο.Α.ΜGEORGE KANARAKIS, OAM B.A. (Athens), M.A. (Indiana), Ph.D. (Athens), Hon.D.Litt. (Charles Sturt) School of Humanities and Social Sciences Charles Sturt University   Dr George Kanarakis is an Adjunct Professor at Charles Sturt University, Australia. Previously he taught at the University of Athens (1966-1976) at the Department of English where he also served for several years as its Head, as well as at the University’s Foreign Language School, at La Verne University, Deree-Pierce College, Bridgewater State College, USA, and elsewhere. He also taught at the Australian College for Seniors (1982-1996) and at the School for Talented Children (1985-1989) under Mitchellsearch Ltd. Since 2007 he has lectured at the Charles Darwin University summer program on the island of Kalymnos, Greece. Professor Kanarakis studied philology (Greek and English) at the University of Athens under a scholarship from the State Scholarship Foundation and later TEFL with the British Council in London (1964). In 1967-1968, [...]
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Christmas Mass at St. Joseph's

A sense of peace prevailed among the people who seemed to be relaxed and happy after the pre-Christmas rush. They waited expectantly for Mass to begin which was to be celebrated by a visiting priest from Rome. Annie, our organist, had not arrived. I was told she wasn’t well and we must proceed without her. Continues »

Padre Padrone

By Gabrielle Morgan Among the many books on my bookshelves there are some more treasured than others, especially the ones which have been signed by the authors themselves.  I often come across newspaper clippings of reviews that I had slipped between the pages and sometimes I find a lovely card still hides in the jacket with the sentiments expressed by the person who gave me the book as a present.  Now, years later, I find endless delight in coming across these bits of nostalgia which never cease to move me as memories crowd my mind. One such book, titled ‘Padre Padrone’ which when made into a film was winner of the Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival in 1977, still holds the cutting from the newspaper about the author Gavino Ledda who had come to Melbourne to find material for another book he was to write about the problems [...]
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"Bonjour!" - Good Morning in French

This fictional story was inspired by Michael Morgan’s painting “Bonjour!” Alain Durand missed his native France.  Overcome with nostalgia, he walked along the path in the gardens which were an oasis in the city.  Wistfully, he watched the people passing by and cherished the hope that he might chance to hear the intonation of his own language pass their lips. It was a crisp day in late autumn.  The sun shone brightly, but there was no heat in it.  Alain was grateful for his coat which he clasped tightly around himself.  He liked to dress well as befits a Frenchman.  He wore a bowler hat which offset his deep red coat with its black lapels.  An onlooker could quickly perceive he was a man of style and expensive taste. Alain crossed the well kept lawns to the kiosk.  He sat at a table set out on the terrace.  It was [...]
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I Was Not Found in A Suitcase...But I was named....

ShareBy Michael Morgan I still see the images as though projected on a wall screen or a plasma T.V. set, super clear and detailed, the single gold fish in a bowl leaving an iridescent slick as it moved, the white screens around my bed.   I can still smell the coal tar disinfectant permeating the air,  the matron all in white, large in stature.  I compare her now to a Spanish Galleon in full sail.  I remember her name, Sister Pump.  I was seven years old, my tonsils had been removed.  A fashionable operation at that time. I was in “Airlie” Private Hospital, Ivanhoe, Melbourne, a few minutes walk from my home. It is now 64 years later, and as I write I have in my hands a series of recently obtained documents, one of them being my original certificate of birth.  It is an old scrunched up photo copy.  I [...]
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St. Petersburg - Russia

By Gabrielle Morgan I was privileged to enjoy a cruise on the Marco Polo, Orient Line Scandinavian cruise ship, which docked in Sweden, Finland, Russia, Estonia, Denmark and the Norwegian Fiords.  The ship is an ideal size for navigating the narrow passage of the Fiords.  It carries 826 passengers and has a much more intimate atmosphere than bigger liners that carry thousands.  The food is superb, staff obliging and friendly and your every need is catered for.  The entertainers are world class.  Interesting lectures are given the day before every port of call outlining the history of the country and outstanding points to visit. It was bleak and raining when I left the Marco Polo to pass through a Russian passport check before boarding the tour bus which was to take me sightseeing around the city of St. Petersburg. My first view was the enormous docks area where steel and [...]
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Snail Man

ShareBy Michael Morgan   Common speech, (if you can call speech common) whatever that may mean, often uses the name of a creature or an animal to describe a human quality, and generally as a class they are warm, active, sensitive, and have redeeming features –  but not always.  How often you have an intuitive gut feeling that some one or something is a bit “off.”   Such is the case with someone I met in my late teens. One of the few people that I could say disturbed me from the first introduction was Henry Snape Jukes (a pseudonym). I still shudder when I think of him. Henry had a passion for Snails.  He was deaf, more like a bird than a human, or the molluscs that he omnivorously devoted his time to.  If you saw Henry in the day, his darting, jerking movements would draw your attention to him [...]
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Mr Eucalyptus

by Iakovos Garivaldis Towards the end of the final decade of the 20th century, I met a very interesting man in his late 60s in Melbourne who became a dear friend in later years and during my involvement with the Hellenic Writers’ Association of Australia. His name was Lawrence (Larry) Darrell, or Solon Papadopoulos before he changed it, when he first arrived to Australia. Lawrence was a lonely man all the time I knew him and as the story of my life goes, I did like to talk and associate with men older than me (he was about 20 years my senior) and usually lonely. The way we met was quite bizarre since he contacted me in 1999 when we were having our first Book Exhibition of books by writers of Greek origin in Melbourne in co-operation with the Archives Museum of RMIT University and AHEPA Victoria (a Hellenic cultural organisation). Lawrence contacted me [...]
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The Return

