Separation

With teary eyes I stared

at the woman

dressed in black with

her well-made hair

silver pin holding it up

surprise of the day

my sigh in the air

when she came near me

with open arms

as if to embrace

the whole world

that imperceptible laughter

on her lips burnt me

when she leaned

to kiss me

for the last time

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His Last Profession

This is it – he says – my last profession – one villager’s

handkerchief large with blue and white squares

I unfold it I fold it I wipe off my sweat

or even my eyes sometimes Here I gather my belongings

some books one armchair my cigarettes the lighter

the magnifying glass for shaving and the other one

a size reducer as if to look at unpleasant things

or those others that they call unachievable

In this handkerchief

exactly in the middle there is a hole Through there

during the darker nights the secret bird comes in

my bird hops on my shoulder or my knee

and feeds me with an ear of grain with a star or with a worm

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Poem by Gesthemani Sideridis

ROUTINE

And the routine that wage war evaporates

naturally and without special choices

with coffee and cigarettes

the smoke comes from the East

like clacking

all the rest are from here, local

the television promotes our habits

what is blood, you may ask me

red fluid that makes a mess

therefore I see the messy landscape daily

as I have coffee and cigarettes

the lies smell through the windows here

and treason’s everywhere

it’s the same, you may say

here simply

the blood is messing noiselessly

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