Monday, January 2, 2017


Of the petrified woman

You're looking for the man that holds the keys to love for years.
Till now your crust is firmly closed; not even the sun can get through.
Waves keep on passing by; you stay there for ages.
You find a cavity on the rock, a shelter to sustain you
so that you stop breaking on it, so that you stop bleeding.
That is alright this way! At least the pain is over.
Or maybe you delude yourself and think it's getting better...
And, where does the key holder stand? There, in the shade of olives.
And you? You keep on finding it awkward how the road has missed you
just before reaching the resource, only few steps away.
Meanwhile, you found a lantern and shed light on every acre and stone
and then the sun came, sat on them, to expell the winter.
Washed by voices and tunes, your place became a nightsky
and now your road is bringing forth the key holder you expected.


Της πετρωμένης

Γυρεύεις χρόνια ολόκληρα τον κλειδοκράτορά σου.
Ως τώρα το καβούκι σου κλειστό στο φως του ήλιου.
Περνούν τα κύματα, περνούν και φεύγουν· εσύ μένεις!
Βρίσκεις θαλάμι κούφωμα στο βράχο να κουρνιάσεις,
να μη χτυπάς πια πάνω του, να πάψεις να ματώνεις.
Ας είναι κι έτσι! Χάνεται τουλάχιστον ο πόνος.
Ή έστω ξεγελιέσαι πια και λες πως λιγοστεύει……
Κι ο κλειδοκράτορας; Εκεί στη σκιά του ελαιώνα.
Κι εσύ απορείς αμήχανα πώς σ’ έχασε ο δρόμος
πριν φτάσεις στη διέξοδο μονάχα λίγα μέτρα.
Μα βρήκες λύχνο, φώτισες κάθε γωνιά και πέτρα
κι έκατσε ο ήλιος δίπλα σου να διώξει το χειμώνα.
Από φωνές και μουσικές ξαστέρωσε ο τόπος
και τώρα βρίσκει ο δρόμος σου τον κλειδοκράτορά σου.

Saturday, December 17, 2016

Christmas - Χριστούγεννα

(Salvador Dali, Christmas, 1948)

Unabridged celebrations of the gap

Steps forwards not towards

Mixed privacy

Conformed unity

Ornated distance

Articulate ambiguity

Limits are called cold

Boundaries are called snow

Open means victim

Respect means weakness

Vision is folly

Choise is extravagance

Interest is ground

Balance is not interest

Playing is paying

The only WE there is

is when I am above you.

Merry Christmas, Babel!
Happy one more year!

Αγεφύρωτος εορτασμός του χάσματος

Βήματα μπροστά κι όχι προς τον άλλο

Μπερδεμένη ιδιωτικότητα

Ομογενοποιημένη ενότητα

Στολισμένη απόσταση

Εύγλωττη αμφισημία

Τα όρια ονομάζονται κρύο

Οι περιορισμοί χιόνι

Ανοιχτός σημαίνει θύμα

Σεβασμός σημαίνει αδυναμία

Το όραμα είναι τρέλα

Η επιλογή πολυτέλεια

Το κέρδος είναι έδαφος

Η ισορροπία δεν είναι κέρδος

Για να παίξεις πληρώνεις

Το μόνο ΕΜΕΙΣ που υπάρχει

είναι όταν ΕΓΩ είμαι πάνω από σένα.

Καλά Χριστούγεννα, Βαβέλ!
Ευτυχισμένη μια ακόμα χρονιά!

