Gymnopaidia
Geologically Santorini is composed of pumice stone and china clay and in her bay…islands appeared and vanished. Santorini became the center of a very ancient religion where the lyrical dances were performed with a strict and heavy rhythm and called: Gymnopaidia
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TOURIST GUIDE
I
Santorini
Bend if you can to the dark sea forgetting
the flute’s sound on naked feet
that stepped on your sleep in the other, the sunken life.
Write if you can on your last ostracon
the day the name the place
and throw it in the sea so that is sinks.
We were naked on the pumice stone
watching the rising islands
watching the red islands sink
into their sleep into our sleep.
Here we were naked holding
the scale that tilted to the side
of injustice.
Heel of strength, shadow-less will, calculated love
plans ripening in the mid-day sun
path of fate with the new hand
patting on the shoulder
in the place that was scattered that can’t bear any longer
in the place that was once ours
the islands, the ash and the rust sink.
Altars destroyed
and friends forgotten
palm tree leaves in the mud.
Let your hands travel, if you can
here on this corner of time with the ship
that touched the horizon.
When the dice struck the flagstone
when the spear struck the armour
when the eye recognized the foreigner
and love dried up
in hollowed souls
when you look around you discern
harvested feet all over
dead arms everywhere
eyes darkened everywhere
when you can not choose any longer
even your own death that you wanted
hearing a cry
even the cry of a wolf
you’re right:
let your hands travel, if you can
let yourself free from the unfaithful time
and sink
whoever carries the heavy rocks sinks.

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The Horse
This horse grazes at the faraway plain
raises its neck and sometimes eats my hay.
I have never seen it, nor have I met it
it’s plain
I imagine it’s I
and my happiness,
its trot echoing aimlessly
in my rich loneliness.

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Coffin
The coffin was lowered into
the dark abyss
sun regretted the arrival of dawn
the place should have stayed dark
especially today when the wind
stopped blowing, then it restarted,
alas, things needed
to carry on with life and
the boy caressed
the horse’s neck that
confirmed a future day
basking in sunshine
as though calling the future
before the future
casket lowered into the abyss
man inside it, rested and
the horse smiled

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763750

Apollo on Antigonu’s Medal
Of all his statues, indeed great works of art, the small
medal of Antigonus touched us the most — on it,
Apollo, sitting inside a trireme, seems to be concentrated,
at the same time absentminded and not as complacent —
perhaps because the tight space reveals his secret beauty
better and perhaps for this reason, naked, without his lyre,
in a familiar pose, it allows certain deeper encounter, even
certain flattery, perhaps, we too, naked like him, hide in
the foggy, confined circle of the medal — the beautiful
and distancing trireme helped to this a lot.

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Monology
Of sacred things and tidings
coming from spirits divine
I shall speak of festivities
Sun dance to beg for
our salvation from
the clutches of the white man
who came uninvited
to civilize us, oh, brothers
of the coyote and kin of the raven
their sacrilege such
substitute for our peace
fake brotherly love aiming
through their musket’s barrel
yes, children of the Mochicans
arise to the height of your souls
bury the white civilizers
in the graves they’ve dug for us

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Forlorn
Forlornness on the glassy face of the northern lake where the loon flaps its wings once, twice, thrice and flies toward the source of light; the skipping stone in the opposite fashion flies back to its source: the open hand of the boy. Flapping, skipping, the movement of air, ethereal like your body, my beloved, curves and caves I’ve caressed and enjoyed
— The gutters need to be cleaned before autumn. Are you listening to me?
Open palms bestowing love, small begonias, fern roots by the lake shore, sun rays ripple on the surface, waking the owl on the tall conifer, wisdom in creative motion
—Eating two servings of ice cream will make you fat
Your death echoes onto the shadow of the aspen outlined on the green forest floor, and all movement is momentarily suspended like my dream
— Stop spending your time with the computer. Do come here next to me
A bad omen becomes reality, and the loon turns back to the water, wings flap backward, and the skipping stone keeps skipping until it dives deep in its watery purpose, like my heart in the darkness of your absence
—You know, we could look for another set of furniture for the living room

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763769

Sound of Gas

That day we were all busy: the burial, the inheritance; however in
each home where one dies a suddenly grown child stands at the top
of the stairs and looks around awkwardly as if he has to restore
something; no one of course paid attention to him and only the strange
woman smiled at him as she placed the flowers inside the mysterious
shadow where perhaps we had forever remained and I remembered
the room with the echo of gas when they hurriedly brought me in
a child bloodied by the wheels of the car, the same woman had come in
almost unnoticed and then my eyes fell on the window where the curtains
were in attention as if they also had to endure this.

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And here came female gypsies
wearing celebratory, colourful
dresses off which they had hung
colourful, big, shiny beads,
female gypsies with their red
dresses came and with their
yellow scarves, oh lustful eyes
oh, bosoms, oh lips! And they
came crowned with flowers,
tambourines and belts which
they play as they dance creating
circles and singing of May
and among them one appears
the special one, an eighteen year
old who swings and bends and
dances ready to fly in the air
a maniac’s dance from the queen
of dance with the lustful body
the young enticing gypsy
the girl the great enchantress.
Female gypsies came who
sing: here comes May and
the spring, here the summer
comes when the foreigner
wanting to return to his land
puts the saddle on his horse
the golden horseshoes with
the silver nails and you oh
cursed gypsies who don’t
have a motherland, no land
awaits for you, only this month
of May awaits for you, the
emperor May is calling you;
come gypsies from the West
and gypsies from the East
the month of May the festive
calls you to the three day
festival to the festival
of gypsy life. And from
the Kakava boiling legumes,
bitter, and harsh, and sickly
food, a little water from
the spring, bring some honey
and some milk, mix them with
water, and bring some old

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D3LP7NW6