Before the slip of time
Days are passing, hours are passing,
moments as well
and the curtains are closing
for one more time.
They will open again. Tired actors.
Even more tired the audience
watching the same play again and again.
Nobody is leaving unless something
unexpected…
Everybody these days is an intellectual.
And the time is almost at its end,
is bending.
We also lean with it in the streets,
in the squares.
We, who once had wings on our shoulders,
who used to speak for peace, freedom, love
had halos in our long hair,
drawings in our torn jeans, we...
It’s burning out the flame of the heart
together with the lighted halo,
principles are changing,
-others didn’t have any -
lowered to those old ones
they kept telling us…
and are still telling us.
We are spreading out …
We are separating…
We lose each other...
…but we still exist.
The bushes
We were sitting on the beach,
a warm quiet night, next to the bushes.
You told me about the sea, the earth,
the people, your far away travels.
What did you tell me about you?
What did you tell me about us?
You understood there was not any space,
only whispers in the air.
Behind the closed door
I was hearing the sound of the waves,
the sound of the sand, your voice.
I was reading letter by letter your eyes
through the curtains,
and to my ears were coming only the whispers.
The turtle was walking
and the seagulls were eating
until the first fishing boat sailed.
Inside the turtle’s shell wither and lament,
while outside always the noise of whispers.
I wish (not to)
I wish not to have known you yesterday.
I wish to have had today, the experiences
that we have for one another,
and instead I wish I would meet you today.
But now it is too late.
I wish not to have met you yesterday.
I wish to have known from the beginning
the things I have learnt about you,
during all this time,
and today to meet you again for the first time.
I wish not to have met you yesterday.
I wish to have known you
and you to have known me,
the way we know each other today
and instead I wish I would to meet you today.
But now it is too late.
Making circles
Until now I was searching,
I was searching always around you,
around you until I reached you
with my eyes looking at the floor
without being able to meet
your innocent glance,
your warm lips
which always knew
what they were waiting for.
Unable to say something,
coming out with a lot of excuses,
until you stop me,
taking me in your arms,
until we both cry,
until I reach you to tell you
what I was searching for
- and I wasn’t surprised
that you knew it -
And until now I was searching,
I was searching always around you,
around you …
Our days
Turning the pages of a diary you see
that time is short, hours even shorter.
So the new day will come
one more blank page,
taking you in its cold embrace
the same way as yesterday,
the day before yesterday,
two days before yesterday, the same, equal.
Synonymous words ,one after the other,
trying to give an image, one idea.
Fluttering
In the spreading of your wings
your familiar angelic voice spoke inside me
and I felt strong, as a rock,
but I still felt the need to ask for charity,
being alone again,
though I would deny it if someone
were to hold out their hand and give me…
Spite.
Tears of happiness and expectation.
Tears of sorrow...
and the earth becomes a swamp,
I become muddy,
I make you muddy as well.
In the wet soil, through the black flowers,
grew two white statues,
remained status forever though,
motionless in the park.
I was perhaps absent-mindedly
watching some pigeons.
In the steps
A. The ceremony.
The island is almost sinking
by the weight of the visitors
lines of candles,
groups of young people
basically from the capital city
arranged, with an attitude,
opportunity for them
to meet each other there and compete,
hidden by the darkness.
Sideway glances, playful smiles, murmur...
looks like distances have got smaller.
I don’t know if it was blamed on
the smell of the spring,
the night with the shadows of the candles,
or the mystery of the temple
with only the voice of the priest in the silence.
Incense, roses, the sea,
imposing, elegant dressing
ready for the clubs afterwards.
All gangs as if skipping school
although it was school holidays.
B. In the steps of the church
Now that the circle went off its centre
following the diameter,
which was foolishly turning around the perimeter
of small colourful lights trembling
in the rhythm of the music,
I found, as well, the point of the horizon
I was searching for, in the beautiful,
related to today, past.
Fireworks projected in the black sky
strange reaction of people, happiness, panic,
others acting as if they were indifferent, posing
and you were standing finally
near across from me
with that well known every day pride
which was becoming more intense
during the national days
-smiling and proud-
sometimes a lit silhouette by the candles
sometimes you were shining
from your own inner brightness,
clear through your eyes,
in the dark of the night
-within the people of your group-
and when the lights spread out
you looked at me
and I immediately, almost inconceivably
mumbled something like best wishes
…and I left
-with my own, until then only, group of people-
The baby with the blue eyes
The dirty children
in the swamps and the factories,
where mud, cogs and hunger
make them even dirtier.
