Poems

3361 Orpheus

Catapulted
a mind of tiles
pellets
icicle strips
orbiting
it speaks
in signals and trills
from nebulae reaches
it broadcasts
a satellite lyre
that plays and replays
your name alone
a cyclone
the palpitation
of an army
of broken transmissions
plumed waves
drumming against
a pinioned silence.

List of Publications

My entry for the #ReadALetter campaign by Letters Live
From 'Κόκκοι', as published in issue #14/15  
of [φρμκ] Διασπορά, autumn/summer 2019 
* το νησί 
είναι αργό κι ακίνητο 
δε σαλεύει 
όμως συσπάται 
το πρόσωπό του 
από πένθος 

* με την πύλη ανοιχτή  
φυλάει την αυλή 
μια πέτρα φθαρμένη 
σα δόντι θεού 

* οι περαστικοί σταματάνε 
στον ύφαλο του χωραφιού 
κοιτάνε για ώρα    
τα δύο τυλιγμένα φίδια  

* στεγνός
κείτεται ο γλάρος 
κι από πάνω δράκος 
πετά χαρταετός 
-μακρυά λέει η μάνα 
απ' τα νεκρά ζώα- 
το κορίτσι με το σπάγγο 
δειλά δοκιμάζει να δαμάσει 
τη σκιά που ο αδελφός κυνηγά
From ‘3361 Orpheus’, featured in The Visual Experience, 4th Edition by Davis Publications, Moving Poems and Nasimi Festival [in collaboration with Afrodite Bitzouni]. 
From 'Breccia', published in Poetry Collection 2020 
by Tomarchio Editore
Mandrie 
Comincia 
l'orologio significa che sei qui 
stanno a casa 
trasferimenti di memoria 
le famiglie 
semi che viaggarono   

Con ira gli dicono 
Impara 
Parlaci 
Mettiti i nostri colori 
Non dimenticare 
* 
Lui però diventò 
spaventapasseri di miele 
legno liquido 
il sonno degli uccelli 
sorridente 
felino di strada 
autonomo 
filo del tetto 
operatore 
di inceppate ruote   

Per cosa girano? 
Che cosa cercano di fare?
‘Plotlines on Air’, featured in Extending ley lines, a book accompanying the moving image installation ‘To a line‘ by Will Jennings, London
‘Eurasian Teal’, featured in Birdbook II, by Sidekick Books
Eurasian Teal
 
You're not a colour
you're a
duck on
seasonal migration.
 
Not an
ordinary duck
―a petite exotic
eye-shadowed cousin―
wintering here in
a great greengrey flock
a travelling troupe
a team of dabbling
synchronized swimmers.  
 
I'm not sure if
as you pass you sing
in a Cyrillic,
thespian quack
that dissipates
melodiously
in symphony
across an evening
sky of Hermitage
colours or if
you as the shamans
speak in tundralect
and snowpine speech.
 
We must be but
a brief moment
in your schedule;
an accidental stop
on your splash tour
of our Occidental
theatres of water.
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