ShareAndrea Garivaldis So… Let me walk the road of return And there, I’ll build The wall of memory, Without complaints, No plans And orders. Let me once again Live far from the gates of despair And like a free bird, Fly Around the olive groves That are still mourning As they are still bearing fruit… My suns to sow And then, the rays I’ll count In my shaking hands. So, Let me gather from the past The everlasting water of the dream And the enslaved land of mine To replenish. © Andrea Garivaldis Continues »

Mediterranean

ShareAndrea Garivaldis There were days When the sun would never set in the Mediterranean… The daylight music Would never stop, The seagulls followed the cycle of the high noon With countless wings, Flying over our sailing boat. The sea was born Ageless, ample, and amicable Over the reef of a distant lonely island, A blue world That could be held within the palm of your hand. There were days When the sun would never set in the Mediterranean… Morning and evening The same scent, Sage that soothed the soil Of the bare mountains, The same whispering voice Of the waves That vigorously shook the seaweeds, The same signal. Life, An everlasting breath, Indolently rested its sigh On our youthful cheeks. And yet… There were days When the sun would never set in the Mediterranean… © Andrea Garivaldis Translation from the original “Μες στη Μεσόγειο” (Kyprienia, Nautilus Publishing, 2001) Continues »

Burning Flowers (Vienna)

ShareGEORGE NIKOLOPOULOS 1st Prize in the Literary Competition of Greek-Australian Cultural League, 2010 Night train to Vienna riding through the foggy countryside; outside the darkness and the rain, inside the shadow and the pain you’ve forgotten the fire but the flames still burn in the night so bright it has happened before so it can happen again. Burning flowers in the empty streets at midnight whatever happens it has happened before, long ago we were just burning flowers while the shadows gathered among us we were just burning flowers right before the storm. Another night on the road from Berlin to Vienna all the way to Vienna we were dreaming of the past. The past lies ahead the future’s left behind us; no room for the present in this glorious scheme of things. Well, these flames still burn in the night so bright; has it happened before? or will it [...]
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Perished eagles

ShareEvangelia-Aggeliki Pechlivanidou The eagles perished In the hunt for fashion And glory, In pursuing the ordinary And the tasteless Their tail got entangled In the meagerness Of  “string” pleasures. Their glance was fixed Upon a short and effortless game. The eyes now unable To turn to flights to the top. And the wings are now incapable Of holding the weight Of valor. Eagles with sparrow wings And  turtledove’s songs Dreaming of perfumed veils From shy night flowers And seaweeds  rotten on the reef Out of loneliness. The young eagles nestled their dreams Shattered into pieces In the shadows Having no direction or target In the sounds and flashes Of expert spotlights The hooked bills perished Under the lipstick Of vanity. © Evangelia-Aggeliki Pechlivanidou Translated from the Greek “Χάθηκαν οι αετοί” by the author Continues »

Always a young boy

ShareIakovos Garivaldis A tribute to a young man William James Farrer It’s been a hard twenty-three years For me, my dearest parents, my wonderful family. And as I was growing and being cared for As I was moving patiently around the corridors in hospitals As I was craving at the chance to be a real man To mix with men To grow old To see my father in his bleached white hair To see my mother in her wonderful wise wrinkles To sit next to my sisters in their wedding dress And laugh at life without duress… It all became too much. All I ever wanted was a single chance. But then, Suddenly all of my dreams Became a nightmare and a lost will To carry me further… Dad, Mum, sis, please forgive me As I left you now But I love you all As you did me. My last [...]
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Epilogue

Dimitris Tsaloumas My joys are those of spare autumn birds that haunt the trees of sunset cities. My sadness is in the patient eye of the ox, the vast lament of the ass in night paddocks. I claw and peck and bristle at competition like a pink-stalked gull, and my greed is infinite, though I loathe my brother the pig. My lust is the lust of the goat who spies the bare-breasted tourist on the rock and shakes his beard with rage and climbs down the bluff to take a sniff at the brine. Only my thoughts are human, but I look for alternatives. They bring me too close to you, old friends; my perspective suffers. © Dimitris Tsaloumas “The poetry of men’s lives: an international anthology” edited by Fred Maramarco and Al Zolynas University of Georgia Press, 2004   Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

The Oratory

ShareFirst published in Kairos Catholic Journal 2008 Continues »

That Day...

By Gabrielle Morgan Often a day can be quite remarkable.  That day for me was the day I went in search of the village of my ancestors. I was alone in England, my first visit away from Australia, when I set out from London by train for Penzance, the southern most point in Cornwall.  It was a seaside resort where quaint old granite stone houses have been withstanding the Atlantic gales for centuries.  The old buildings and mysterious alleyways in the town were a reminder of the smuggling and plundering which had gone on there centuries before.  It was easy to visualise those earlier times and sense the hardship people must have suffered. The Benedictine monks had built a priory in the twelfth century on a small offshore island, now known as St. Michael’s Mount.  It later became a castle and was the scene of many military sieges.  A boat [...]
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Literary Phrase Competition

ShareVoting has now closed for this competition (18th September 2010, 09:30am EST) . Voting results are shown below: Continues »

To the Reader II

ShareDimitris Tsaloumas (translated by Philip Grundy) If when you walk through the mist you notice birds - ablaze like pomegranates in the window and on the bearded roof of winter, - if sometimes the dark tunnels let you out onto the balconies of the Amazon - to see without fear flesh-eating leaves swallowing alive the straying beams of the sun, - and if your rights are trampled or for your country’s sake you’re led away - to gaol and see how blood sets fire to the wilderness in the people’s eyes, - then know that you’re indebted to me, that if you doff the music I clothed you in, the shudder will crack you, - the mists will flood you, and you’ll perish. © Dimitris Tsaloumas The Observatory, p. 167 the original in Greek is here An afternoon with Dimitris Tsaloumas Continues »

