Poetry, Libros Libertad 2009
Paperback 9 x 6 in
106 pages
ISBN: 9780981073569
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Sometimes words are ghosts dancing with myth and memory. Greek-Cana­dian poet Manolis demonstrates this in Impulses, his new collection of poems. His poetry springs from a congenital intimacy with a culture and its history. In essence, we are before a poetic glance that is also a revolving metaphor en­circling feelings from a Mediterranean philosophy.

Poets tend to be witnesses of paradox. In recreating them it’s not a compro­mise between logic and rational; it’s an absolute nouveau reality. With this new book, Manolis tells us that poetry is an affirmation of the soul, a witness for the dream. Fine poetry, there is.

~ Eduardo Bettencourt Pinto


Impulses conjures a mosaic of old world images, tiled with colours and dilemmas from the present. Manolis ransacks his classical Greek roots, and the cosmopolitan now, to find some meaning for his modern existence. He wrestles with such timeless subjects as the value of human life, innocence and aging.

These poems move with con­trasting moods, as eroticism is juxtaposed with isolation, and intimacy is wedged be­tween dark humour and sheer outrage.


~ Apryl Leaf




Agony of pearl yearning

for your hand to polish it

with pain and white

loving arms nude

silence of the boat’s keel

broken voice of violins arouse

my ears and

gulls’ call mutes

your leg touching the water

like a small oar affecting

absolution the sun peeks

through two clouds and you

just let go of your hat to arms

of the soft-spoken wave



Words said on moonlit nights

just before we separated

just words

forgotten amid the flowers

of ancient gardens

words that appear in distracted hours

on the crystal surface of memory

as if they were said moments ago


and the nails on the wall

change color each time

you repaint over them

but should you

grind them back to steel

shade of blue like pain

when you drive them through

the palms of the martyr

red fleshy when

you quench your thirst in blood?



Bright eyes of the heroes fledging

and shoe-less feet splash

in the fountain

yet to be honored champions

who haven’t managed to explore

their hatred in front of throngs

on tv monitors, in the mourner’s tears

nothing moves as slow as history

in this parched world

that thirsts for rain and green olive


aspirations of a day

born red in the eyelids of the terrorist


and you said —


there’s nothing here for us

only a yellow death

and our desire for glory



What a relief spring is over
and the soldiers with their rifles
spouting sunlight through
their barrels left. They came
in the midst of April as if there wasn’t
any other way for the spring
to come but with soldiers holding
rifles What a relief frost is over
and the chickadee dreams
on another nest of another chick
or two just another reason for
the red jib to unfurl just another
reason for the white chapel
to be repainted in whitewash