Nov 8, 2013

Settling in...

It's been a while, but I've been trying to get my bearings and didn't make time for writing. The city of Baton Rouge stretches out in all directions, seemingly unconcerned about space, trees, time or money. On the outside, it looks like a business town: signs everywhere, large hotels, a few casinos, restaurants and shopping malls. It is also home to Louisiana State University, and the LSU colours of gold and purple seem to be everywhere, from people's t-shirts, to large advertising signs to LSU-themed cupcakes and purple-gold tortilla chips. People here are incredibly proud of their college football team, and on football day the whole city seems to unite in a warm, friendly and celebratory way to cheer on "the Tigers" - it is a feeling quite unlike the one that exists before our football (or soccer) matches, which are neither warm nor friendly. Baton Rouge is not that big of a city, and while I still wouldn't be able to tell you how to get from point A to point B, I find myself recognising places, neighbourhoods and street names; my favourite, Edinburgh and Glasgow streets! Mark has to drive me around everywhere, and everything we need is spread out in a great big circle around the city, and it truly seems like everytime we leave Port Allen and hit Baton Rouge we drive around in one big circle before heading home. I don't mind driving around though because we always get to cross the Mississippi bridge and wave hello to the flattest barges in the whole world!

I know I have to explore Baton Rouge and see beyond its plastic wrapping, as with everything around here. I feel like I have been too quick to judge it as an ugly city - I mean my standards are set unfairly high as I lived in one of the most stunning cities in Europe for four years. Baton Rouge needs a different approach. I feel like I need to see it neighbourhood for neighbourhood and house for house rather than a city as a whole. Some neighbourhoods have massive oak trees whose dark branches stretch out thickly before bending down to the ground, others have beautiful front porches with rocking chairs and dreamy facades; some have fresh green lawns and no sidewalks, others have big, airy houses and neat sidewalks; some have houses with sunny conservatories, others have small, wooden houses with crooked house numbers nailed on the front and drooping basketball hoops on the side. Some neighborhoods are gated, while others stand gaping, entered from the main street by crossing the railroad tracks, tires thumping twice as the car climbs up and then down the steel rails.

It's not just the city - a lot of things here are new to me. The people are different. So different, that I sometimes feel invisible among them, as if they cannot see what they don't understand. That's not true of course, because I can see them even though I can't possibly imagine what their daily lives are like and how they differ from mine. Even the simple everyday things are interesting, like the high school kids stepping out of their yellow school bus in the latest crazy outfits and haircuts, from afros to mohawks to fake nails to white sneakers, things we were never allowed to wear in school, in attitudes we would never get away with. Or the black barber shop next to our house, which is always packed and open even late at night and whose surprisingly young barbers go about working in ways mysterious to me, and talking about things even more mysterious. Or how there are specific shops with tinted dark windows that sell take-away daiquiris in closed plastic containers for less than 7 dollars, provided you don't pop the cap before you go home (or in the car "long as a cop don't see you"). Or even how people speak English but somehow not English at all, which makes me feel like a bit of a weirdo as I try not to look too confused all the time. But seriously, I get all embarrassed and apologetic trying to communicate for fear I may not understand people or they may not understand me cause they said "i dun did" instead of "I've done" and I said "waTer" instead of "water".

But it's all so new and fascinating, and the mornings here are warm, humid and smell of toast. I thought the last part was cause our neighbours were making toast but then Mark said the smell comes from a factory that is close to our house. I'd rather think of it as a toast-making factory, which opens up a whole world of delicious possibilities for the rest of the strange and unidentified factories on our nearby river banks! 

There are many more things I could write about but perhaps I should take them one by one instead of squashing them all in one post. Y'all have a good 'un! 

Oct 24, 2013

Louisiana Love

So I have found myself on the road and in new adventures again! I can't begin to describe how excited I am, but you all probably know that already.