Craving

Shareby Angela Costi I’m being violated by smelly armpits, aftershave and perfume. The queue has turned into a mess of shirt sleeves, wailing children, hot faces, luggage and more luggage. A male voice yells out in Greek, “What the hell is going on!” No answer from the green uniforms behind the high counter. No answer but there’s a rumour that’s been swelling among the ears and mouths and clenched fists – “It’s a bomb scare … the Turks are at it again … they’re checking the plane … they’ve caught a Turk with no passport.” I scan the faces bobbing around me. All of them coloured from birth by the Mediterranean with dark eyes and curly hair. Faces that look as Turkish as they do Greek. How can they tell among each other which one has the Turkish blood? But I bet they can. There are those give away signs [...]
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love to play

Shareby Iakovos Garivaldis we all love to play; with little things that life may bring, to stir the hours and our dreams and make them bland on growing old but even so, more real. we all tap keys and look at screens but when we finish all these things we wonder what’s accomplished. some day we stop and promptly turn and ask ourselves what else is left for our explore apart from living in this realm? but like the kids we toss and turn within our fantasies and in our thoughts we never cease to always play. cause after all amid this fray we all are kids who love to play a tacit, thrilling, trendy game. © Iakovos Garivaldis Continues »

From cold war to flower power

Shareby Angela Costi Her name is Aggeliki. She’s a woman of the 1950s. Even though she was born way before then and she’s still alive today, it was the 50s when the big choice was made. Her family or her country? If she was a politician it would have been her country. But she had become a mother. Some say it began with a loyiasmo, a promise of betrothal. He was the most beautiful man in the village, other girls would have jumped; “how could you refuse?”  “No”, I say to them, “it began before I grew breasts”. My Nouna, Godmother, took me by the hand, behind her curtains, all hushed and silent, away from the frowns of the Church; she brewed me a strong black. ”Made of Cypriot soil”, she laughed. And I drank, something inside me awoke, as if for the first time I too could look into [...]
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The Voice

Shareby Dimitris Tsaloumas How am I to go out into the fields where night’s chill glints like the tooth of the wolf. How am I to leave my bed to face the joylessness of the wind and the murky eye of the river – and suppose the voice is inhuman suppose it is the Evil One abroad in the wilderness tell me how how do I  stoop from such a height into my head to shout silence D.T. © Dimitris Tsaloumas translated by Philip Grundy “The Observatory”, p. 41 University of Queensland Press, 1983 Continues »

The song of ordinary life

Shareby Nicos Nicolaides Cypriot of the Diaspora Translated by Margaret Deyes Muse of poetry! Grant me to shape beautifully this song about the pot in which people cook their beans over the fire about the shallow dish of salad made of sweet peppers mixed with whatever else the fecundity of the orchard affords. And the season of the year… The bowls with wooden spoons the plate, full of ripe olives, the wheaten bread and the bottle of wine, all arranged in orderly fashion on the clean tablecloth. The ‘good evening’ on the lips of the husbandman coming in with his tools in his hand, and a watermelon under his arm… The ‘welcome home’ from the woman of the house, spoken softly so as not to wake the demanding infant which has fallen asleep pressed against her breast. Muse of poetry! Grant me to shape beautifully this song. © Nicos Nicolaides [...]
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Philosophising about identity

Shareby Dr Christos Galiotos What does it feel to be marginalised in a country that I call home? I have asked myself the question infinite times at the wake of consciousness. How can it be that I feel as a foreigner in the land that I was born? Is locality of birth a defining feature in the construction of my identity? Does my birth place mean that I have immediate bonds with Australia? Musing about my cultural identity I discovered from long ago that my ancestry, roots and soul are definitely Greek. I feel Greek, I speak Greek, I think in Greek. I have often wondered what about if I was born in another country, perhaps a neighbouring Asian country, would I still be Greek? Would I still feel Greek? I feel that no matter where else I would have been born and bread, I still would be Greek. Being [...]
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On achieving ‘truth’ in writing … ("The Write Approach" col. 6)

ShareAs writers we draw on many facets of ourselves for the telling of a story, the creation of a poem.  We utilise knowledge, experience, feelings, sensory perceptions, memories, et al.  As mentioned previously, you have a SITUATION and a STORY; to bring this alive the feelings that belong to it must be acknowledged and then realized as being the actual experience paramount to the story.  Without the feeling there is no story. Please Login or Register to read the rest of this content. Liat Kirby-Nagar 06/06/2010 Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

On the discipline within writing, and imagination… ("The Write Approach" col. 5)

ShareThe last column focussed on the discipline required within writing and I intended to devote two columns to this subject due to both the importance of it and the confusion that can enter a writer’s mind in relation to utilising emotion, imagination and discipline. Hence this column continues the discussion. Please Login or Register to read the rest of this content. Liat Kirby-Nagar 05/05/2010 Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

The House Next To The Rose Tree

Perhaps we shall always be captives of a prophecy We shall never nonetheless Walk into the rose garden,* I No longer anticipate in vain The house next to the rose tree The bliss that was abruptly abducted from me I No longer expect the slightest semblance of joy And whatever Grandpa uttered …was False presumption. He can no longer Foretell… the future Like the oracle at Delphi … He can no longer Predict insinuate indicate The new Emperor has outlawed Him His history and His prophecies…… (c) Andrea Demetriou Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

The Clocks That Have Not Been Taken Down

ShareYesterday I watched an interview about Cyprus on TV, This made me think about the Green Line It made me remember that our houses have been deserted; That someone threw our personal belongings In the rubbish bin twenty-two years ago; That other people live in our house now. As I lay in bed with my eyes shut I thought of our old clock which we rescued from the village; It hangs on a wall of a coffee shop in Gastouni* It has been hanging there since 1975 I’d like to go there and buy it It is the only thing left which reminds me of our house. I remember the sound of its ticks And how it chimed every hour It now ticks in that coffee shop But nobody loves that clock, or thinks of it as I do; Nobody longs for the sound of its ticks or for the [...]
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To live life fully...

