When this poetry was published, I wrote:
The adolescent times I used to recite Eliot's lyrics on the shores of Lemnos lead me to Small Worlds. The effect is obvious. But that doesn't seem to bother me. With these "Eliotic" delusions I bid farewell to what I lost, the magic of youth on the island. Or maybe, fearful of the reality I live in, I return there. I return with my poetry. A wrinkled poetry.
"Poets dont know how to sing anymore
that's why they fill sheets with wrinkles"
This poetry was published in 1963