The search for a piece of stale bread
with empty stomachs in the fog.
The dirty, nude children,
who smear mud on their bodies,
search rubbish bins in the rain.
The dogs wander, the children are begging,
one girl doesn’t know who to choose from,
one guy is driving by in his red cabrio,
the chimneys are vomiting pollution,
I am dreaming, you are staring into my eyes
and you believe me
- your beautiful blue eyes, full of insecurity -
The rubbish in piles
the rubble like streamers
left and right of the pavement,
lorries start their engines,
the children with tears in their eyes,
the new born is wailing loudly
and it’s voice is piercing my ears.
Are you sure you want us to have a baby?
It does not change
Don’t pay attention
that there are no dreams around.
Don’t expect us to change anymore.
Come on, hit the drum,
light fireworks and dynamite,
this world does not change.
Go on hunger strikes,
work strikes
and protests,
this world does not change.
Write songs
for children,
middle age people
and the elderly,
this world does not change.
Play the flute,
in the streets,
parks and squares,
since you are there, give a speech as well,
this world does not change.
Call the police
and the neighbours,
the fellow villagers
to prevent what?
This world does not change.
Press buttons for nuclear mushrooms,
whatever you can imagine,
like mushrooms again
will burst out new same people.
Because this world does not change.
Don’t pay attention
that there are no borders around
we only put fences in our hearts
(don’t go away any more,
you cannot get out of your dreams)
Better go only to weddings,
baptisms,
and festivities.
The international hymn
Through clean aluminium
jumped a colourful, eccentric
hopeful sunshine
-in the colours of the rainbow -
in the first welcoming ceremony
of the sun like a little ballerina
at the edge of the window,
surrounded though
by an unfamiliar nervousness…
“In which language shall I speak
in order to be understood
by those who should understand me?”
… and she stayed silent
dancing in her african rhythm.
Through the cleanliness and the tidiness
of the room
flexible blood into the colourful brain-cranium
small veins
without stoppage or result,
without an end.
Swarm buzzing in the mind
the dream of yesterday night.
Wood and leather sounded loud all day
beating each other,
when the sand rose and started to hammer
the white marble columns and walls.
The air brought in broken branches from trees,
dry grass and seaweed from the sea.
Then all of a sudden
the colourful ray started to sing out arias
and before the sun had completely set
she had sung the most beautiful song,
which stayed in history.
In the name of love
I have created some little children
in the television screen
made them play against other teams
and I’m happy to watch them.
Who else cares?
Nobody except me who made them…
Plastic flowers around me
and small dolls.
Closed in my house for hours…
Here people don’t lose their time
occupying themselves with each other
so I have plenty of time available.
I am even thinking of placing
fake fish in my tank
since this year it stays empty…
Children be happy …we won!
They didn’t even understand it…
I am thinking that all these walls
will remain like structure
unless someone else lives here.
Truth would be a white canvas
if there didn’t exist the million colours
of the human beings weaknesses
to paint it.
Many of those strokes
are happening in the name of love.
A round of chess
Holding in my hand the horse,
I am thinking…
Why are all the big plans wrecked?
I don’t like to lose
although I learnt that as well…
I am thinking more before I play…
Why always the big ideas
and movements
so quickly fray,
to be taken advantage of by others,
and forgotten.
They are not forgotten…
They weaken only for a while.
I concentrate, predict
take my precautions
arrange my thoughts
and play…
Every piece plays a different role in this game
as well as in this round, like all the others.
The rounds are forgotten,
together with the victories and defeats
and remains the passion,
the new systems,
the new habits and strategies.
There are no winners or losers
but fighters and those indifferent.
Reminiscent reference
With those pages an old world was closed
in an isolated room
behind iron bars and a heavy padlock.
All things in place,
recall an old golden era and the need of creation
of a different, new better one,
perhaps unaccompanied by the same problems.
Settled down paces after the dive
give new perspectives
and open up first seen horizons,
in the colours of a sunset,
calling someone to follow their path.
For a moment you hesitate, enchanted
searching for reasons to stay there
stuck to the observer’s chair
until suddenly you realise
the need of a push by someone.
