Dimitris P. Kraniotis


Noiseless wrinkles
on our forehead
the frontiers of history,
shed oblique glances
at Homer’s verses.
full of guilt
wounded whispers
that became echoes
in lighted caves
of the fools and the innocent.

Chrishoula Demetrakakis

I Am Not Afraid

I am not afraid, of the fights
and the forfeit of my will,
but I am afraid ,for war to knife,
that turns the fire, around to me!

I am not afraid of revolution,
that lights! the darkness of my soul,
but I am afraid, of any violence ,
that ruins the lines, of all and most.

I am not afraid to be alive!
but I am afraid, to be content,
with my self and pass thought hide,
against the rules to life and death.

I am not afraid, the end of walking,
that show me where, I have to stay,
but I am afraid, if on my way,
forget, my lines and then, I bend!

I am not afraid, if any day,
I 'll loose the life and dreams to live,
but I am scared, a thousand times,
till then, to be, a dead ! in need!

Dimitris P. Kraniotis


Snow-covered mountains,
ancient monuments,
a north wind that nods to us,
a thought that flows,
images imbued
with hymns of history,
words on signs
with ideals of geometry.

Konstantinos Bouras

Unicorns Of The Desert

Be mellow like clouds
Be mellow like tempestuous sea
with tranquil depth
Be mellow like cyprus trees
inflamed by thunder
Be mellow with the sword
in the holy war your psyche
summons you
Be mellow like the thorn
piercing the breast
of a nightingale
compelling it to sing
Be mellow like the dagger
plunged into your flesh
to whiten
the lungs in light
Be mellow amongst ogresses
dwelling in your chamber
be gallant
gaze at them if you may
for above water Medusa
becomes a lump of clay
Be mellow hearken to the song of the sirens
fasten on the one spar
with Ulysses
But alas
if at the moment
of the most exquisite happiness
you plug your ears
your sanity shall be lost
Be mellow even encountering your demon
ejecting swords
sow them in your chest
like a helmet
Be mellow
and let the indian uttering
that once you find your other shelf
you shall perish
swing along with it
in the water of the one cave
bite its tongue
pierce its frame through daily
for if you feel remorse
you shall be lost.
Be mellow
sleepless for eternity
if you must
sowing flowers in the desert
to be uprooted by simoon
Be mellow
like the sword
without a sheath.

Kiki Dimoula

Thieves In Mind

Crying she describes
how burglars wrecked the house
the wretches took her jewellery and
old women values.

Isn’t she happy?

It’s been years since any thief
set foot in my house
even for coffee.
I deliberately leave the pot unlocked.

On returning each time I pray
to find the door’s canines broken

the lights shaking as if just having
against a tall earthquake’s head

to see the burial gifts stolen
from the mirror’s mummy kingdoms

as if someone had shaved in the
and whiskers had sprouted on my
beardless touch
their refutation bound hand and foot
on the floor

and, coming at its leisure from the
kitchen, steam
from warm footprints with lots of
cinnamon on top.

Titos Patrikios

Latest News

Dead chimneys, smokeless
mouths emptied of laughter,
hearts that won and died-
we must bridge the lips of the abyss.

Humans, above all humans,
persistent, restless, shameless,
without doubt,
hiding nothing,
let's spill out in the streets again
to build life once again,
to build life first.

A sky full of voices
and overturned clouds
that were executed this noon-
the newspapers got this bit of news
just as they went to print.
Not one of them wrote of the fountains
that opened upon their tortured bodies.

Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke


Leaving Lipiu behind
I understood that I had lost my orientation
towards something with real smell
towards the wrist's tender skin with the lovely pulse.
I took a walk around myself
and though heading for the boat
ended up in front of a store all shut up.
Behind the windowpane black with dust
a tragic jacket stood, no one
would ever want its warmth.
The sun had set
and all the streets began
to howl in unison. "No thoroughfare."
I left. Cupping my hands
as though holding the final breath
of a frozen bird,
I protected the final handshake.

Larry Cool

Only Eyes

My body, the heating stove, the bed
Softly sway in the universe
Bright fire-balls pass through.

A baby - myself
Dangles above the table
Through his diaphanous body birds fly
Civilisations rise and fall
- "All the worlds break cover from my cry
All the stitches you will write, are here"
He says and he offers to me an ink bottle
- "No" I answer
And dousing the pen into the night, I write:
"The world and I never existed".

The ink climb on my fingers
Spreads out and I disappear step by step
In the place two eyes remains.

