Katerina Iliopoulou,  is a poet, artist and translator, who lives and works in Athens. Her translations in book form include extensive selections from the work of Sylvia Plath and Walt Whitman, while she has also published translations of Mina Loy, Robert Hass and Ted Hughes, among others.

Her own poetry has been translated and published in literary reviews, journals and anthologies in several languages, and she has participated in numerous international poetry festivals (including the “Poetry Parnassus” held in London in its ‘olympic’ year 2012). Mister T. and The Book of the Soil have been published in French, while the former has also been translated in Turkish.

She is the editor in chief of “FRMK”, a biannual journal on poetry, poetics and the visual arts, and co-editor of the bilingual web platform

 More about author: 
First name:  KATERINA
Last name:  ILIOPOULOU

Mister T. poetry, Melani ed., 2007
Asylum poetry, Melani ed., 2008
Book of the Soil poetry, Melani, ed.,2011
Gestus, poetry and photography,  together with visual artist Yiannis Isidorou (FRMK Editions, Athens 2014)
Every place only once, and completely poetry, Melani ed., 201 5

It isn’t yet, short stories,  (Melani Editions, Athens 2019)

A Conversation on Poetry Now (FRMK Editions, Athens 2018), a collective book of essays on poetics (editor and author)
What do we learn through art?(FRMK Editions, Athens 2020), a collective book of essays (editor and author)
Lily Crag, poetic prose,  FRMK Editions, Athens 2021


Sylvia Plath, Poems (a selection), Kedros editions 2003
Sylvia Plath , Ariel, Melani ed. 2012

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, Kedros ed. 2019
(in collaboration with Eleni Iliopoulou)


Ithakis 24 Athens

Date of birth:  1967
Birth place:  Athens
Abstract title:  Poems
Abstract text: 

Mister T. by the sea

He picks up a pebble from the shore.
Notices the pebble has the remarkable property
Of not having an inside and an outside.
The two coincide.
As he cannot think of anything else,
He decides the pebble is an enemy to the world and throws it away.
The pebble’s fall creates the effect known as “ a hole in the water”.
Mister T. feels immense attraction and an inexplicable envy towards the pebble.
So, he picks up another and puts it in his mouth.
At first it is salty.
It is a sea- thing.
Shortly after that, it is nothing.
A hard lump of silence in his mouth, absorbing his voice.
Nevertheless, to his surprise he realizes
That even without a voice, he can still speak.
Evidently his invocations are granted.
A flock of sea- birds lands by his feet.
When they fly away they leave behind an illegible text.
Mister T. bends down and begins to study it at once.
translation by Konstantine Matsoukas
 The siren

The sheets are white pages.
Each night he writes, tirelessly.
Feverishly filling them
as they say poets do.
But in the morning the sheets are wild animals.
They are waves, a savage ocean undulating.
And from its depths a little siren often rises.
She softly looks at him and then
she takes her eyes out and offers them to him.
Two green glass marbles.
Mister T. doesn’t dare reach out.
But how he longs for their coolness and how his fingers
sway like sea-weed.
To touch them.
Her eyes would suck up all the dust
which is the hourglass of time.
They would turn blood into water
and lime walls into crystal.
Her offer is pending
but Mister T. keeps postponing it.
Who can bear to live in a transparent house?

translation by Konstantine Matsoukas

The fox

In the sheath of light she appeared
Crossed the road
A small brown fox.
And again the next evening
Behind a bush fleetingly
And another time only her tail
Swept the darkness
And from then on
Her paws walking inside your eyes
Her warm furry body   
Quivering between us.
Always passing never stationary.
“But who are you?” we asked
“I am” she said, “what is always in excess.”

Translation John O'Kane

Here the days do not  dissolve in the air
They drop into the water
Forming their very own layer
A surface of separation.
A hawk flies above the body of the summer
It dives again and again                            
Feeding and getting drunk from falling.
There is nothing here
Only crazy wind and stones
And sea
A random promise
Sharpens our lust with the blade of the moon.
When I arrived for the first time in this landscape of endings
The wind entered my mouth with such fury
As if I were its sole receptacle       
Until all my words disappeared.
Every tree receives the wind differently  
Some suffer others resist
(I met a palm tree that gave birth to the wind and distributed it
in every direction)
Others shake all over and change colors.
I of course am not a tree  
I sat down and wore the wind as a coat
I bent my head and looked at the ground
From its crevices, the roots of thyme
With their hieroglyphics struggled to enter the light
Then the words came back.
Translation John O'Kane
The song of Eurydice

Keep your promise Orpheus
Look at me
Cultivate with your gaze
The meadow of my wandering
Dig for me the journey with
The stiletto of your eyes
Cast your net and
Draw it up empty
Gather in the drops:
In each one
My face will be mirrored
I am the border which continuously recedes
The guardian of distance
And your song Orpheus
Is distance.
Don’t leave anything untouched
Whatever thing you touch      
Will never become your own
Every touching all the more foreign
The more foreign all the more gripping
And ready to touch you back
As it alone, knows how
To start up the dissolution machine
And with a holding of your breath
All the blurred red takes you in.
Hold on to the breathless void and weave it.
Translation John O'Kane


Trapped in the before and after
we cast furtive glances at the mirror
in it our face is hard
already shows marks
Ahead the road,
youth's unblemished face.
Here, together, in the same body.
It didn't leave
it's not a road you take
nor a skein that unwinds to the end
alas, no
It's a shell which is built from the inside
without seeing the exit
without finding the direction
An unknown intention
and the journey is unraveling
not destination
So then let's unravel the stitches.
My grandmother unraveled
a complete man's suit
within a single night
and restitched it from the beginning
from the inside out
That way she doubled its life
from the inside out
It's a two-way route
every instant
every instant multiple
both forward and backward
and even, the same route over and over.
It was no trick. But skillful craft.
What's more without a craftsman's knowledge
all things are doubly lost.
Both as present and as remembrance.
Let the time well up
the ordeal is the passage
To find a way to pass even through a buttonhole
Not to move ahead but to happen

translation by John O'Kane


2008, first prize for a new author by the literary journal “Diavazo”, for "Mister T." melani ed. 2007