ShareI would urge you to watch this video. It has so many strong messages which appear around every screening second. It shows how art can bring people together in creating those unforgettable finer moments. It reveals the spirit that can make our lives so much more fulfilling. I thank both Mikis Theodorakis and Anthony Queen for this experience and thought I could share it with you my most trusted friends. Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

A Birthday To Remember

ShareThe food was prepared, the table set.  It looked like a subject for a Renoir or Bonnard.  Just luscious to look at.  Time for a relax, guests due to come at 7 p.m.  Divine aromas of luscious food cooking permeated the atmosphere.  Bliss!! The guests arrived on time.  The first drink was poured and then we heard the fire siren, and then another.  The hills around reverberated with the sound. Oh no!…  I was a member of the voluntary Country Fire Authority. Continues »

Homage To Frederick

For fifty years every April llth, my birthday, I have taken from my bookshelf a small, blue, relief stamped volume, entitled “Life of Frank Buckland,” printed by Nelson.  Not a great book, but fascinating, a grand opening to a new world for a young man obsessed with learning. When I open this book it is with rememberance more than nostalgia, in fact reverence, that I view the inscription “From F. Thomas to Michael on his 12th birthday, April 11th 1952.” I have always been blessed in my life when all seems to be a struggle, when creative drive goes, when the daily news of world events begins to overwhelm, my guardian angel gives to me the gift of a situation, or person, to transform and regenerate my life.  Frederick was such a gift.  A mentor and someone who has always inspired me. I was absolutely hopeless with mathematics – numbers, [...]
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On the energy in words… ("The Write Approach..." col. 2)

Two important elements we need to employ in this regard are imagination and curiosity. Even when writing ‘facts’ and non-fiction we need to use our imagination. We need to imagine ourselves into the facts to create the possibility of our understanding them or having empathy with the situation. In other words, we must be able to put ourselves in the shoes of others. Curiosity or interest can be the instigating force here. And when we succeed in doing this the words emerge with energy... Continues »

Rain jest

  Level with us wicked sky, reveal the courtship you have bestowed upon a drop of rain. A morning left and we will pass, a sunset morn not far to leave, a breath in vain… Some finite hope, a raging fret as a hallucination to a bashful heart in pain. The blatant truth of furious dries, despite the fuss there’s no retort and hardly any gain. But then above, amidst the clouds a little thought of jovial play, a glimpse of nature smooth and shiny forming so swiftly a drop of rain. We need it now immortal heaven of makeshift dreams and gleeful violence. A single drop, as smooth and shiny, always exciting… yes we thrive on rampant rain. (c) Iakovos Garivaldis Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2009 Continues »

Hyper-Literature / Ελληνόγλωσση Υπερλογοτεχνία της Διασποράς

It is a fact that a plethora of studies have been carried out on all types of traditional literature, with the exception of literature in electronic formats, an area which has remained largely unexplored. This paper examines one facet of such literature as a distinct body; that which appears in digital format on the Internet in Greek, mainly created by writers of the Diaspora. Continues »

What is the City of God? How does it relate to the City of Man?: The Jurisprudential Philosophy of Society and the Law

The systematic Christian philosophy of society, City of God, by St Augustine of Hippo, exerted a profound and lasting influence on all Christian thought and practice. Arguably, City of God provides a set out of what were the fundamental contrasts between the law of this world and that of the heavenly city towards which all citizens should aspire. As a result, Augustine believes that the ‘Kingdom of God’ derived an ideal system of laws and offices, adapted to the temporal world.[1] The state therefore mediates, or ought to mediate, between the earthly realm of sin and disharmony and the heavenly realm of absolute righteousness. All institutions of the state are forms of dominion, that is, sovereigns over subjects, owners over property and masters over slaves, and dominion, in so far as it is an order conditioned by the relative unrighteousness of its participants.[2] Philosophy academic Alan Ebenstein is critical and [...]
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Baby Watching

ShareHis charcoal-blue eyes burn for knowledge, they sift the world in fragments, between the bars of the cot he sees half a mother, her hand reaching the door knob again her silent escape when the music still plays those ponderous notes − the room now holds one breath, he can turn this into a cry and bring her back, he can turn over and stop destiny’s growth, he can search among the room’s shadows which one holds the map, the puzzle, the key? The things he’s supposed to know − the sounds have all walked away, the sobbing, the snoring, talking in loud whispers, all the clues to find love − above his head, the cot is pasted like a prison cell, the rainbow spider sways in and out of the bars, the bed which holds the midnight tangle is boxed and waiting, the curtains allow daylight one step in, [...]
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Literary articles on the web

ShareEssays – How Literary stories go wrong Workshops – I. Choosing a workshop Workshops – II. Making the experience valuable Workshops – III. How to critique a manuscript Workshops – IV. Workshops and literary agents Top Ten rules for fiction workshops The Danger of Overuse of 1st Person Narrative in Literary Fiction Researching Topics for Writing Things every writer should own How to contact a Literary Agent Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