Of course you wonder if this is true
or just a need for eternal companionship,
with the same problems as the denominator,
whose purpose is the feeling of a familiar surrounding.
You stand and look around you.
The colours this time of day
while the sun is setting
look different and so do objects.
You look back at the sky
and you wonder who really cares
- except the one who is dead-
about those objects.
Personal belongings were placed
only in the pyramids,
in the grave of the one who they wrapped,
and what could these essentials be?
Who was asked if he wanted them?
And what did he really want?
Gold, myrrh, silk, and precious stones.
How valuable are these
for someone changing life,
changing stages,
going to new dimensions?
You hesitate, watching the clouds in the sky,
you wash your tired face
and look at yourself in the mirror.
How much time is left?
Does it really matter?
I wouldn’t want it to only be an hour.
So be fast.
The circle is complete.
You tidied up and open another door
and I am happy I had the chance
to even touch the handle.
For a piece of land
A. Pyramid
The old wounds opened
but the map denies
yet to speak.
The intellect has almost managed
to say good morning to stupidity,
while is dawn
and someone is in a hurry
to make his decisions.
The old plans push,
the predictions hold you back,
but you have to decide
one or the other, now.
So confused, I took my way
this time for the aeroplane,
with the knowledge of reason
the choice of grave,
a pyramid with all the
as if... for the next life
useful equipment,
museum of tomorrow
with production and expiring
date labels and dogs eating
whatever was not useful
to others for the destruction
of this world and its people
which was whatever
giving me hope,
meaning and inspiration.
B. The carnival of life
In the carnival of life
they were very few nice people
with inexpressive eyes
who knew how not to say no,
others were speaking a lot
saying nothing
surrounding flatterers
like bees around honey.
A few, again, knew
how to make you feel
who you are
and sometimes something
more than that, proud.
One category does even not
deserve to be mentioned
and then the big variety
of unable rubbish
with disability for meddling,
the correct meddling,
correct appreciation,
disability for interest,
correct interest.
There on the side the mass.
The mass which you depend on
if you're packed in a bus,
if you will have money tomorrow
who will govern,
what kind of precautions
you will get not to steal you,
for if you must or not
tomorrow bring a child in this world.
Ten thousand people,
one million problems.
That spite has been locked
deep inside you.
You fall at night as a flower
closing your petals.
You wake up next morning
with no decision again.
C. Dawn
In dawn
without sleep, tired
I had taken my decision.
I should live as well
to be able to write... I said.
I will live here,
I will write next to that... I said.
I said that and a left.
I left again to be specific.
Hunter of old lost passion,
feeling like reaching it closer again
opposing lament after a sacrifice
resurrection of mind,
a unique path of triumph
in the last stop
or the final one.
D. The field
Candles
Pedestrians
Silent
Unknown each other
They started to realize...
An endless field
from the steps of the church
to the steps of all houses.
Dependence
Sitting by myself in the armchair
I’m thinking.
I sat down not completely alone this time.
This time the past has become my companion.
The condition of our nerves
has started to depend
on the condition of our car,
our house, the sound of the stereo
and our wife if they exist…
And not because of the condition of our health
that part of it is our nerves.
Today I began to be afraid
of the aim of absolute peace.
I don’t know why
but the idea started to smell like death to me.
I decided to borrow inspiration
from the past
and built the present in front of me,
even though it could be late.
What do we really only need?
…one person…
and I get organised.
A new theory
Nothing is steady,
how can it be,
since our taste and truth,
change all the time
and everything relates to each other;
through the common filter
which is ourselves.
While ourselves are changing
following a circle,
it connects everything to each other
by its radius.
Time, shades of colour,
relationships, opposites,
presences and absentees
combinations and joins,
become one in the end.
All gods become one, as well.
The years are passing
and with them, the truth is changing.
Nothing remains the same
to be written in a book
like a unique reality.
The same with countries.
As a result of progression,
only the research remains.
The research starts from the point where
others think that they have already reached closer to the truth.
The young bird
The young bird
was standing on the edge
of the balcony.
It couldn’t fly,
it felt giddy.
What a pity for a bird!
I used to pick them up
for a few hours,
when I was a young boy
talking to them,
poking at them
to make them react,
whistling to them
to make them tweet back.
No one ever answered me.
