giants that turn into dust

houses get old and die
almost everyday i hear of houses that fall to the ground
like sleeping giants. They turn into dust.
there is no use for them
and the economic disaster makes it impossible to save them.
we are poor we are devastated
not only do we lack the means to relate to the past
we do not know how we do not understand why.
we are too old also too young
doomed to die through our rebirth as primitives.




clumsy message in a blog

the name of freshness

what's troubling me

concentrated life
in an instant

in a lemon cut;
i shall not consume as if i were not starving.
please do come
our table is set

by the way,


what of the extinction of colour?
colour which is the cultural representation of what we mean
through its absorbency
and concentration,
does it mature?



once again, greeks stand inbetween
indifferently staring into the void
it seems we cannot live (any longer) by any colour extreme
we cannot experience it trully
nor can we recognize the subtle hues the tranquility and intensity
of the non-colour. It is embarrassing.
Only yesterday our grandmothers painted their houses pink and green and created rugs in all colours (together)
only yesterday they painted streets white, it was a preparation for every big fest
(and were dressed in black as a remembrance of our nature and ancestors)
they seemed to know when to paint in colour, when to rely on whiteness' usefulness, how to stand on the ground and under the sun.

now i would like you time to pause

this house was demolished on sunday. Everything evolves
into something new, there is no stability, we know.
how fragile roses are. i think of that every morning when
i pass by the rose gardens.


And an obvious song, why not


And a playful Campanella!

our life is full of black and white
'every day I hear of someone dying...'
(life and death are so well woven together in small towns)
what does the physics tell us about light?
a hill arises on the horizon dancing on a slippery
edge
some ideas come to me they come to me they go
some years ago i were gone

also,
magnificent clouds of white fabric :)

always undone, always unprepared,
said the whisper to the earth. At your
thirsty miles of unequal endeavor
to make yourself happen.

skies and seas;
are we
clouds in trousers really?

our change of form constantly kept out of sight
is slight like skies'
moving immobility in time and
changeable stability through time;
are we trees through seasons?

there has never been a 'we'
just like there has never been an 'i'
it is about the air inhaled the air exhaled
what greeks have called 'ψυχή'

εμψυχωμένα δέντρα σύννεφα μορφές ανακινήσεως του αέρα
και αναδεύσεως του νερού
βόρβοροι στατικοί σε πηγάδια
σταμνιά σπασμένα κεντριά θανατερά
και πηγές μορφωμένες σε υπέργεια δάση


ps. for anyone interested, i send a link to a poem that's been missed: here.
(perhaps here, here, too)

Beware of the music-it intrudes the thought.
if you wish to be heard and to be seen, you have to bear some silence.
Beware of the silence- it shifts the thought towards the unheard and the unseen.



this one is from elis

to be included in the rain, while it's kept outside the house
to be excluded from that part of being
no, surely, longer bearable but for our imagination