I am currently living in Port Allen, Louisiana, a town on the west bank of the Mississippi in Baton Rouge, with the love of my life, in his house which is attached to his parents' funeral home. Most people will find this a bit creepy, but I assure you it is far from being a creepy place. Port Allen is a slow-paced kinda place, with a refreshing openness - found in both the space and the people - that I have been yearning for for a long time now. The houses are small and spread out, people sit outside on their porches in the humid afternoon and kids ride their bikes around the neighborhood, which has no pavement, just a grassy side of a road, and tall, spreading Cypress trees. It is so quiet you can almost hear the wind blowing through the tall corn fields that stretch out beyond the last row of houses before the large and mighty river. The only noticeable sounds are the deafening 'choooooo's of the train in the morning and the afternoon as it rushes through the neighborhood, and the strange and exotic sounds of the many many colourful birds that call and sing from treetops outside the window, or that fly over on their way to some swampy and magical place.

Thick clouds of smoke rise from the plants on the banks of the Mississippi, and the combination of industry and agriculture makes for a strange and wonderful contrast from my native concrete Cyprus, my adopted gothic Edinburgh, and my jungle-trash Indonesia. It is a new place altogether, and let me tell you - it is beautiful.

I haven't taken my camera out yet as I'm too busy taking all the new colours and sounds in and hanging out with Roux the pitbull, but I will soon! 


Aug 30, 2013

Long-distance

I flare
mean as a lionfish
hang up phone

Day and night
you wait -
I miss you

Man

Man, when earth was crumbling under my feet,
you were there.

My sanity hung from the phone line,
ready to kick the bucket.

Don't hang up, I said.
Let's talk until the morning hours.

Man, rock and anchor.
When we hug, your body is roots,
mine is tree.

Jul 28, 2013

To be a bluesman

"...to be a bluesman you must be a man, you must have been the son of a slave, you must have sung the gospel in church, you must have collected cotton in a Mississippi  plantation and you must have done some time in prison, preferably for having killed a white man who insulted you. This is why there are no more new authentic blues singers. As there are no more "rebetes" in Greece ! How can you sing rebetica songs if you are not  a "rebetis" ?"

Today I finally watched Robert Manthoulis's film "Le blues entre les dents" ("Blues under the skin"), released in 1972. I had previously watched a documentary on ERT about Manthoulis, and found him very interesting and intriguing, so I decided to find this film and hopefully others, and see some of his work. Here is an interview of his, though written in bad English (perhaps because it is a translation from Greek?), the points he makes are still interesting: http://blues.gr/profiles/blogs/an-interview-with-greek-filmmaker-and-poet-robert-manthoulis-do.








Jul 26, 2013

Jul 21, 2013

When going through a rough patch

When going through a rough patch in life,
when you have doubts
and fears for the future,
when nothing seems to be going right
and you are sad,
put on some high heels
and a glass of wine,
and dance to Nancy
in your living room.




Jul 16, 2013

Revelation

And then, suddenly, 
out of dirt and shit and nothing, my identity emerged:

I am a Poetess!

Άτε, ήρτεν!

This is a poem from back in 2010, when I still attempted to write poetry in Greek. More than ever, I needed to find this and read it, and remind myself that being young (at heart) means being willing, ready and excited to change the world.