Anthropomorphic visions of god

Share  The more I think of man, the more I love the cows.   Our Singapore Airlines flight followed the kangaroo route. In Rome, we headed to the Umberto Hotel and rushed to bed after a shower. Being in Helen’s arms for twenty hours, I couldn’t last any longer. I shouldn’t tell you this but I even suggested the obvious during our long flight but all I got from her was, ‘I love you when you are that eager.’ As she talked, her almond shaped eyes sparkled and danced under her strait eyebrows. Tall and slim she always wore fashionable clothes and expensive perfumes. Warm, well proportioned and sensuous she turned heads wherever we went. There was no doubt she attracted men but Helen related to women too because she ran two boutiques that catered for the upwardly mobile femmes. Whenever we discussed feminist issues she was no dilettante. I [...]
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Stopover in Dubai

ShareWe came only for a stopover in Dubai to get a taste of the fervour of man to get a glimpse of our distance from the sky and touch that heat of man's achievements or feel the depth of sea-beater designs. Continues »

The Blood Rose and the Artichoke Heart

(for my Grandfather, Pappou Angeli) Epping: 20 stations too far from the city, where trains screech, The end of the line! (passengers prefer not to get off) where factory workers starve, where paddocks harvest wild thistles, horned weeds (daisy-fed cows are extinct) snakes graze, skinks bask, flies pester in gangs, where I scramble in towering, tough grass straggling behind Pappou’s haste behind his will to capture the hearts and limbs of every artichoke daring to raise its head above his scraggy-pup, whining granddaughter. Pappou th-e boro, Pappou I’m tired my body fixes on excuses Pappou toiletta, Pappou knotting my legs tighter than shoelaces Pappou teleeoresee, Pappou! I’ll miss Neighbours with Charlene and her easy way with English but grass turns to blue as I slump into sobs wishing artichokes would go back to Pappou’s foreign land. Pappou is swishing and swerving dancing the wind dropping his jaw he sings: Etsee [...]
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Calliope’s Final Story

Share(for my paternal and maternal grandmothers) Long ago, we grew babies like markets stock fruit so many, splendid, ripe, bruised. A mother nursed her garden from bed, five cots, if lucky, for eight or nine. One bosom became the village well ⎯ a wandering creek or waterfall suddenly escaped our flesh, a steady river gushed into a suckling mouth ⎯ to silence twelve cries, and then more when the neighbour’s wife went missing. We named them after patron saints to please eternal life and stop it from snatching until their bodies were ringed like trees so ready to sigh away. We knew the story before it was told from grandma to mother to us of one, two, so unfair, if more wrapped in dark night’s blanket taken by sleep traveller to its side of the moon. If traveller was an angel, my baby was blessed. If traveller was the vampire, [...]
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On His Departure

ShareYou were departing, leaving me.  As you walked away a sharp awareness came upon me.  The world around me was merely a stage.  I headed for the coffee shop in order to settle my feelings by doing something deliberate.  Surrounded by people bustling with trays and animated chatter brought an everyday ordinariness to grasp. I drank the coffee feeling a strong sense of aloneness.  A familiar struggle started within me, one where I tell myself I must cope with being alone, alone I must be, alone from all these people surrounding me, a huge void that I must conquer and I summon all my strength. At quarter to seven I hurried to the observation deck.  You were in that odd looking capsule ahead of me.  Mankind had set against me with metal and engines; they had made the power to separate you from me, pluck my soul and leave me [...]
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Spiritual Elders

ShareNight descends upon a starless sky, motionless movement gushes through an eerie silence and the trees parade in semi-circular schemes like spiritual elders from long ago speaking in inaudible lyrics bathing my tender soul in a symphony of ancient oracles, pristine and invaluable like newly discovered gold.  How do I feel about my immanent departure? I feel that my mind is amenable amidst an ocean of torrential emotions as I ascend to reach its sky-high summit, to view its gracious landscape and rugged terrain with its native shrubs, wattle trees and eucalyptus gum. Its roaring seas ghastly infinite as they engulf this mysterious Land within the matrix of resilience of restoration, a place that still has no name. I depart but remain present, for distant waters cannot erase a myriad of memories, even if this vast Land still feels foreign captivated by its unnameable quality, as I begin to learn [...]
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The curse of being a hero

“74 υπό σκιάν”[1] “From Australia, the land down under, comes a fresh breeze of creativity and culture.” These are the words of an Athenian culture critic, Gerasimos Kazanas, President of the International Committee for Freedom. Mr. Kazanas, whose resume embraces a notable knowledge of the Cyprus problem, studied the book “74 ypo skian” (trans. 74 in the shade) and decided to expand on what it is that it represents[2]. Further into his review calling on the Muse of the “rebellious Cyprian soul” the writer uses for inspiration the visible and invisible side of the theatrical invasion (of Cyprus) by Attila.  The “rebellious soul” being that of the nameless volunteers for the “desperate defense of the immaculate Cypriot soil.” “An anonymous simple man from mainland Greece, married to a Cypriot girl, who lives in Cyprus, is the central character. Upon his face concentrates the national upheaval and unity of Greeks when [...]
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H.W. - A Lonely Man

ShareI watch your intense gaze mirroring your emotions, Feel a sorrow that life cannot always answer our deepest desires. Wasted hours seem to flee us when our souls are yearning, unfulfilled, But days pass, and new consciousness arrives. Aloneness can be treasured, not misused. We are what time has made us, What is present and past is now. Something deep in me is casting my destiny, And I am following alone. Sometimes I glimpse fulfilment, overpowering in unerring joy, I cannot help but follow without compromise To find the essence of all truth – my God. Continues »

