Twelve Narratives of the Gypsy

…And whether you were a
Turk, a gypsy, a holy man,
a hero or a thief you wished
to bow and pray before him.
In the cave where he lived
the anchorite kept untouched
unused and foreign
a violin among the violins
and he touched it from time to
time as the years passed
and all other old men said
that they sometimes heard
the glen echoing a godly
music as if the spouts
of heavens joined to
become one mouth
one heart so they could
sing all that the local hearts
couldn’t tell and lips
couldn’t disclose;
slowly the holy song spread
as rarely as ever and
was slowly absorbed
by the lonely glen
since the old anchorite
slowly ascended too
over the earth towards
the splendorous light…

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

Neo-Hellene Poets, an Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

IN THE CONCH
Deep in the conch
I hide the flutes and violins
entrusting my soul
to your fleshless embrace
but your eyes did not reopen
nor your seductive talk resume.
They were palaces with no foundation
in the wide seas.
So I cast the chains and steel
of all my heavy, circular
old concerns
and all my desperation
and as the moments and the hours
of all the time persist
among the wildest tempests
I harvest roses and froth.
Beyond myself
and for the first time
with the gull’s open
wings I fly
and I dive with the dolphin
that shone once
in the immenseness
of forgetfulness
deep in the conch
where I hide the flutes and violins.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562959

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763513

Orange

Newspaper
He opened the newspaper
under the light of the kitchen
seeking to brighten the news
of last night’s muggings,
break-ins, and murders.
After he took a deep breath
knowing he contributed
in beautifying the world
of this ugly modern city
he put the coffee pot on
as if he had to go to war again
and needed his morning fix

https://draft2digital.com/book/3746001

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

Kariotakis-Polydouri, The Tragic Love Story

Civil Servants
The civil servants melt and wither
in pairs like columns in the office
the city and Death must be
the electricians who replenish them.
They sit on their chairs, they scribble
without reason on innocent white paper
along with this correspondence
we have the honour they affirm
and only honour’s left to them
when they climb up the street
at night eight o’clock as if tuned
they buy chestnuts, think of the law,
the exchange rate and shrug their shoulders
the poor civil servants.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562951

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763459