Αναδύομαι μέσα απο τα χρώματα
και τις μυρωδιές της νιότης.
Το δέρμα μου.
Τα χέρια μου
ζωντάνια, μύες που πάλλονται
και αγάπη.
Πατώ με δύναμη και σαλτάρω
πάνω απο τους φράκτες και τα κάγκελα΄
το χώμα διαλύεται κάτω απ'τα πόδια μου
η σκόνη σηκώνεται, διαλύεται γύρω μου
χτυπώ τα χέρια
και φωνάζω.
Τινάζω το κεφάλι
άλογο νεύρο περήφανο
ζηλέψτε, εγώ που ζώ
τώρα ακούτε εμένα!
Οι φωνές μου, τα τραγούδια
φτάνουν και σας βρίσκουν από μακριά,
κι εδώ κάνω θρύψαλα τα φτωχά τύμπανά σας
τώρα εγώ
σα ζωή,
γυρίζω σαν Γκοντζίλα στην πόλη σας
και σπέρνω πεταλούδες.
Καταπίνω τις γραμμές
και φτύνω ιδέες
τραβώ απ'τη γή το ουράνιο τόξο μαζί και τζίτζικες
και το τεντώνω απο άκρη σε όμορφη άκρη αερογέφυρα να περνούν οι πεζοί.
Χτυπώ τα σύννεφα το ένα με το άλλο
σαν θεόρατο ΓΚΟΝΓΚ
και βρέχει παντού αλήθεια.
Σας μουσκέυει,
βρεγμένα γατιά που γυρεύετε κρυψώνα,
καημένη μου πόλη,
καημένη μου χώρα.
Τώρα, μιλάω εγώ!
Το κεφάλι μου φρέσκο
σαν τις καστανές μου μπούκλες, γυαλίζει
και τα χείλη γελάνε πλατιά
στο πρόσωπο.
Δόντια άσπρα και χείλη κόκκινα
σαν ρόδι.
Γελάω δυνατά,
το ρόδι σπάζει,
τα κόκκινα ζιρκόνια ζαρκάδια πετάγονται έξω
στα μάτια σας.
Τραβώ και σκίζω απ' τα βουνά
με βαμμένα πολύχρωμα νύχια
τα στολίδια που τους έχετε κρεμμάσει.
Τραβώ και σκίζω απ' τα μυαλά σας
τα στολίδια που τους έχετε κρεμμάσει
με την ίδια ευκολία
κι εκεί φυτεύω κυκλάμινα,
δρύες χρυσές και ήλιους.
Τραβώ τα κάγκελα,
τραβώ το συρματόπλεγμα,
σκίζω τα αμμοσάκουλα
σας δίνω αχινούς.
Ανταλλάζω τα λεφτά σας με βότσαλα,
να χτίσουμε σπιτάκια για τους κάβουρες
και για τους πονεμένους.
Φυσώ τα σκουριασμένα λόγια
και τους σκουριασμένους εγκεφάλους,
σπρώχνω τις σκόνες
δεξιά και αριστερά
με τη παλάμη.
Φρεσκοπογιατίζω με σπρέι
και κιμωλίες του δρόμου.
Κλωτσώ και ρίχνω απ' τους θρόνους τους
τα μίση σας
κι εναποθέτω τις καρδιές μας.
Αρπάζω τ' αγέννητα παιδιά μας απ' τους βωμούς
και τους τσακίζω μεμιάς
με τις πελώριες πατούσες μου.
Τσακίζω το γνωστό μέλλον
και ποτίζω το άγνωστο,
ανοίγω κανάλια να τρέξει το μυστήριο
και η περιπέτεια
να καθαρίσουν τις βολεμένες ζωές μας
που βρώμισαν απ την ακινησία και τη λέρα.
Ξεκολλώ τις στέγες των πλημμυρισμένων επαύλεων,
των εκκλησιών,
αναποδογυρίζω τα μεγάλα αυτοκίνητα
και σας βγάζω όλους έξω.
Σας κρατώ απ'τους γιακάδες με τα μακριά μου δάκτυλα
και σας ταρακουνώ
σας τραντάζω
σας φωνάζω:

"Ξυπνάτε! Ήρτεν η άνοιξη!
Εν ούλλα καινούρια, ξυπνάτε!
Άτε ξυπνάτε να πάμε στη θάλασσα
ο κόσμος ούλλος εν δικός μας, ξυπνάτε!
Οι γραμμές εσβήσασιν, τα χρέη σας εξοφλήσασιν,
ο χρόνος πκιον επέταξε τη μαύρη του κουκκούλλα,
Οι μέρες κάμνουν κύκλους τζε τζυλούν,
ξυπνάτε!
Να πετάσουμε τα πετάσια μας σε πράσινες χωράφες."