Spirit of Old

ShareToday is a giant before me, Insurmountable, it seems, With perils of hunger, Visions of ingratitude, Friends become foes, And even the trees and nature unseen. Where before they nurtured the soul, Made each day a recall into splendour, Of life ever changing.Now today my blood has run thin, And cold is the wind of time. But rising within a spirit of old, Sensing past days, Although in youth and strength before, Now a determination of mind, Summoning all the powers of intellect Moulded by life’s chiselled hand, A sculpture placed before me, A structure of the day itself Already cast by me, For I modelled this day with my own Visions and labours, So this is me, this day, And this is where my challenge lies. Continues »

The Duchess Of Alba On South Street©

I saw the Duchess of Alba at the checkout counter of  The Whole Foods food market on South Street, today. She was here in Philadelphia, miles from Madrid, —and Goya, was bagging her wares. Mesmerized, I stared straight at her as she gazed through me as if I were air. As I peered at her plume-jet-black hair, I marveled to myself, It IS, it’s the Duchess of Alba, just like Goya once painted her! Her eyes were black like Andalusian olives, framed by two small arcs; her nose brushed with a whisp  of a line; and her lips were dabbed lightly with rose-petal pink. As her right silk-satin shoe pointed towards me, she was standing proudly— in that same haughty pose once made famous by The Master … In her hand, she held an empty leash. I wondered, Where could her Lowchen be? Like a paparazzo, my eyes followed her [...]
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No Snow in December

ShareWhen the gaze is filled with grey-coloured dawn And anticipation, When broad, stone swords pierce the soul In this foreign land When the heart, heavy with endless silence Seeks expectation, my gaze turns To familiar places, my own, And strives to anchor itself Away from the lacunae of December. It is then that slowly, timidly, the memories take me, Transporting me to the beaches of my homeland, To the beautiful years, the years of my childhood, At the Anemones of my Venetian Castle. To the pine needles of the Forest, Garlands, I weaved as a child. There, where I, as a twelve year-old girl, A shy, seventeen year-old, boy Was serenading me: “If I were a God, I’d give you a heart to love me” And I make my journey and hold my memorials, A Tribute to my carefree years. How can the soul accept, without rebelling here where it lives: [...]
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Follow the River

ShareLet another year rest on your shoulders together with all the years past On cold winter nights there’s memories to talk about with yesterday’s music to beat in your heart Keep walking your road Follow the river once more when it runs fiercely or silently sleeps when it overflows and breaks out into forests and valleys or when on its banks bushes longingly burst into bloom Follow the river when a wild storm fills it with mud or when the sun reflects on its water of silver Follow the river with its bends and its twists until you arrive at the glade. For the version in Greek please press this link Continues »

George - A happening on an Australian beach

ShareIt was Sunday. People stood outside the church doors, passively chatting, smiling and generally exuding their clean, well-groomed ordered appearance; too well clothed, for the day shone hot, laying bare the cream brick building and the strip of green grass. Continues »

I Held History In My Hand

Tesserae.                                                                        Adamantine Rock. A Gift. Freeform fragment from the birth place of Artemis. My touching a 3000 B.C. surface gives an earth perfumed energy to my soul. Put next to my cheek the temperature of time gone makes me travel to a sacred land. In my minds eye, I see a wonderful breathing light. Did that Macedonian Greek, the last Pharaoh in Egypt, see the snake form, birds and dolphins portrayed and crafted on the floor? Did her ecstatic body, soft contoured, lie between the phallic pillars as the sound of the sea enhanced a graceful serenity? Was the asp that killed her represented here? A portent before or after the event? My treasure held in my hand from the place meaning “revealed” projects scenes and characters into my mind. Dreams and legend. Evocation. A fantasy world and a microcosm of past reality. It is a talisman for my being. [...]
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A Phoenix Reborn

ShareMia fora kai enan kero… Once upon a time, not too long ago, for four plus centuries, successions of Ottoman Sultans reigned down like gloomy clouds, blocking sunlight from Grecian skies. Terror filled her once-free air: her rocks ached, her seas wept, her birds shrilled her flowers withered, her people suffered— but no longer. Greece like a Phoenix reborn, 1821: Freedom’s palikaria— men and women, their names like banners unfurled: Androutsos, Bouboulina, Byron, Diakos, Gregorios the 5th, Ipsilantis, Kanaris, Keraïskakis, Kolokotronis, Makrygiannis, Mavrogenous, Miaoulis, Odysseas, Papaflessas… Names but a few— they revived democracy’s Greek spirit, banishing brutal barbarians from most Grecian lands. Sunlight shone bright through her clear blue skies— her rocks smiled, her seas sparkled, her birds sang, her flowers blossomed, and her people sang: “Hïere  O, hïere Eleftheria!” Sofia Kontogeorge Kostos Mia fora kai enan kero. (Greek)  Once upon a time. From the last line of the Greek National [...]
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…Or, what was worse? ©

A remarkable thing about the bodies that we saw was that nearly all of them were naked. I have been informed that the people were forced to take off their clothes before they were killed, as the Mohammedans consider the clothes taken from a dead body to be defiled. —Leslie A. Davis, American Consul General When we see those still photographs captioned “deportations” —showing long lines of Christian women: Armenian, Assyrian, Greek; full with babies, carrying infants, children by their sides—but where are their men? We see them walking through barren land on their way to their deaths— they don’t know, they’ve not been told. What we can’t see— or hear— along the endless roads, as they neared stone-lined water wells, Turkish bayonets jabbed their backs, and booming shouts of “haydi yürü!” “hurry keep walking!” filled the air. What we can’t see— lips quivering and aching, craving water! What we [...]
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Photographia