Thursday, October 6, 2016

A Pupil's Notebook I: My country

 My country is a small one. But, according to the Greeks worldwide, it has given its lights to the whole Globe. All the other civilizations, preceeding and following it, were just immitations.
My country is called Hellas, but I don't like this name, because it reminds me of Hell. I prefer its other name, Greece, used by almost all foreigners, because it resonates better – and it also reminds me of Reece (Witherspoon).
My country is said to be a crossroads, and quite often there are conflicts between Greeks and their neighbours – or even Greeks between them – about the function of the traffic lights.
As I see it on the map, it reminds me of a leaning lady trying to gather her pieces from the sea. On her back, she's carrying her extensive and heavy history like a Cross. She's always looking for a Simon from Cyrene to share her load and take a breath. Sometimes she finds one, sometimes not...
My country also reminds me of The Thinker by Rodin, who stands still, but within his head there are such storms taking place that every now and then shapes and forms spring out of his skull. He doesn't seem to notice them, since he is lost in his thoughts...
The population of my country consists of a variety of artists: impressionists, expressionists, abstract, realists, surrealists, symbolists, dadaists, fauvists...(a birdie tweets it to me). A similar synthesis is present in the population of many other countries too, but never the same whatsoever.
My country has principles and values, found in XA XA and XO XO*. Their indices are flexible and their balance a pick of fight between those who see it always negative and those who see it positive on the given moment – and vice versa.
The landscapes of my country are breathtaking, but to tell you the truth I cannot tell them from similar ones from other nations shown in various photos on the internet. Either my country contains every other country topographically or landscapes around the Globe are pretty much the same and only someone's love for their country colors them differently.
My country is my country. It is not plain land, people or cultural, social, financial data, it is all these together. That's why I can carry it with me wherever I go. It is the main app in the tablet of my life.
This is my glance at my country. It isn't fresh, as I have “stolen” from every glance I have read. You can say it is “freshened up” - or just “filtered”.

P.S.: Miss, I had a lot of homework and I couldn't write more. Sorry!

* A pun refering to the initiatives of Athens Stock Exchange (XA) (money), the Golden Dawn Party (XA) (politics) and the Christian Orthodox identity (XO) (religion), where principles and values are often mentioned but each one has to test their truth. 