Κι έπειτα,
σας αγκαλιάζω όλους!
Αποχαιρετώ τις μάσκες, τα ζαρωμένα, δύστυχα ανθρωπάκια που με κοιτάνε λυπημένα,
αποχαιρετώ τις σκιές.
Τα δάκρυα δεν τρέχουν αλλά αναβρύζουν με βία από τα μάτια μου
σαν να' χω τρυπήσει με βελόνα τις ζεστές μου φλέβες με φόρα
και πετάγεται η ζωή από μέσα δυνατά.
Τώρα φιλώ τες μανάδες και τους πατεράδες μας,
σας γεμίζω φιλιά και ηλιαχτίδες.
Σας βλεπω στα μάτια και σπιθίζουν όνειρα
βλέπω καθρέφτες.
Βλέπω τους έρωτες, ξαναγελώ δυνατά
φιλώ το δικό μου στο στόμα΄
μαζί πιανόμαστε απ'τη μέση
και περνάμε το κατώφλι.
Ο δρόμος μυρίζει λεμόνια και φώς και χώμα,
γυρίζω το σγουρό κεφάλι,
στο λαιμό μου οι φλέβες χορεύουν,
στη πόρτα μας γνέφετε "γειά σας"
και οι δρόμοι απλώνουνται χιλιάδες, ατέλειωτοι και φωτεινοί
μπροστά μας.

Jul 10, 2013

Lost Rainbows

Where, where, where have all the rainbows gone?
What cloud has hid them,
what nasty twist of fate has shunned the light away from them,
what hopeless particle of dust has dulled their shine,

what God has gone depressed and lost the plot,
sitting atop his creation with his head in his palm,
weeping.

Or is it that our eyes have glued together
or our heads bowed down forever
or we forgot that rain, then sun, can signal hope?

Jun 26, 2013

Jacaranda

The jacarandas look more beautiful on an overcast day.
As if anything could look more beautiful than it already is.

Their delicate but deep violet penetrates my heart.
I wish that I could take their flowers and melt them into a cloud
and float away with it on the white and dusty sky.

I would travel to a distant land of wild roses,
of no time.
I would lay under the bare sky and sleep under the stars,
honeydew dreams attracting moths around my young and curly head.

I'd wake up to the gentle rays of a gentle sun on a gentle morning.
Everywhere: quiet, but the dawn chorus.
Foraging for apples and berries, I would stop to consider the weeds under my feet
and their smiling purple, white, yellow faces looking up at me.

The wild horses would kick up dust in the distance behind me
as I'd approach the edge of a cliff opening up to a valley:
a river running away from a waterfall, a butterfly teasing a light speck.

I'd breathe in, and breathe out: I'm still here.

For the rest of time (this is it)

Breathe in and realise this is as good as it gets.

The honey-stained sheets,
the long embraces,
the kissing lips like copulating slugs
this is it.

You might fool yourself and think:
more sunny days will come,
I will enjoy another cool drink
under the shade of the loving oak tree,
gazing towards the swift-dotted sky.

You might say:
I will wake up to a pair of juicy thighs
and lay my eyes on the intense greens and blues
outside my window
tomorrow.
I will live again tomorrow, and for years to
come.

But sadly, this is untrue.

Or perhaps- happily, this is untrue,
for how lifeless would those long-drawn love-lorn
gazes
into each others' eyes seem,
how cheap would our youthful bodies wrapped
around each other be,
how valueless the colours
and the scents
and the feeling of cold, clear water running
painlessly down our elastic throats be,
if they were to exist again tomorrow,
and the day after tomorrow,
and for the rest of time.

May 22, 2013

May 13, 2013

The Huey Show

It's Monday, and I have many thoughts clanking around in my head, and I'm overwhelmed and overflowing with emotions, which means....it's time for another music break.

My friend Christian introduced me to The Huey Show a while back, and I am forever grateful. I usually listen to it when cooking, and it always leads to delicious food. It must be the voice.

This is the link..enjoy http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01sfhhx

May 9, 2013

Grass must grow after a storm

Once again, you are bridging the distance between us, as we speak.

Others seem surprised at the summer storm today. Only yesterday they were sunbathing at the beach, bodies strewn in the sun and sweating tanning oil and salt.

Today there is hail and rain and a great black cloud covering the island. Why?

Because you are coming. Because there is no black without white, because there is no joy in one's heart without pouring rain on one's face.

Because this year I have been thrown violently from one extreme to another like a slingshot or a pinball.

Because there is no relief without guilt.

