Content of Diasporic in the English language
Posted on February 1, 2019 by pipina

It is true,
Apollo’s fires
light up our existence.
Even when his mighty freaks out
because of our audacity.
Then he gets frustrated…
He becomes hostile,
even merciless.
At random he picks up
a person’s good deed.
He knows all about people
before Deucalion’s days
since we were created by God!
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Posted on November 9, 2018 by diaspor5

Virgin to life, whore of the underworld.
Donned once with beauty,
Consumed now by carnality;
Deplete me of that which me makes human.
May your hand reach to my soul;
Poise it and torment it,
Lash it with the whip of your antipathy.
May the tendrils of anger reach deep to my mind,
Suffocate it with taint.
May it feel your wrath,
And your corruption;
So it may never forget the voice of beauty’s sorrow.
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Posted on October 4, 2018 by diaspor5

The harrowing screams of death, a procreation of hell.
Our minds act as a cauldron for blood to boil,
Our tainted morals flow through our decrepit veins.
Dying is not nearly as painful as when you see it
before you.
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Posted on August 9, 2018 by diaspor5

The Man of God is drunken without wine
The Man of God is sated without meat
The Man of God is rapturous, amazed
The Man of God has neither food nor sleep
The Man of God is a king beneath a humble cloak
The Man of God is a treasure in a ruin
The Man of God in not of wind and earth
The Man of God is not of fire and water
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Posted on May 4, 2018 by iakovos-2

We adored this Earth so, my Lord
with a love that I am afraid what is waiting us as we depart
is to find our minds thinking only of her
always running back to our own village
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Posted on May 1, 2018 by diaspor5

I, the most perfect syllable in the world.
It encapsulates me and all that is mine
And all that I perceive or have perceived,
All that I encountered or experienced, the
Totality of my existence and its meaning
To me and the ripples of its influence, little
Or large, on the world around it, completely
Ensconced within this one tiny utterance
That takes a fragment of a moment to
Attain its meaning in its full complexity
That mocks at any naive attempt on the
Part of the “Categorizers” to encumber it
With a fixed definition or to decipher its
Ever variable, ever evolving, ever fluid
Semantics. Definition may bring solace
To the rationalists, but it brings not Truth.
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Posted on April 29, 2018 by iakovos-2

Is this the red that should have been
dispersing art on a painter's canvas?
Is it the red that matadors withhold from charging bulls,
perhaps to spur the fire on a fare lady’s smile?
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Posted on September 16, 2017 by diaspor5

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.
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Posted on July 31, 2017 by aligizakis

You only felt it
didn’t hear it
though you turned
without saying any word
and looked at me
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Posted on June 14, 2017 by aligizakis

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.
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Posted on March 26, 2017 by andrea-garivaldis

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
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Posted on March 21, 2017 by diaspor5

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.
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Posted on March 5, 2017 by adanis

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.
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Posted on February 22, 2017 by diaspor5

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".
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Posted on December 16, 2016 by trakakis

That familiar,
deep redness of the sunset:
Is it the sunset or is it blood?
A question posed by the sun, or a slaughter?
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Posted on December 12, 2016 by adanis

Not a deep feeling did we declare,
nor did we live a great love affair.
Wrong or right,
we only shared a night.
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Posted on December 9, 2016 by trakakis

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…
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Posted on October 16, 2016 by makednos

When you're out on your way to Mt Olympus,
let the road trip be a long one
full of wonder, full of autumn colors
full of yellow-green trees and mountain plains.
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Posted on October 1, 2016 by aligizakis

Ο νέος που πρόσμενες να `ρθει
δεν ήρθε μήτε απόψε.
Μα τί θα του `λεγες; Γιατί;
Άσε τα μάταιο να χαθή.
The young man you expected
hasn’t come tonight.
What would you tell him? Why?
Let the futile vanish
cut the unfortunate sprout.
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Posted on August 10, 2016 by diaspor5

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.
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Posted on August 6, 2016 by makednos

Spring sometimes visits us in Melbourne,
midwinter
while pansies cannot tell the difference,
so it seems;
fountain waters flow unabated
of rocky spills.
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Posted on July 6, 2016 by pipina

Shadows in their solace
can have a room
a sofa, or nothing!
Can have water
a piece of bread
or nothing!
They hang
their curiosity
over balconies
buildings
or gorges!
They are blasted
by “friendly bombs”!
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Posted on April 11, 2016 by adanis

You must never walk
behind me, for I may not
lead you the right way.
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Posted on April 9, 2016 by iosifidis

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…’
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Posted on March 15, 2016 by pipina

I first saw you,
by the sea shore...
Oh, Antigone!
Your white robe, soiled
made your face
unbearably pale!
There was a heavy
earthy smell
in the air,
that of a burial site!
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Wonderful web site.
Compliment!
All the best
Kind regards