ΒLACK IS BLACK
No.
I won't yield to expired word games
in the suspended skies of fire works.
I will not wear the poets uniform
to shed some light into your black bridal gown.
You are the cruel, dismal darkness.
Ιnsatiable. Solid. Indelible.
You drown the colors, kill the birds
a thousand mourning garments on your body.
Knigths never had a chance with you.
What sword will slash thε shadows?
What poem will ever shatter you?
And yet, your darkness spews out lava.
It isn't lava
it's ashes from a bygone age
spread out on the edges of the wound-
thunderstruck.
No.
I won't not stir the glow of yesterday
I will not pillage syllables to illuminate you.
But with a knife sharpened on my soul
I will slice your darkness into pieces.
So, I can taste you
and shed black tears.
(from the collection of poetry ''Εxceptions'', Mandragoras 2018)
FUNERAL TAILORS
Dumned day.
Uninformed.
Stitched from Rimbaud's remnants.
Thε chest lacks a button
the relic wears lipstick.
Armholes and riddles
scattered hither and yon
buy out masked poets
to confess.
The strenght of materials
in the age of marriage.
The stone
kissed time imperceptibly.
The tear
evaporated into oblivion.
Only the dirt
fell in love with death
and put a ring on the wood's finger.
(from the collection of poetry ''Sequence'', Govostis 2020)
THE CELL
I will open with you. Till a couple of days ago
I had no complaint to make about my cell.
It is a bit too dark, I know
the skylight gets mistry high up there
the full moon appears shattered through the grate
and I haven't seen a bird for years.
But, who cares about such details
beside the accessories it provides me?
Microphones, telephones, buttons
smart calculators
screens of artificial intelligence.
There is nothing I can't see from here.
Executions, tortures, fires
stabbings, even red stains.
Blood swamps the cell
there are momentsI feel it's mine.
I will be open with you. Till a couple of days ago
I had no complaint to make about my cell.
I thought, I could be an active citizen
fall in love, live, get educated
and be conveniently waiting for my turn.
Untill all of the sudden last night
I made a discovery-
my cell door wasn't locked.
(from the collection of poetry ''Chasing my Killer'', Mandragoras 2015)
AUTOPSY
They found no body.
Just two stains
of fresh poem.
GUIDED TOUR
This rock
in the womb of love
was once lava.
HISTORY
The factory
that makes frontiers
out of bones.
TRUANCY
I wonder how
with so many selves
I die alone.
SURVIVAL CODE
I have died
and yet I shave myself
methodically.
THE PARADE
Move over
for the dead to pass.
They will run us over.
GUARANTEE
I look for someone
to die together.
I bought a mirror.
SAVOIR VIVRE
You leave, my soul
at the time I die.
Nice manners.
THE WILL
With the present document
I bequeath my country
all that she took from me.
(from varius collections of ''haiku with title'', published by Mandragoras and Govostis, 2008-2020)
ΤΗΕ SCARECROW
''I am the green jacket
howling in Tempi.
I was wearing a student
scattered in the valley of death.
In my pocket a Christ
two eyes
and the rent for March...''
(from the collection of poetry ''black, glossy, or purple'', Mandragoras 2023)
WITHOUT FIGHT
My mother
fought in the battle of the civilians.
In Cyprus, Sudan, Vietnam
Belgrade, Mariupol, Gaza.
She bore on her back
the whole world
my brother in his red shirt
embroidered with medals of death.
My mother
miscarried in the battle of the civilians.
She whispered to her daughter at midnight
planning sleepless diversions
gallows of drunken dreams.
''I am memory and you are absence''
she sang rocking
shadows on her knees.
My mother
did not die in the battle of civilians.
I recall the twilight gatherings in the yeard
with the pale glosts of the city
her voice alive with the thrill of excursions.
The house never fed her hunger for Sundays.
She washed away traces of oblivion
at the graves of civilians.
(from the collection of poetry ''black, glossy, or purple'', Mandragoras 2023)
|