I don't even get up from my chair to follow the others outside. Sitting at my desk I open the window next to me and breathe in the wet earth. Deeply. I wonder if the wreaths at my mother's grave have wilted, I wonder if it's raining on the mountains, if grass will grow at the mound of dirt covering her body, if the breeding birds have found shelter in the thick branches of the pine tree growing at her feet.

I stare at the black sky and I imagine you in a plane somewhere over continental Europe flying towards the big dark cloud. You are sitting strapped to your seat watching some silly movie or playing with one of your i-devices or thinking about me waiting for you. I imagine your broad goofy smile and like the Cheshire cat it's all thats left in my mind as you approach my little sad and lonely island, thrown in the middle of the sea and hit by stormy waves and crashed down upon by heavy clouds. Your bright smile comes up closer to the stormy black cloud, your teeth flash their white brilliance at this ungodly dark mass swelling up with evaporated tears and hailstone heartbreaks.  It is an unsightly battle and I try not to agonise over its outcome. I remind myself that I cannot control the forces of nature, and that I cannot reckon with them at this moment. But perhaps you can.

I feel the thunder roll, it vibrates my body cells and sends me shivering back to the present moment. I need to finish this work before I head for the airport.

May 7, 2013

This is true growth, Womanhood.

I miss writing love poems about you.
You need to come here and inspire me
touch me in a million different ways
feed me cherries
talk to me with your lips touching my skin.

But innocence will never be without a touch of grief
love will never be without a touch of loss
life will never be without a touch of death
ever again.

Maybe when I have kids, and I watch them play,
maybe then I will forget about mortality for a second there
and believe in my second childhood.

May 3, 2013

The Dawn Chorus

It’s all still too raw, I haven’t found it in myself to deal with this loss yet. I feel this cigarette burn on my soul combusting and burning larger and larger; I fear it will consume me. What’s left of oneself then? The body that gave flesh to mine is buried under the earth and I saw it. I saw the body and my brain wanted so much for it to be my mother sleeping. And then they took it away and I picked clothes for it. And then I saw it again at the funeral, and it was all made up – so much so that it didn’t look like my mother, it looked like a doll, so I believed it. My brother found it funny that we were crying for a doll and my dad reprimanded him during service. And when they lowered the body down into the ground we stood there looking with our arms around each other and thought it was an empty casket they were lowering down and smiled again, while dad walked away and stood in a corner under a tree. And at night we slept next to each other but my brother was throwing up and we called it a stomach bug – and then I caught it, and then the next day my cousin caught it and then the next day we all sat down to Easter lunch and hoped that the Easter story was true, and that resurrections were not a thing of a previous time but still very much in fashion today.

Night and night before I tried to tell myself that death would happen but my brain refused to listen. My mother begged us herself to give up on hope and I told her patronisingly that “we understand the situation but hope is a human and natural thing to hold on to and she shouldn’t ask of us to give it up or else we will fall apart.” How silly was I to think loss is something easy to handle, easier than disease. Disease is a physical burden, both to the bearer and the caregiver; loss is a hole in your soul that no one can ever fill for you, not even yourself. 

And now I sit here, unprepared, unable to sleep, trying to fathom this loss. Mostly trying to understand how something you have known your whole life to be real is now unreal, how something that has made you exist now does not exist. In a way, it is like pondering about God. And about how God is Life and everything and nothing. And if I cannot accept that God exists, I must accept that my mother does not exist. But since I accept that she exists but merely in another form, then I must accept that God exists but he cannot be fathomed, and he is in everything and nothing at the same time. And if that is true he must also exist in me, and so my mother must also exist in me. And with this crazy and scrambled thought I am comforted a bit, even though my forever is a different forever to that of eternity, and I will never see my mother in this forever again. 

May 2, 2013

Funeral blues by W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good

Apr 25, 2013

Today i'm 25, and I miss my mum

My mother didn't know if she would make it till my birthday. She has. She's here, I had a 'birthday' coffee with her by her bedside this morning. I'm heading back there now to hold her hand and feel her warmth. Twenty five years ago, she was giving birth to me! She will never truly know the gift she gave me today, which I will carry my whole life.



Apr 19, 2013

Life is not all fun and games.

Life is not all fun and games.
It's not all spintops and lollipops
and lazy Sunday mornings.


