You only felt it
didn’t hear it
though you turned
without saying any word
and looked at me
You only felt it
The Medusa Glance is a present-day triptych, a rich and profoundly nuanced contemporary narrative, sensitive to all the immanent and minute shades of reality, aspiring to embrace and incorporate the whole spectrum of lived experience. As a key motive, the author invokes Medusa, the female monster with venomous snakes on hear head. Stricken with fear, we are nonetheless tempted to be immersed in the poetic universe of Manolis. The epigraph characterizes the bold enterprise of the author aimed at the explicitation of the inner architecture and dynamics of experience, at the renewal of narrative practices and at the constant (re)negotiation of identity. The reader is swept away by a polychromatic tempest of verbs and embarks on a journey guiding him to the dimension of the minute and infinitely multifarious undulations of sublunary consciousness.
A church bell
from the distand past
keeps sounding powerlessly
in my ears
The lonely church where the half-burnt candle
pure and fragnant
still stands by St Mamas’ icon
Diasporic Literature is continuing the tradition of a special edition of its periodical for the World Day of Poetry on March 21, as declared by the United Nations.
Η Diasporic Literature συνεχίζοντας μια πορεία άξιας αντιπροσώπευσης των ποιητών κατά την Παγκόσμια Ημέρα Ποίησης στις 21 Μαρτίου, όπως ανακοινώθηκε από τα Ηνωμένα Έθνη εκδίδει αυτή την ηλεκτρονική προσπάθεια πενήντα-οκτώ ποιητών. Ατόμων που δεν μπορούν να ζήσουν δίχως τη δημιουργία, που δεν μπορούν να δημιουργήσουν δίχως ποίηση.
Δεν θα το δουν τα μάτια μου
εκείνο το νησί. Δεν πρόλαβα…
Με πρόφτασε ο καιρός που χάλασε,
μ΄ εμπόδισε η φουρτούνα που έπιασε.
«Απαγορεύεται ο απόπλους».
Κι αυτή η κακοκαιρία φαίνεται
πως θα κρατάει για πάντα.
Απαγορεύεται η Φολέγανδρος για μένα,
ακόμα κι αν το επιτρέψει η μπουνάτσα
να αμολήσουν τα καράβια.
The old lady had never learned anything else in her life except to drop blessings from her lips, as if the blessings sustained her.
Her eyelash colour faded, her face was a mass of wrinkles. ” Daughter, give me the votive candle so I may light it, and may you reign like a queen one
On Sundays, in the courtyard under the vine, they’d turn on the radio.
“Daughter, bring the radio, and may you pick up soil and have it turned to gold
in your hands”.
deep redness of the sunset:
Is it the sunset or is it blood?
A question posed by the sun, or a slaughter?
Not a deep feeling did we declare,
nor did we live a great love affair.
Wrong or right,
we only shared a night.
It’s no longer there…
a “We’ve Moved” sign placed up high…
some things can’t be moved immediately or afterwards
such as the pages, folded at the edges, to be read less
than to be recollected,
such as the queue in front of the cash register
such as the backbones of saints
I search for the bookshop on Saint Andrew’s Street…
terribly ill by its absence
after all, this is where the hours passed
their hours with me, and the hours search insistently
for that which can’t be moved or migrated,
which oppresses and suspends generations…