Archive for March, 2023

Katerina Anghelaki Rooke, Selected Poems

Posted: 31/03/2023 by vequinox in Literature


A thousand songs hide inside me every summer. I open my mouth and passionately try to put them in order. I sing. Lousy. Yet thanks to my song I differ from the bark of the branches and from the other voiceless natural speakers. My modest attire — gray and whitewash — blocks all my sensuous furor and being separated from dazzling celebrations of time, I sing. I don’t know of Spring, Easter and violets. The only resurrection I know is when a little wind perks up to refresh a little the horrible heat of my life. Now, I stop yelling — or singing as people think — since the miracle of breeze inside me says a lot more than what I create so that I won’t die of the heat.

Wheat Ears – Selected Poems

Posted: 31/03/2023 by vequinox in Literature


Crows salvage wisdom

picking life from the front yard

but road to glory remains a lonely endeavor

with fragrance of lilac blossoms

in the cold April morning when

robin chirps need for a mate

knows his importance is already etched

on his tablet but your path to glory

is so lonely an affair even

stalwarts wouldn’t go there

like a walk to the gates

of Erebus guarded by monoliths

and statues glorified by myths

you try to avoid at all costs


Περιήγηση στην έκθεση «Πανοπλίες: Η τέχνη του οπλισμού στην Αρχαία Ελλάδα» στο Μουσείο Αρχαίας Τεχνολογίας Κοτσανά, από τον αρματοποιό Δημήτριο Κατσίκη.

HuffPost Greece

Γράφει ο Κώστας Μαυραγάνης

«Η πανοπλία είχε συνδεθεί με την ταυτότητα των Ελλήνων. Τριάντα αιώνες συνοδευόμαστε από πανοπλίες, μόνο τους τελευταίους 5-6 αιώνες δεν φοράμε», λέει στη HuffPost Greece ο Δημήτρης Κατσίκης, αρματοποιός/ μεταλλοτεχνίτης και δημιουργός των πανοπλιών που παρουσιάζονται στην έκθεση «Πανοπλίες: Η τέχνη του οπλισμού στην Αρχαία Ελλάδα» στο Μουσείο Αρχαίας Τεχνολογίας Κοτσανά, η οποία φιλοξενείται στο μουσείο από τον Απρίλιο του 2022 μέχρι τον Απρίλιο του 2023.

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Tasos Livaditis – Poems, Volume II

Posted: 30/03/2023 by vequinox in Literature



Helen and her lover frequented a hotel

at the outskirts of the city,

one of those cheap, neighborhood hotels

with the ancient, tired beds, the old mirrors

           ravaged by dampness

the basins, side tables, overused napkins

things touched by thousands before you, people

who perhaps might have died and while they might

           rot in the soil and rain

these things still retain on them the impersonal

           vague memory

of their passing; ephemeral couples, gamblers,

           drunkards, nuts,

ambitious and lonely who cried all night long.

For this reason things have their fate, noiseless  

            and yes merciless

and for this something deeper exists in every


the life of others. Helen and her lover would

rent a room they’d undress and try desperately

to meet; however their hands were blind because

           of their eagerness.

Finally, after having sex they’d meet again,

remaining silent for a long time, listening to

the faraway city buzz, vaguely discerned, as if

tuning their organs: for which performance



Beautiful woman, your playful laughter rises

like a futile sound that makes no echo

in the haughty heart connected

to those innocent and silent smiles

bestowing joy, or to those other souls

that cover grief with silence,

and those that perish secretly

in ancient yellowed images

and though they hardly smile at all

they yet shine deep in silenced eyes

like dark reflections spreading in the dusk

in the forlornness of the sea