The Missing Pieces


Research sheds light on the missing persons of Cyprus who disappeared without a trace during the Turkish invasion of 1974. Andrea Stylianou talks to “Neos Kosmos” about her academic achievements and being a human rights advocate.

Having a deep interest in human rights and listening to stories told by many new migrants arriving in Australia while a NewsCorp Australia reporter set Andrea on a new path. She started a journey to investigate the story of how she had arrived in Australia as a two-year-old with her family in 1975 after they became refugees from the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974. Continue reading “The Missing Pieces”

Αλλαγή Ηγεσίας


Μανώλης Αλυγιζάκης

Στο στόχαστρο του βομβαρδιστικού
χώρα που πρέπει ν’ αλλάξει ηγεσία
αποτυχημένη κυβέρνηση
ν’ αντικατασταθεί

βόμβες και τηλεκατευθυνόμενα βλήματα
θάνατος ακρίβειας σ’ εφαρμογή

εταιρεία αμυντικού εξοπλισμού
σ’ επιφυλακή Continue reading “Αλλαγή Ηγεσίας”




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.

Continue reading “Φολέγανδρος”

Euphemisms of an old lady


Translation into English by Irini Papas

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 day”.

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”.

Continue reading “Euphemisms of an old lady”

The Bookshop on Saint Andrew’s Street


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… Continue reading “The Bookshop on Saint Andrew’s Street”

Αμφιβολία – Doubt




Ο νέος που πρόσμενες να `ρθει
δεν ήρθε μήτε απόψε.
Μα τί θα του `λεγες; Γιατί;
Άσε τα μάταιο να χαθή.
Το άμοιρο φύτρο κόψε.
Μη σου πλανεύει την καρδιὰ
τη χιλιοπαθημένη,
μία αναγελάστρα επιθυμιά.
Στην εαρινὴν αυτὴ βραδιὰ
μία πίκρα είνε χυμένη.
Μα δεν ακούς τη συμβουλή,
τόσο η μαγεία σε δένει.
Μήτε κι απόψε δε θα `ρθεί
κι έτσι θα γίνει πιο πολὺ
το αυριο που περιμένει.
Στα σκοτεινά του μάτια φως
η απουσία θα χύσει,
τ’ αδέξια χέρια του, με ορμὴ
συγκρατημένη, ένας κρυφὸς
καημὸς θα τα φιλήσει
και θα τα ειδώ να μου απλωθούν,
να `ναι δειλὰ στη νίκη,
γλυκὰ στην πίστη πως μπορούν,
κύμα χαδιών, να με τραβούν
στο βάθος σα χαλίκι.

Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη



The young man you expected
hasn’t come tonight.
What would you tell him? Why?
Let the futile vanish
cut the unfortunate sprout.

Don’t let the forever
cunning desire
fool your heart.
There is a hidden sadness
in this spring evening.

Yet you don’t listen to advice
the enchantment has a strong hold on you
he’ll never come tonight
and tomorrow will turn
even more painful.

Absence will shine
light into his eyes;
with reserved ardor
a secret passion
will kiss his awkward hands

and I shall see them spread
timid in victory
sweet as if they can,
caressing waves, to pull me
like a pebble into the depth



My friend Rena called yesterday,
She said,” It’s summer and I’m going away.”
I asked, “Do you think that’s right.
We won’t see each other for a fortnight?”
She responded, “I’m going to Skopelos.”
I queried, “Do you think that’s ophelos?
There, there are thousands of trees
But no breeze. Continue reading “Holidays”

Το προσφυγόπουλο και η Μάσκα μου


Το προσφυγόπουλο...

Είμαι ηθοποιός, κατά βάθος πολιτικός,
στο καμαρίνι λύνω σταυρόλεξο, ψάχνω
πράσινα άλογα, χαζεύω στην τηλεόραση.

Ένας σπουργίτης ραμφίζει το τζάμι μου
να δω τις ειδήσεις: ένα παιδάκι ξαγρυπνά
μπρος στα πτώματα των γονιών του, μετά
το ανεβάζουν σε βάρκα, προσφυγόπουλο
το βγάζει η θάλασσα στην άμμο για αιώνιο ύπνο,
στην τσεπούλα του ένα τετράδιο όπου έγραψε:
‘Θα σας καταγγείλω όλους στον Θεούλη μου…’
Continue reading “Το προσφυγόπουλο και η Μάσκα μου”

Oath / Όρκος




He stood at the edge of the old castle’s parapet
below it the hungry abyss and
even lower the gleaming sea
ready to splash its first wave
onto the yellow soft sandy beach

when he raised his arm
as if taking an oath
as if promising to come back
at another time when we’d need
one to stand against
the greed and gluttony of the few
who comfortable and fat
dwelled in their satiation. Continue reading “Oath / Όρκος”

My Greece


A piece of my life, in a tight embrace
is my splendid land, my living place.
A westerly wind makes my spirits rise
for this earth, Athina’s paradise.

The sparkling water and shadowy cave
your mind and body will now enslave,
your very soul will be captured too
in the swirls of foam from a sea so blue. Continue reading “My Greece”

Country stint


Iakovos Garivaldis

Come our way –
Up on a white multi-peaked mountain
To search and find our warmest shelters
Among the charred-tree remains of January’s winter
Ensuring our tokens of slavery are not erased.
Only but a few tracks stay out of our bustle city
And on the snow that just fell
Like a crafty veil, a tight fit
Around our worn out shoes
Prompting us to forget all past traditions
And find some foreign thoughts
That spread across a world gone wild. Continue reading “Country stint”

Kiki Dimoula/Κική Δημουλά



Δυο στήλες χαρακώστε
για τις ζημιές της μέρας τούτης
και τα κέρδη της.

Τα σοβαρά νοήματα
τις φωτεινές σας σκέψεις, τα διαβάσματα
τ’ από τη μια γραμμή στην άλλη
άτεγκτα περάσματα
στη στήλη των κερδών να σημειώσετε. Continue reading “Kiki Dimoula/Κική Δημουλά”



by Warsan Shire

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbours running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay. Continue reading “Home”