Sometimes you gotta be a child in an adult world.


Or a woman in a man's world.


Or a god in a human world.


Or love in a meaningless world.


Sometimes you gotta live
and sometimes you gotta die.

Life is not all fun and games.

Apr 18, 2013

An attempt to look at the bright side

Read my rather nostalgic article on the garden birds of spring at the BirdLife Cyprus website here. It's also available in Greek on the Greek version of the website under the news section.

Ofcourse I have been 'trapped' in the office or hospital room for the past couple months so I didn't get the chance to see the transformation of nature into a spring boom! this year. But I still dream and write about it so that maybe some of you will be inspired to go out there - Go...GO! GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!! Appreciate the sweet weather and beautiful smells and colours for me...while they last.

I made the love of my life promise me he'd take me cloud-watching when he comes. Just lying on our backs somewhere making up stories, watching the sky, being lazy! Now I'm waiting for that day like a schoolkid waiting for summer - oh boy clouds here I come! 

Apr 7, 2013

These weeks

This hospital room has become our house.
They gave us a bed, a chair and two cupboards for your things.
A curtain separates us from the patient next door
and her relatives,
who crowd her space and encroach ours
speaking about daily things with loud voices.

I have to be angry at someone
so I’m angry at them.
They exaggerate about the symptoms,
wail and cry over a little fever,
pray loudly to their god
while passing around fried potatoes and
pastries from the bakery,
pace up and down in our room
With megatons of fat on their asses
a family of obese, loud, obnoxious elephants
from the village.
They talk about the crisis, their kids, gossip,
and expect me to feel sorry for them and their daughter
recovering from a surgery.

I’m angry at them, I’m furious, because they don’t understand,
they don’t respect
the severity of our situation,
the seriousness of impending death:
Their daughter WILL get better.
She WILL go home.

For us, even this hope is strained
and unpalpable.

This hospital room is a battle ground.
I have to negotiate the boundaries of our territory
with strangers,
negotiate the attention of the nurses without
pissing them off,
negotiate your confusion with your need to know what’s going on,
negotiate my feelings of anger, sadness and trauma
with the need to be ready and prepared for action.

I look at you carefully trying to discern and evaluate the situation –
I try to shun away from the big picture – DEATH – and bring
to the front of my mind the current problems and symptoms –
Furrowed brow is pain, groans is discomfort, growling stomach is impending vomit or crap,
movement of the lips is attempt at communication,
opening eyes is disturbance from noise.

Do I need to call the nurse? Do you need another painkiller injection? Is your drip almost finished? Is it time for an anti-emetic? Should I try getting you to drink a sip of water?

Sometimes I feel I am the only person who knows what you really need,
and that’s what no one can give you, but what they all know is awaiting you.
Yet no one wants to really listen. I know you can’t smile at the nurses when they ask “How are you doing, today”, with their cheery voices, because, like me, you find it a bit absurd and insulting
to ask the dying what it feels like to be dead.

I don’t even ask you about the pain or thirst or anything anymore. We don’t even talk to each other, we’ve said what we had to say and we know what we have to do. I just say:
“I’m here, and I love you. If you need me just say my name”.

My brain has been split in half, I feel lost between every inch of my body
screaming that I want you to get better,
and my logic saying you can only find peace in passing on.


This hospital room is a waiting game
in which we have no power to play to win.
we meekly play to lose,
to lose our wits, our comfort, our safety,
our sleep, our beliefs, our peace, our strength,
our dreams,
and you.

Mar 30, 2013

Just the drip

Sometimes silence hides growth.
The way the universe slowly expands silently,
so does my soul.

It is slowly occupying new space,
it fills the void with its own dark matter.

Don't be impatient, reader.
My words are just busy re-inventing their own shape.
They are measuring their own depth anew,
preparing their vessels for the rich grape harvest
that will be thrown in them aplenty,
their fibres ready to soak up the burgundy
their vowels hollow to let the wail through.

Mar 5, 2013

Welcome to the cruel world

I love this album - Ben Harper's 'Welcome to the Cruel World' is so underrated. I think it was his first album. It's so powerful, I was obsessed with it as a teen maybe cause it's so bittersweet, soulful and empowering.