Dimitris P. Kraniotis

The "Don'ts" And "Zeros"

The night
that strangled
the endless moments
I had wished
to live,
passed by
without my lighting up
the candle
I had longed
to warm up
all the "don'ts" and "zeros".

Sotirios Pastakas

Nocturnal Readiness

Dreams of abandoned order keep me company
each night. The unfinished novel
of married life, the endless harping
on the same thing, passion and its painful
consequences: ready now, and in all concience,
I must settle old scores,
get my own back, even though the digit clock
shows only 3.43: the present, I say, is
an illusion of a well-arranged past.
And yet, when I get up to sever
with my word the sinister plot, I wear
my slippers back to front, and the last few
drops always fall outside the bowl.

Nicoletta A. Poulakida

The Difficulty Of Dreaminess

Closing my eyes
after a large glass of beer,
in the shadow of the night
I listen to the song of a cicada;
and the hour is marked by its
instructive intermissions.
When it rests, I try to rest too.
The cicada starts again;
its high-pitched drone urges me
to learn about myself.
Yet another pause.
Somebody is coming; I toughen,
resisting the flutter of my eyelids,
and won’t open my eyes, no, not yet.
But restlessness prevails;
my concentration rustles
in the sound of footsteps.
It is difficult to keep my eyes shut
and keep on dreaming of
being its relaxed student.

Dinos Siotis

Sea Nocturne

Night comes
to the little island of Tinos
at the edge of time's flow
where the Aegean meets the Mediterranean
Fresh stars climb up the sky
a stealthy cloud
sends greetings to a breeze
searching for the ancient paean
A boat with no lights
has made friends with Orpheus
Some fishermen need a ride home
and the dolphins offer their backs

The moon has a hole
though which I can see
the missing sleep of your thighs

Yorgos Veis

Nostalgia For Flute In The Cherry Garden

Your hair is the night's notion
I’ll tell you half the truth again,
light will spring where you came, let
the stars burn, passion is not spent,

nor the music's silver on the grass;
nothing will change, images, colours, half-words
it will be as if you came back to the same stripped place
with its red pines, the moon at the road’s edge

the half - burnt houses not touching the ground
the dust a book, the breeze a dark opera -
let the animals come near you, quietly

nature wants to enter your sleep
and if it rains, we have strong dreams
our name is created from diamonds.

Maria Psoma


There comes a time of a cold, heavy winter
You, walking alone on the bright white snow
With none ahead and none behind
Grey blur, transparent figure
Moving uncertain in the fog
Hearing phrases of fear around you
Cracking sounds and threats
Then is the time of deep soul secrets
To reveal from the darkness
Sadness and sorrow whirl,
Regrets dance around like imminent shadows
All nightmares return!
This is the time of a long, endless winter
Lonely, frozen, with all roads closed
But you keep on walking
Breathless, tired, and lost
Haunted by memories, your future well-known
From now on there is no other season
For you to live upon
You are growing old! You are growing old!

Takis Ioannides

The Child's Proposal

There up high
from the cross of sighs
sadly beckon
the gazes of children
Desire for serenity
and of the times agony
testing the line
of the holy and divine

They seek the grace
of a warm embrace
like a restless wave
a beach to pave
their soul to hold
the light of gold
granted so openly
by God Almighty

Moist and wise
the valley of eyes
crystal clear
are children’s tears
giving the sign
for thoughts divine
proposing too
love’s virtue

Chrissoulla Varveri - Varra


Justice differs according to who judges?
Some judge according to laws established by men.
Others judge according to unwritten laws.
Justice confuses the just with the absurd
and the diving with that which is evil.
For each one of us, the struggle for survival
is a trial of constant effort and discovery.
It is like marching in the dark.
Or being sightless under the sun.
Depending on how we can reject
Our immature past.

Stavroula Gatsou

On The Rocks

Now that I am learning to rub myself against the rocks
in the sun, I am surrendering to the brine
and taste existence’s sonorant fruit.

I unfolded my body.
And laid out on my blanket the smells and the charms,
of the sorrows of separations.

Dimitris A. Papadopoulos


Still burning
The cities that fell
To the conquerors
In their ruins
are galloping
Without horsemen
From their own defeat
The conquerors
In their own ruins
Are resting

Katerina Katsiri

Flower - Bearing

Could I
fill my eyes
with marine horizons
and slip
above them
into the birthing of centuries

- like white mornings
leave teardrops flowing
for the soul' s flower - bearing?

