I gather my belongings

It is the path of my life through poetry. Nothing was more difficult for me than writing about my life. For the steps, that took me from one book to another. For the events that defined me, for the pain. Poetry has always been the raw building material of my novels.

 

Reviews

I gather my belongings, review by Anda Gkivalou

Ποιητικά θραύσματα από μνήμη και όνειρο, κριτική της Ελένης Γκίκα 1

Ποιητικά θραύσματα από μνήμη και όνειρο, κριτική της Ελένης Γκίκα 2

 

 

Interviews

I gather my belongings, interview for the daily newspaper "Empros" of Mytilene

Συνέντευξη στην Ειρήνη Μπέλα, Βραδυνή 1       Συνέντευξη στην Ειρήνη Μπέλλα, Βραδυνή 2

Συνέντευξη στην εφημερίδα Εμπρός 1          Συνέντευξη στην εφημερίδα Εμπρός 2

 

 

 

And when you find it
And when you meet it

Little child speechless
Give it a drop of my blood
To make it a vow
To not go and drink from forgetfulness
Don't, from the water of oblivion
To turn it into anchor
In this bottomless passage

I told myself not to write to it again
So little it departed
Not to be burdened by tears
Not to be frightened by the abyss - where
I drag the echo
from the stones I threw
To fill it
For years the echo of the abyss
It doesn't end
As if I use a buckett to pull it
With a rope that creaks
But the tears are heavy
And they drag it down

Only the echo of the abyss Oh oh oh
The same lullaby

Oh, the absence my Mother
Rose like a storm
Like clothes mourning for the body
And the waters sparkle
As if the dead is touching them
As if the soul is wandering
Being denied of the spring

Tell the child
Not to be fooled and rest his head on oblivion
Better to rest on stone
to the echo of wilderness
Better on my sleep's speechless cracks
Sleep is a plane of life, tell the child
To remember

(From the poetry collection View towards the Unspoken)

 

*********************

SIXTH PASSAGE
The Agony of Transparency

And time falls off me in pieces
Unfastening the flesh
Perfumed once

My sleep full of fissures
Like old clothes
Illuminates the dreams
And pushes me continually toward the inner side—where
Silence, solid,
Stirs, bottomless
I am afraid, I say
I fix my eyes wide-open
In sleep, a living man is in contact with the dead, he said

*

I can no longer hide in sleep
I am transparent
And my dreams flow from the flesh
Full of expropriated paradises
I shine
Like used time
Eroded by my tears — one
Good Friday
As they were taking my soul down from the Cross
And night broke
A solitary rose
Like the child that went away
Naked
To its upper world
And my body filled with stars.

*

One Good Friday
I saw light flowing from the wound
And the naked child upon the Cross
Evangelizing the world

I am the mother of the Crucifixion, I
And my eyes, full of blood
Seek the light

I am the mother of the bitter parting
And my hands, wounds,
Illuminate all the mystic passages
That I may find you
In your upper world

*

One Good Friday
I slept upon the Cross
And my sleep filled with heavens
Immobilized
My blood flows azure lilies since then
And the abyss nestled in the wound
Liberates the myrrh
The abyss, solid
Like pagan amber
Dissolves the brilliance
To liberate my flesh

*

I saw the blood flow in the streets
Sweeping away the child’s eyes
I stood amidst the crowd
A desert
My hands still being interred
And a smell of Chaos covered
The perfumed corpse.

Good Friday, 1988, from the poetry “Mystic Passage”