Anyhow, I was reminded of it today. This video is random but it doesn't matter cause he's damn sexy!



Just beautiful.




Tribute to the Kings and Maya Angelou's 'Still I rise'

Mar 1, 2013

The Bearer of the Knife - II

Hi Bearer,

your smile is like an eruption of blossoming almond trees all over this barren land.

I think you're happier than when I last saw you.

Your knife was safely kept away in its sheath, tied on your belt.
I could no longer see its deadly shine reflected in your eyes.

Nah, they looked clear and bright, so much so that I wished for a moment
that I could swim in them and forget my adult self,
splashing like a newborn dolphin in the clear blue waters of their dark brown.

Like an enchanted forest, they drew me in.
And I could have given in, only to face the same entangling misery at its dark and woody depths.

Only I looked away from you in time and laughed with my heart, bearer.

I'm glad to see you happy, I know you'll be alright.

Feb 23, 2013

Some wise words from a wise friend


Listen, anything in your life that is worth it
will come in the form of a question mark.
You know? It won't come easy if it's good,
nothing good comes as a fullstop.

Sometimes you may come across
a comma, letting you draw breath before
you get back into life.

Take deep breaths, take deep breaths
and keep hope. Be patient.

I love lazy Saturdays with my peeps

Feb 14, 2013

Valentine's anti-poem by my other half

Roses are red
Cocaine is white
If i didnt have work I'd head to cy on a flight

Roses are red
Your body is hot
If I could see you right now
I'd jump your bones on the spot

Roses are red
Your coffee date is boring
Hurry up and talk to me
Or I'll be snoring

Feb 7, 2013

The Promise

Hi Mark,

I'm at work and it's one of those days
when I should be working hard to meet the deadlines
but I'm sitting on a space-rock orbiting the earth
instead.

It's cool up here - there's a stillness you can't find down in Earth.
It's so quiet and peaceful I can see my thoughts coming out of my head in colourful processions,
floating in front of me, letters wriggling and stretching and blinking at their sudden birth.

It's great- some come out with an explosion,
and I have to reach out and grab them before they shoot away in space forever.
Some need pushing out of my head like a stubborn baby
that doesnt want to be born;

some even bite on their way out, bringing a sting and a tear to my eyes.

And then again, some of them come out dancing, letters almost prancing and skipping like some happy princess,
or proudly, on some ancient greek warrior's goodwinded ship
riding the sea to battle.

And some yet tiptoe, not to upset
the status quo
and order,
as if some law of physics could be broken and have me crashing
down with my meteor into nothingness.

Ah, but still some thoughts are small
and some as big as space itself.

If only you could be up here with me.

I can see the Earth. It looks small and sad.
As if someone said: take a planet, and wrap it up in tears.

All these people dying and being born every second,
it's like a termite nest but inside out.

If only you could be here. Searching for my truth on earth
is like searching for love in a nightclub:
it's noisy, dark, and everyone's on something,
and I'm shoved and stepped on by drunk assholes trying to claim the dancefloor.

Up here, I am farther from the noise and closer to the truth
than ever,
and it's as if the milky way swirls its galaxial blanket around me
and wraps me up in the warmth of its planets. I feel good.

Cosily, I stretch out my arm and trace my logic in stardust.
I look at it briefly before it disintegrates and floats away.

I make a promise to the universe: that I will uphold my duty to do right by myself and others,
that I will strive to be happy, that through my happiness I will shower this world with light.

That I will go out of this world with a big and wonderful bang,
just as I came into it,

and that the inbetween will truly be mine. 

Jan 31, 2013

The Starling Dance

Just when you are ready to give up
when you believe what they tell you that life isn't beautiful anymore,
when you start mourning for your birth and your death
and everything in between,
when you cry out in anger for the state of this country
which has been uglified by the people living in it

you turn your eyes to the purple sunset
and realise that someone is still here despite the chemicals and the concrete,
resisting destruction and
loneliness.

They are performing their dance in concert
for noone. Silently, among the houses and the sounds of the motorway.
Just like you are.




Birdies from pyrishoya on Vimeo.