Dimitris P. Kraniotis

The End

The savour of fruits
still remains
in my mouth,
but the bitterness of words
demolishes the clouds
and wrings the snow
counting the pebbles.
But you never told me
why you deceived me,
why with pain
and injustice did you desire
to say that the end
always in tears
is cast to flames.

Athina Papadaki

Country House

With basil plants and pulses I 'll live,
folding my arms in cohesion
I ask that my circle close courteously.
The trees' roof lower
and the threhold an inch or so above
the silver driftwood on the strand.
At the turn of the skies around twilight
you forfeit authority
but gain chicory,
running water.
I go for an airing on the balcony.
Between door and horizon intervenes God.

Nikos Tselepides

It Is Not Anything Else

It is not the sky or anything else
That' s to blame
If you let it be blue
It will turn bluer, it is not anything else
Than your bluest moments alone with me so far
A distant saxophone from another apartment
Three young girls playing hopscotch
And shades of moments from your teens by the sea

It is not the glistening water on your breasts
As you get out of the sea and climb the rocks
Nude, to my part of the beach
And the sun plays with the light on your golden wet hair
A couple of pine trees and some young birds
Know that summer will soon go

It is not your waist of a lioness and the weight
Of your breasts, nor the sound
Of your heavy breathing as you reach the top of the steps
And face the new-born world like a mermaid come from the deep
Gaze searching the distant shores and islands
Legs poised on the sharp grey rock slabs

It is not your scream "Take me apart if you wish
I am totally yours", nor your salty drops of perspiration
Running down your body to your ankles and to earth
I count my fortune with both hands and ten fingers
Each time I caress you, the waves are blue and electric
And will turn bluer and burn me when you give yourself

It is your voice on the phone, from ten thousand miles away
To hear you is to touch you, to touch you is to be
It is not anything too complex, it is merely we two, talking.

Nikos Moshovos

The Game

The Quintessence of the moment remains.
Nothing else.
Neither the tears from your eyes
nor the laughter of the childhood.
No hartred frightens you
if love looks you in the eyes.
Occasionally through the centuries
it is the game that determines.
The Act went by
it became a distant fog,
memory of the unsaid images
treasured up in the chest of the heart.
The Joy of the moment remains.
When little Janus sings
nobody listens to the hymn.
What he left behind is what was left behind
Nothing else through the centuries
it is the game that determines.
A trivial mask he wears
he’s not scared of its shell.
Alien arrows, unrecognizable paths
forgotten in the oblivion of the past
Emotion dead.
Absolute Zero, the times goes by.
Dreams of seashores, illusory paintings
Recorded in the book of his memory.
He only seeks one Word
in the eternity he aims
like a faraway star he illuminates
it is the game that determines.

Setty - Sotiria Lepida


He talks of a new one he found,
The boldly crossed stone and metal
Figuring out the new age of our steps
Towards stagnant pauses and blue lights
And he is content, he says, with steel
That harshly penetrates any clamor
any blunt, frank, daylight
On the other hand
I look far from the vast city as
Sharp, frank darkness
Turns its face away
Shaped like a gem
cuts through our blue ways
Cuts, cuts
'Till we're Silent
Under blue lights
Like blue bridges

Maria K. Thanopoulou

Prudent Poetry

I am covered
the poverty
and the misery of
my shaking mind.
I have decided
to carve
with flowers
the pillars
of furtune,
which adore
the fruitful
prudent poetry...

Maria Tsatsou

Song Of A Rattlesnake By A Soft Spring Night

Krotos is a rattlesnake
he’s unsociable and odd
Children see him and trot
away, saying:
"what an impossible playmate
and so cold".

Krotos feels the cold no doubt
he’s no beauty all in all.
With company he’s silent
Or at most he nods.
But at night when he’s lonesome
he composes odes,

To the frog-lady of the river
Hence the verses he sends thither
such as those:

"Phryni, so young and pretty
flattered but aloof,
went by the other evening
without a look.
And disdainful and haughty
mounted the cart

of that ghastly man Toadoroff,
which wrang my heart.


You will never find a lover
half as steady as tha(t)"

Lemonia Mourka


Just us
bizarre spectators we became
of a bizarre moonlight:
a slice of fire in the heavens
that a diaphanous line
quickly extended to the zenith of the night..
Just us
with eyes wide open
souls full of miracles
we touched the essence of the world.
Nobody else:
indolent students of life
they slept their deep sleep
in crystalline dreams
disclosing before the daylight
everything we've salvaged through the night..
As long as you can see with my eyes...
all the human and divine miracles,
to me,will promptly be explicit.

