KOTOULA DIMITRA


KOTOULA DIMITRA

Dimitra Kotoula studied history, archaeology and history of Byzantine and Medieval art in Greece (University of Ioannina), London and the United States. Her poetry and essays have been translated in thirteen (13) languages, presented in European and international literature festivals and published in literary journals in Greece, Europe and the United States such as; Poihtikh, the books’ journal, Diasticho, frmk, The Athens Review of Books, ΤΑ ΝΕΑ, Poetry Review, The Columbia Review, Mid-American Review, Denver Quarterly, Copper Nickel, World Literature Today, New Poetry in Translation, World Poetry Today, Drunken Boat, Blue Lyra, New Poetry in Translation, Poesis International, Nuori Voima, Lyrin Vännen etc. She has been the first to translate in Greek from the work of Louise Glück (2020 Nobel Prize) as well as from that of Sharon Olds and Jorie Graham.

 

Currently, she lives and works in Athens, Greece.

 More about author: 
First name:  Dimitra
Last name:  Kotoula
Projects: 

 

Three Notes for a Melody, Athens; Nefeli Publications, 2004.

 

The Constant Narrative, Η επίμονη αφήγηση, Athens: Patakis Publications, 2017.

 

You Would Be Totally Undefended: The White Page Poems, Athens: Patakis Publications, 2020.

 

The Slow Horizon that Breathes, selected poems translated by Maria Nazos with an introduction by A. E. Stallings, World Poetry Books, 2023.


Date of birth:  1974
Birth place:  Komotini
Abstract text: 

Landscapes I

 

It’s an icy day.

 

A lifeless wing of morning light

hangs there, mundane

stubborn.

The smell of frost and the red leaves of the plane tree steaming.

Fresh furrows of soggy raw material

my hands

held straight out before me

devout and servile

worn by desire

sullied by the mud of self-indulgent nostalgia

gather their bearings.

Staying faithful to this light

I learn myself more clearly

I remember myself more clearly

beyond prediction or truth.

The autumn smoke rises serenely.

The forest of my troubled thought

rustles above me.

A sound fades red in my mouth.

Close your eyes

Close your eyes well to—

 

I you and this.

 

A handful of grief is scattered across the sea.

The sea is glorious.

We have no glory.

Only our hands a couple now

white hands amid green

worn down by desire

sullied by the mud of self-indulgent nostalgia

borrowed hands

live

for a moment almost bright

then eclipsed

a small violent army of regal frivolity

only our hands a couple now

– but without wings – 

wrapping and unwrapping promises

forcing back the decay

 

 

while we lie silently

in the dark

looking at each other

 

while we hold each other

silently

in the dark

 

 

and the heart asks for nothing

 

 – for we are poor – 

 

just breathes the rhythmical breath

 

of its own relentless pounding.

 

                                    (From the collection Three Notes for a Melody)

 

*

 

 

Case Study V- (Οn Ethics)

           

The swirling of the waves lulled us

lulled our language making it frail

so frail

almost a memory.

We didn’t read the “Y” as a dark pitchfork, a path we must take

the “S” a tunnel’s mouth drawing near

the sound of God blaring his name in our native tongue won’t wake us.

We entered history as though it was a jubilee.

Once it seemed we’d merge with the past

then we didn’t.

Imprisoned

with our minds gaping like traps

we suffered from what ailed us

made lyrics that can survive translation

and lost.

If you don’t turn to shine your light behind you

the shadows will always fall before you.

 

 

The tip of the consonant drives its rumbling spike through paper.

Τhe chanting endures like a plow

turning the same exhumed soil over and over.

There is no mystery here.

Blinded by aspalathus thorns

and the hairpins of History

we did not see the deafening signals that persisted

cunning

with a crippling nostalgia

 – for what;  – 

and a voracious gaze

we created a god – deus ex machina – who did not save us.

 

There is no mystery here.

You didn’t keep the lyre tuned as you were taught.

 

                                                (From the collection The Constant Narrative)

 

*

  Moods XV

 

Our talks kept us late into the middle of night.

We are in shadows.

Around us objects

all those small familiar things that bound us

animated with peace

recite their names: chair, table, crock.

 

The soul asks for nothing anymore.

I mull over the great loves

springtime

like a rhythmically heaving chest

your face pressed against the window

and the window

(a strange plant dances in the rain).

 

The firs steam in the midst of their sleep.

Wind hovers over the stars.

Drowsy colonies of moss

burn side-by-side in silence.

How is the night so dark

if the sky is lurking

if right outside the moon

and this earth’s mystical life—

 

 

The eyes of wild animals take in your taste.

Your lips are chilled

and the dawn will come

like snow flooding down from a purple cloud.

 

                                                (From the collection Three Notes for a Melody)


E-mail:  dimitrakotoula@outlook.com