Sharephotographia the language of writing with light photographia is all about the light the right light it’s about the correct light! photographia is about writing writing with light, it’s about, the art of capturing the precious light! it’s all about the patience the waiting, the passion it’s about endless hours waiting for the precious light! photographia is about the morning light it’s about the evening light it is about capturing precious moments of light! it’s about having patience it’s about waiting for the bee to land it’s about looking for precious flower buds on a cold winter’s morning! it’s about winter, autumn, spring, it’s about the summer it’s about both the rain and the sunshine! photographia is about writing, writing with light! Ross Spirou Visit Ross’ personal webspace where he has more of his photography click here   Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

A Visit to Mykonos

As an Australian, my impressions of Greece. Continues »

A Lonely Life

I saw him again yesterday afternoon when I was riding my bike along the beach. He was sitting on a bench gazing at the horizon, oblivious of what was going on around him. I noticed he had a sad expression on his face. Steve is tall and skinny with a rugged face and short grey hair. He is seventy five but looks much older.  As usual, he’s smartly dressed, wearing grey gabardine pants with a matching vest, white shirt and a navy blue cardigan. He looks as if he’s again living in his own dream world, a world full of memories from the distant past; happy memories from his childhood in a small village in Greece where he was surrounded by his extended family of mother, father, brothers, sister and grandparents.  He remembers the joy of his wedding day when he married his childhood sweetheart.  Then there were unhappy memories of [...]
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MUSING ABOUT ART

ShareMUSING ABOUT ART At Federation Square a new centre for the Arts opened in the City of Melbourne, Australia.  The population watched the progress of this uniquely designed complex being built, the structure looking rather like a child’s meccano set with assorted triangle shapes slotting into place. Most of the public were horrified as it continued to grow.  Comments abounded like, “How awful, it does nothing for the area, so grey looking, and imagine building something like that opposite the lovely old St. Paul’s Church building.”   However, now the building is completed and people are adjusting to the change they cannot help but be impressed by the innovative architecture.  The interior is ideal for the painting, photographic galleries and the Moving Image Centre it houses. I visited Federation Square and strolled through the gallery dedicated to early Australian Art.  I was made very conscious of the importance of the artist [...]
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A dip in the Aegean

ShareTo my friends Yiota and Justine from the Americas When you go for a dip in the Aegean You really must wear no thoughts Without charge, without malice For the Aegean needs you copiously pure. When you make it for a dip in the Aegean You just need to forget all earthly feats But remember take with you some duress For the Aegean offers all the needed freedom. Do not worry about the temperature of its water As it knows what your body can endure Whether in summer or even mid-winter The Aegean is the perfect moderator. If you make it for a dip in the Aegean Leave all of your dreams upon the shore For in the Aegean and its green-blue waves You can surely dream your life once more. If you don’t go for a dip in the Aegean You have missed this everlasting savour Which belongs only to those lucky few Who abandoned all their clothes on the rocks. Listen [...]
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Distraught beyond Description

ShareBy Dionysia  Mousoura-Tsoukala She left her parents’ home to marry a man she feared more and loved less, a few weeks short of her 20th birthday. Not that birthdays meant much in those days. At best, she’d get good wishes from her family and, if lucky enough, a string of dry figs from her father. Her decision to marry him was against everyone’s wishes, blessings and approval. The obvious question is, probably, why did she do it? Why and how such a young and timid girl- she was at the time- went against all to marry a man not only she wasn’t crazy about, but, if anything, scared of? Many a time over the years I tried to understand the situation she found herself in and her reasons for placing herself in it. “It’s hard for you to appreciate culture and mentality you haven’t been exposed to, you can’t understand”, [...]
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A picture like you

You’re a silent picture of profound green offered to a man sublime instantly adorned in the nick of time by the morning dew… But this silent picture of profound blue thoughts that pitched to a last goodbye leaving loose all threads in a mystic vie to a lucky few… Whilst this silent picture of profound red a remarkable detachment in the tenet pure attachment lives anew… Oh my silent picture of profound white coming constantly aberrant and fragile as eliciting a smile all from me to you… (c) Iakovos Garivaldis   Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

Helen

ShareWe were ready to merge but she stopped me. ‘I haven’t finished looking at you,’ she said. Dazed in her aura She saw her image stamped deep On my molten heart. Caught licking my dry upper lip She caressed my burning cheeks. I was like a rock in the sea beaten By the waves of desire from every side. Defenceless I was thinking that All things are susceptible to Love: Fire, water even the polar caps. You might think I’m weak but am not. Because no one ever has and no one ever will Escape love not while there is beauty And not while eyes can see. Nicholas Fourikis   Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

THE PIANIST

ShareI came from the outside world, Entered your world, for one brief moment Felt the impact of your glance, your smile; Knew for that moment in time there was you and me only, Acceptance was felt, two souls reaching. I went away, thought of you in the dark hours of the night, Wondered why you engaged my curiosity, And why I was compelled to return to your side. The night was warm, the atmosphere inviting, The red velvet lounge, elegant grand, and you. Yes, you. You sat with fingers flowing over the white keyboard, Harmony of motion, one with life, you felt the ebb and flow. Shyness overcame me, I dare not trespass on your ground For fear you may reject me, Was I just one more face, or was it real with you? My being would not cease to call you, I tried to ignore your presence; Then you [...]
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Writing in languages other than English in Australia

Share“Australia is in the midst of a languages crisis: too few Australians are enrolling to study languages other than English. According to a new report prepared by Griffith University, our reluctance to embrace language learning could end up costing Australia dearly...” This report on ABC Book Show, July 24, 2009 is of extreme importance for those who write in languages other than English. It discusses the need for Australia to embrace other languages as a means of expression and literature. Sometime ago we had created the link to the audio file here for further valuable information to our writers which will help them enormously in forming links with the wider Australian authors and writers community. Here was the actual audio file, follow this link. However we think they have removed it. We would also like to use this space to make a note of Diasporic’s attempts to change this trend [...]
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Abigail