Aspa Papakonstantinou

As A Poet I Am

Like this I pass my time
as a poet I am
I pass my thought
with words inside them
in the silence I talk
and I fly to the top
when I have a tear
I see the sun near
the clouds and the rain
everything in my pain
and my words
are the company
inside my thoughts
are my flowers I pick
one after the other
as I make a boucket
of roses rather
to give to each one
and really sea the sun
and really see me
since I am a poet thee

Kostas Hrisos

If I Ever...

If I ever find myself at war
As the aggressor, as the victor
Would I torture, maim and kill?
Would I burn, rape and pillage?
And I enjoy it all?

I' m begging you, please,
Never let me find out.

If I ever find myself at war
As the victim, as the loser
Would I perjure and collaborate?
Would I betray my friends
To save myself and family?
Would I just desert?

I' m warning you,
Never put me to the test!

Dimitris Varos

Mind Games

I am a waterfall in the desert.
A rain from a cloudless sky.
A well known but unborn child.
An insistent experience
that you never had.

I play mind games with your brain.
When you strike the keys and remember the sea
I come as indefinable memory.
When you look at your watch
and the time has passed
you feel me like a fleeting hallucination.

I play mind games with your brain.
I’m nesting behind your eyes.
I’m ranging through your dreams.
You are finding me in all of your desires.
In all of those are absent from you.

I play mind games with your brain.
I stand in the places that you cannot reach.
I exist where you cannot touch upon.
But I am what you always waiting for
I'm what holds your life on.

I play mind games with your brain.
But I swear this is not a fun.
I feel unbearable loneliness.
Because I do not have a body
And you, that you can, refuse me yours.

Dimitris Lyacos


Final concept harbour which has
broken there where it crumpled our faces
there where ikons soaking and dissolving
scoured the rusty beds
with haven sleep and holy candle fading
keeling over amid the wailings
the friendly hug which turned to stone for ever
in a vein where death drips
dispirited nods and flesh-consuming intercourse
and embraces on the slighted
shape of the saint who is baptised in fever
and empties our bodies' skins
and discharges black ruins of the tissues
the fir tree's primary jewellery then
as we were nestling below the turf
of the dream noiselessly
in the root of the sickness which was opening
a road and a door leaning tilting into the darkness, light
sure prophesies, whirlpools drowning the promontories
and the place was becoming wrinkled without pathways
and we were casting anchor in our innards
and chains were harvesting the senses
and the affections are shattering
and the forefathers used to navigate in the expanse of madness
close-bound bundles being pressed together into
the pattern of condemnation indescribable
shadows and rent apart
and the mercy which was granted them of asphyxiation
while the pulley-wheel of memories spins red-hot
the un-nailing of my boyhood years
and the funerary gifts which uncover the frenzy
crumb from the stars
coffins under the rain
forests inclining into pubic hair
lonely orgasms crippled lovers
and the unique desolation of their lustful mouths

Dimitris Palasis

In My Confining Shoes

In these shoes confining me
a lot was written
the legs
were burdened
the friends
burdened like ice
fallen in the afternoon...

In my closet
I put thyme
from my hands
a red place
timbers pointed
and on them
leaves hiding
some yesterday...

Something new
fried fresh

Imprisoning Lions
keep my thoughts
before they crystallize
in the distress of pain
the pain
of the afternoon...

Alexander G. Tanaskidis


She wakes again to a day
Where the air is spring-drenched with daffodils
And all the earth is rain-softened, flexible.
She envies it while she wonders where winter has gone
And when exactly the dark buds
Will begin to pierce through her white and deadened flesh.

Stretching now, she yawns
And feels her muscles groan,
Mourning the effort of another day, another life
In which nothing real can happen.
Nothing ever does.

So she waits for a moment before opening her eyes
And, in the flicker of time between sleeping and waking,
Strains her senses towards an unfamiliar sound,
Perhaps the sharp surprise of routine confounded.
But there is only silence
And she acknowledges instead
The cool caress of dank air on skin, the loneliness of blood,
Sunlight being hidden.
Although still she wonders

And is therefore almost unprepared
For the room's stark revelation when her eyelids finally flutter open
And she sees then what she sees always:

A wardrobe filled only with dresses;
A half-empty shelf; a photograph.

Dimitris P. Kraniotis

Fictitious Line

of cigarettes
and mugs
full of coffee,
to the fictitious line
where the eddy
of words
leans against
and nods,
to my silence.