Τετράδιον μαθητρίας Ι: Η χώρα μου

Η χώρα μου είναι μικρή. Αλλά, σύμφωνα με τους απανταχού Έλληνες, έχει δώσει τα φώτα της σε όλη την Οικουμένη (για τα ακατοίκητα μέρη του πλανήτη, δεν έχω στοιχεία). Οι άλλοι πολιτισμοί, προγενέστεροι και μεταγενέστεροι, ήταν απλώς...οδοντόκρεμες.
Η χώρα μου λέγεται Ελλάδα, αλλά η αγγλική απόδοση αυτού του ονόματος τη συνδέει με την Κόλαση κι αυτό εμένα δε μ' αρέσει. Η άλλη ονομασία της, Γραικία, με την οποία την ξέρουν όλοι οι ξένοι, ακούγεται πολύ ωραία στα αγγλικά και μου θυμίζει και τη Ρής (Γουίδερσπουν).
Η χώρα μου είναι, λέει, σταυροδρόμι και πολύ συχνά Έλληνες και ξένοι – ή και Έλληνες μεταξύ τους – μαλώνουν για τη λειτουργία των φαναριών.
Όπως τη βλέπω στο χάρτη, μου θυμίζει συγκύπτουσα που προσπαθεί να μαζέψει τα κομμάτια της από τη θάλασσα. Στην πλάτη κουβαλάει σα Σταυρό την ιστορία της – που είναι και βαριά και μακραίωνη. Όλο ψάχνει για κάποιον Κυρηναίο να την ξεφορτώσει λιγάκι, να πάρει ανάσα. Πότε βρίσκει, πότε όχι. Και προχωράει...
Ακόμη, μου θυμίζει τον Σκεπτόμενο του Ροντέν, που στέκει ακίνητος, αλλά μέσα στο κεφάλι του γίνονται τέτοιες τρικυμίες ώστε καμιά φορά να ξεπετάγονται μέσα από το κρανίο του καινούριες φόρμες και σχήματα, τα οποία σπάνια αντιλαμβάνεται, απορροφημένος στις σκέψεις του...
Ο πληθυσμός της χώρας μου αποτελείται από μια ποικιλία καλλιτεχνών: ιμπρεσιονιστές, εξπρεσιονιστές, αφηρημένοι, ρεαλιστές, υπερρεαλιστές, συμβολιστές, ντανταϊστές, φωβιστές...Παρόμοια σύνθεση εμφανίζουν οι πληθυσμοί και πολλών άλλων χωρών (μου το λέει ένα πουλάκι), αλλά ποτέ δεν είναι ακριβώς ίδια.
Η χώρα μου έχει αρχές και αξίες, που τις βρίσκει κανείς στο ΧΑ ΧΑ ή στο ΧΟ ΧΟ. Οι δείκτες τους είναι ευέλικτοι και το ισοζύγιο αφορμή για να μαλώνουν όσοι το βρίσκουν πάντα αρνητικό με όσους θεωρούν ότι τη δεδομένη στιγμή είναι θετικό – και τούμπαλιν.
Τα τοπία της χώρας μου είναι μαγευτικά, αλλά να σας πω την αλήθεια δε μπορώ να τα ξεχωρίσω από παραπλήσια άλλων χωρών που βλέπω σε φωτογραφίες. Τώρα ή η χώρα μου περιέχει μορφολογικά όλες τις άλλες χώρες ή τα τοπία σε όλον τον κόσμο μοιάζουν κι απλώς η αγάπη του καθενός για τον τόπο του τα χρωματίζει διαφορετικά.
Η χώρα μου είναι η χώρα μου. Δεν είναι μόνο έδαφος, πληθυσμός, πολιτιστικά, κοινωνικά ή οικονομικά δεδομένα, είναι όλα αυτά μαζί. Γι' αυτό μπορώ να την κουβαλάω όπου κι αν βρεθώ. Είναι η κυριότερη εφαρμογή στο ταμπλετ της ζωής μου.
Αυτή είναι η δική μου ματιά στη χώρα μου. Δεν είναι φρέσκια, αφού έχω “κλέψει” από όλες τις ματιές που έχω διαβάσει. Μπορείτε να την πείτε “φρεσκαρισμένη” - ή απλώς “φιλτραρισμένη”.

Υ.Γ.: Κυρία, είχα διάβασμα και δεν προλάβαινα να γράψω περισσότερα.

Tuesday, July 19, 2016


He turned around
made it at last
                                            He had hit the road
                                            since midnight
                                            and soot
                                            gathered in a row
                                            while withdrawal was being censused
                                                                                                             Like a bright cave
                                                                                                             with mystic stalagmites
                                                                                                             within its thousand alleys
                                                                                                             which depose its beasts,
                                                                                                             even at nights,
                                                                                                             the agitated head
                                                                                                             uncovered a lot of mazes
                                                                                                             and every attempt hurt

On the hereditary bench
at the threshing fields
where everyone lays
whatever he has as a breakfast,
he laid that day                           an apology          a prayer        and a dagger
and opened a real road
As his guides he had                  the stimulus        the cause      and the outburst
As his station master he had one;
the site manager for mortal crews
                                                   for the workers of light
                                                                                       for the immortal deeds

And he went on
walked uphill
passed by some arches
found himself ahead of time
then remained behind
and the ladies greeded him
at their door-thresholds
which they adorned with stitches
or chrocheted words in doilies
within the years.

He loved to hear the glass in people’s laughter
He gathered the clear stars as fruits
while love was dancing loudly…
He wouldn’t discover it to be closed
the shipyard of the world.

Now he was marching in the Upper District…

Midnight had lapsed a long ago
but the lights were still on.

An engraved seed
that gradually opened wide
all by itself
in the argil and the clay
depicted a great lot.
                                                                                         While a whole lot of everything
                                                                                         having been hidden on the river bank
                                                                                         was rousing in the wind
                                                                                         reborn ornaments and traces.