*video of the Starlings in Latsia, Nicosia by Christiana.

Jan 24, 2013

Against the odds

Alright, alright, here's another go at life. Yeah, let's try something new.

First thing on my list: Start by dodging as much of the shit thrown at you as possible.

Any other suggestions, dear reader?

Jan 18, 2013

Draft

We'd drained our brains
of words and ideas.

We'd drank the dreams
and saved our drowning worries
that lay there catching breath
and stealing ours.

Jan 17, 2013

.


Silence, take my fears away,
they feed on me like hungry dogs.
Look, my flesh and tendons
are hanging from my bones.

Skin shredded, I try to shrug them away
but they feed on me still.

Tears, let me drink you
and quench my loneliness.
My patience is leaving me
she said I was cheating on her.

Happiness is struggling to cope with me,
and struggling I, I plead to some god inside me
to wake up and carry on climbing.

This mountain is made of thyme and snakes,
I inhale deeply and take the bites with every step.

Love me, I scream, someone love me,
the sky is too broad,
and heaven is too much of a hoax to let myself believe in.

Jan 16, 2013

Safe flight, dream

And so my boy is gone again.
He came and went so fast
I think I only caught the back of his head
as I waved goodbye at the airport.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At first we lay on the same bed, sleeping,
and dreams came parading like satyrs
whirling and dancing and clicking their hooves above our heads
around the room,
penetrating the night with their green-orange auras
and whistling panpipes.

And we were sleeping.
We slept long
and deeply at the world,
while our brains tuned in to the same wavelength
and whispered to each other under the sheets.

They caught up, discussing childhood,
politics, fears, religion, the weather.

While all the time we slept long
and deeply at the world.

And then our bodies woke up from their torpor
and clashed like Titans.
They fought and fought for hours
finding each other's weaknesses,
assessing each other's strengths.

And all the while we slept long
and deeply at the world.

When finally the sun came out
and the cups in the kitchen clattered
and the kettle gurgled in complaint
and the coffee brewed and grumped,

we opened our eyes to pain,
and a room empty of dreams.

And then we cried long
and deeply at the world.

Jan 8, 2013

just one of those

2013 started off as shit as no other year.
With chemo and a blocked toilet and freezing
weather and dry skin.
Will I ever be happy again?

Jan 4, 2013

Nina Simone Antibes 1965

Powerful performance by one of my favourite artists in the whole wide world. Many more gems like this on youtube. Dedicated to my neighbour who plays his piano beautifully to the early hours of the morning, even over the Christmas holidays and New Year's Eve...I hope you pass your music school exams, stranger!

Jan 2, 2013

Happy New Year

Death's stinky breath is on our house
and at night, I dream of horse-drawn carriages sunk into swamps,
and violent reverse big-bangs
that burn us into nothingness.

And yet, we cling onto life with bared fangs and barred doors,
protecting the only thing that's left.

Sometimes those rays of daily life the way we knew them
shine through and hit us on the head with their simplicity and
foreign air of some long-gone and innocent time
when we didn't think about the moments so much.

And sometimes I find myself half-wishing that those moments were still mine
to float like a cork on.
But noone can hide from the deep waters too long. Sooner or later we will all be forced to sink in them,
and i'd rather dive head-on that drown in the waves.

Do you know what I mean?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I mean, really, Life is funny.
Though I'm a believer in luck and no such thing as fate,
It would have me believe in purpose.
Why else would Life send you along at such a time riddled with death,
if not to tease me?

She called you Love, and branded you with some
transparent and irresistible ink, that even you
would find frighteningly beautiful,
and sent you here to save my heart from sinking.

She raised a wall and said: Climb it.
She burnt the forest and said: Find life.
She placed you in some foreign land and said: Swim.
She drained this world of colour, taste and context and said: Write, write!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Of all the things happening in my life right now,
in this impressionistic brain of mine, which has me swirling in
lights and shadows and fleeting brushstroke memories of
purple-coloured, half-drawn people,
you are my most vivid.

And though we struggle to converge our lives
in many ways par physical,
I know this might sound strange
but you make Death a little more bearable
and a little less significant.