ShareI was a sphinx gazing at The desert of my discontent Before I tasted your lips. After you kissed me Everything changed: The desert is a savanna now And I sing the fandangos of our love. “Only the written kisses Survive the brief Incandescent alchemy Of human passion,” The poets claimed But that is not true ‘Cause when you look at me, I burn, You touch me, and I’m caught. Poets, what do they know About love. But I can excuse them Because they cannot hear The fandangos of our love. And never tasted The nectar of your soul. Nicholas Fourikis   Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010 Continues »

PUSSY WILLOW TREE

ShareFor months I have watched you, Leafless, with winter upon you, Yet, you indestructibly stood there, Giving me hope with each new leaf Appearing under the spring sun. You became a force in my life, Your aged branches overhanging my door, You spoke of a past age when you were planted In the large grounds of a white mansion. You grew strong and watched a generation go by. Then they built a wall by your side; The lawn you had graced was too valuable now. But you grew to the side, And spread your branches to my door. Your companions – the birds, Found their home in your boughs, Bringing music and life in their call. Now you have proven your strength of survival, And cast your beauty for me to behold, A stern reminder of nature the essence, You must fall. I will remember when you stood tall, Overhanging [...]
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Creating a 'new post'

ShareIn order to create a ‘New Post’ or article in the DLS pages, you must first be registered and logged into the DLS server. In order to login you move down and to the right of the first page you will find a spot under the heading ‘LOGIN’. Under that heading you enter the Username and Password provided to you by the administrator. Finally you press the ‘Login’ button and you are now logged in, even though nothing much has changed on the page. However you will find that now in the place of the ‘LOGIN’ heading there’s a welcome message and directly under it a ling to the ‘Dashboard’. The Dashboard is where all the updating and uploading takes place. Following the ‘Dashboard’ link a new page will open which at the top left looks like this: Notice where the green arrow is pointing, to the ‘Add New’ post [...]
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Literary Agents, where are you?

ShareWell, just looking at the title line a writer can start to shiver before they have a chance to start thinking what it all means and how it can help them on their way to become established. A daunting task for most, especially those who have something to publish for the first time. Here we just provide some information from the Australian Literary Agents’ Association which we believe should be your first step. I’m a writer. How do I bring my work to the attention of a literary agent? First, read the information and advice on this page. Second, look up a suitable agent from our list of member agents and phone them to check that they wish to see your work. Phoning first saves time and expense, because some kinds of writing are not of interest to some agents. Screenplays and plays are only dealt with by agents who specialise in that area, [...]
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Literary Competition Australia

ShareAlice Munro wins the Man Booker International Prize San Jose Mercury News – CA, USA … overcoming competition from authors including Peter Carey of Australia, Mario Vargas Llosa of Peru and Joyce Carol Oates of the United States for the … See all stories on this topic The world according to Clare “chk chk BOOM” Werbeloff Crikey – Templestowe,Australia Classic werbeloff: Convey a current news story, literary or popular classic using the elements of polar opposites plus a racial epithet (eg fat/thin, … See all stories on this topic Airborne Toxic Event flying high Reuters – USA The album feeds off that literary prowess, incorporating various scenes from the novel. Jollett’s stark imagery is matched by an integration of compelling … See all stories on this topic My week: Alain de Botton guardian.co.uk – UK Only psycho-analysis and ethnography seem capable of explaining a phenomenon like the modern literary festival, behind which there seems to lie an [...]
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my boy

Now that you’ve spent some time out there seeing futility in vain now that you’ve learned it’s not all just a game, as it sets your youthful heart please lets not drift too far apart… Now that you’ve had your first heartache gasping for air as it set upon you you must remember all I’ve taught you, be bold and never think you’ve lost life’s lessons learned, a positive cost Yes, I accept it, you know it all now as varied cravings starting to show all over your tender, adolescent body, hastily marked by tonic love be mindful of its perplexities my son. And as your father drifts away, as life and death run their trepid course consider the echo of my distant voice: never give up your lucid dream no matter how hard it all may seem… Continues »

“The Mountains Couldn’t Walk Away”

“The Mountains Couldn’t Walk Away” by Andrea Demetriou was recently launched at fortyfive downstairs by Tim Colebatch (Economics Editor, The Age), Christos Tsiolkas (Author, The Slap) Arnold Zable (Author, Jewels and Ashes)and Bill Papastergiadis president of the Greek community of Melbourne, as part of the Antipodes Festival 2010. The poetry collection reflects nostalgia and its consequences for a world which was eclipsed by the Turkish invasion in Cyprus. It is illustrated by colour photographs taken by the author and has been published by La Trobe University. Over 170 people from diverse cultural backgrounds attended the launch and warmly applauded the speakers and the musical performance of the poet. Continues »

Out, in search of Father…

(Extract from an award winning short story in Greek) Growing up in the outskirts of a large town serves as a conduit of conformity to tradition for any youngster; it is bound to implant a character that preserves countless family values and a certain obliging cultural mannerism. Thessaloniki, Greece was no exception. The whole setup inspired me copiously and in a wasteful feeling of togetherness so intense, so pervasive, one could almost sense its palpable presence in the atmosphere; concealing, at the same time, emotions that were seeking an outlet through a rebellious behaviour within. I saw a myriad of soft orange-pink settings by the seashore, which expanded my horizon for infinite miles; always thinking that our world ended at the spot where the wave stopped moving inland and that another began beyond it; the edge of the wave acting as a threshold between the world I knew and the world inspired [...]
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D.L.S. Charter

ShareD.L.S. Charter for members and organisation, responsibilities and rights. Continues »

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