Upon the vaults his heart was swinging
within the sleeping bed of the alluring fantasy
and his ablaze soul was responding
to the sigh from the turning leaf.

First and uncommon it was
bedazzled although crystal clear
such a journey to infinite places
of a short or a long distance
and always among the others.

Only the insane people were mocking
the extent of mind
between the deeds of the major or minor
and suddenly it seemed aloof
every gaze
from the crowd of the deep
which gives birth to the images.

                   Some curved sea                                 He was arduously sailing on
                   And he didn’t care                                When the day broke

He quarelled with the birds that daunted his scarecrows
While he turned the hardships over with the rest ones that remained

However, something kept holding him on the eagle’s nest

A yearning or a torture

He counted days in slow motion
Now there was no travelling
Now he was unwinding new yarns
Warps and wefts
from some sin
which became a need.

He refused to leave space for love

Another dawn came round
Pervading furtively
He cursed the mood of inactivity
And every single thing he had taken with him
When he bought whatever he wanted

Then he took the road on the one foot,  
he wore a sandal on the other,  
and, although the night owl    
yelled names,   
he got into the orchards    
and started chasing snakes.   

Where his friend
the one lost in the soaking wet years
and where he
he didn’t know

                                    Not even who that lantern was sent by
                                    to show him what had been broken
                                    by the ragged stones.

If he lost the bet,   
he wouldn’t be able to pay off   
the slight piece of sunrise.   

 While passing the blind
 on the land of vision
    he granted burning torches
- the channels were nearby  -
 spinning the wick.

Much as experience as he got                                                       On the peak of secrets
He couldn’t respond                                                                       To the changes
Of his thymic mania

He couldn’t even find an effective weapon against it                  And like a keel of a ship
He was going up and down                                                        Dancing like a dranken pirate

After having offered fake echanges
                                                                                      Being on the verge of a sly protection
He managed though  
                                                                                      To hear distant lullibies
Exactly on the moment he withdrew his gaze
                                                                                      So that he would face his only


In one tale he was fearless                                           In another a flexible panther

And in a third a wise god

He kept following himself

But his being was an unredeemable sailor

This urged him at last
To abandon his intoxication
To cherish the presence
Of another person near him
And sweep off his traces
from having been walled.

A mutual joint stood out

Being lighthearted from now on   
He balanced on it   
And among the diameters  
he chose the feeling of labor  

But how could he stand to trim
Or weed
Every junior or senior river                                                Right on the moment it carries down
                                                                                         Its poor load
                                                                                         Upon a horribly blazing mulch
                                                                                         Without a faithful counter-color move

The worst card that rotates
Towards a ruthless guile-like protection
Persistantly calls him to the cold                                       But the line intensifies
Of his perfidy                                                                     The unfairly lost width
And the pole
Almost destitude   
Is still trying to find him
In the dark

Like a bending door with an essence
He seems to be asking for the views of the wall

His own world vents out a reek
And maybe humanly the places of calamity
Have some kind of responsibility to accept

A sleek soul of double declension
                                                he participates completely
                                                in the attached herd of the yard
                                                He stands in the queue
                                                and obediently moans
                                                He confiscates the hideousness
                                                without binding it
                                                on the circle that
                                                as people say
                                                cares for him
                                               Some day this same circle will drench him off

Completely few he counts his teeth                                                            And joins the waves
As the curved help                                                                              From the stars is missing

With a mixed ostensibly-driven facade he gets geared
Constant information he deflects

He will remain a warrior   

And as he will be taking off
                      The little beggar on the land below his wings
                                                        Will be blinking at him meaningfully

                                                                            This child will own the paradoxical arms
                                                                            to embrace the whole picture
                                                                            of the peaceful roll of humanity

The first future has passed by                   And here comes up in the vineyard the second one

                                         Agile and smiling