How many times we confuse
the dream with the reality…
My German friend,
was right
in what he was telling me,
there in the Cook Islands…
The carpet of happiness
laid out in front of me,
I hesitated.
To be in love
you -maybe- need
a history or a myth,
some common experiences
which raise the two people higher.
How many times we confuse
the dream with the reality…
Maybe if we learnt how birds
communicate with each other,
maybe if we learnt how animals
communicate with each other,
maybe we would learn how to
communicate better.
A natural need for expression,
Communication.
Photography, writing, painting,
music, entertainment, intercourse,
reason, way of life…
and you often need to look
at two alive eyes.
Now it happens that I have
fish in my tank,
others have dogs and people,
cats, others only people…
Most of the scientists,
they experiment
with nature and the animals
from where they get their results…
If we only learnt how birds
communicate with each other,
if we only learnt how animals
communicate with each other,
maybe we could learn how to
communicate better.
The young bird heard
a familiar encouraging, chirping
and it flew away up to the sky.
Your mind, an open window
The fair and the unfair.
An everyday struggle
for how much fair or much unfair
one has to be with others,
how tough,
in an everyday fierce competition.
Competition in everything
mostly business
the money
the social justification
the fame
balanced with opportunities and luck.
The common opinion
when faced with someone
who does not have money
is sympathy,
for one who has,
admiration,
for the one who shows he has,
jealousy,
and oh dear for the one who hasn’t
and pretends he has
if he is discovered.
The common opinion is strict
in fame as well, in one’s beauty,
his strength, his real value, his manners.
An everyday struggle
for how much fair or unfair
someone has to be with others…
and if he cares for their opinion
they become happy
because he fell into the trap,
the stupid one
and if he doesn’t care
he will still be wrong.
People like blah blah blah
in order to convince them…
and leave them in silence.
I only know how to write
no one knew who I was when I was travelling.
I didn’t want to advertise myself
on the contrary, I put myself down,
to find out who could believe in me,
without references or sweet sounding tales,
who could believe without hearing,
who could believe so much in himself.
Very few, in an everyday struggle
for how much fair or how much unfair
someone has to be with others,
how much a fighter or indifferent
how much tough or tolerant.
Politicians stay for a few years in power
and then leave.
Factories can close down tomorrow
but I am here…
and I will stay a bit longer
through my writings.
And I tell you:
In one shift of balance
you find the truth.
You find it for a while
and you lose it again,
because it changes minute by minute,
like the ticks of the clock
in an everyday struggle
of fair versus unfair,
like the beats of your heart.
I know I sound a bit hard
and maybe sometimes someone could say
that what I am writing is lies.
Perhaps for a moment
the things I write could sound unfair
but they could sound fair in another.
The bleach of time
Everything will grow older
the stereo will be ruined
the house will start to crack
and collapse.
The car will not operate anymore,
everything will go wrong with it
it will need to be replaced.
The dog will quickly grow older
and will be lost
taking with him all the orders
and the times of his companion.
Everything will grow older
and the house will be demolished
and I don’t know if love will fray as well.
Everything will grow older
and will hang
like mature grapes
and will rot and fall
to the ground
pecked by birds and stung by bees.
Everything will be demolished
and I don’t know
if love will fray as well
Everything will grow older
and rusty.
new advertisements
will replace the old ones,
slowly-slowly,
without us even realising it.
Without us understanding it,
we will start bending,
like this old person
in the corner of the street.
Everything will fray,
the clothes, the signs,
maybe the shine in the eyes
and I don’t know if love will fray as well.
Looks like people
live in three different,
uncommunicating trips, to each other.
Some of them do everything possible
to conquer the earth,
for others it is enough to survive
one more day
and feel happy they have managed
to do it
and others try to be at peace
with everyone and everything
and however it goes,
usually well.
Until everything slowly-slowly
grows old
and I don’t know
while they are growing older
if love will fray or will shine stronger.
A shock to the Art
Love can not be painted, can not be pictured,
can not be described by writing and
can not be played in movies.
The real love, I mean, exists,
unfortunately hiding behind
expressions and actions,
and if she does,
fails to express herself straight,
through fright.
She is frightened, persecuted.
She is afraid not to be denounced
whipped or wounded.
She hides everywhere and always,
unfortunately.
Tear in two pieces the paintings
dig up a bit the photographs,
throw away the whipped cream
on top of the writings,
leave the actors alone to play
whatever they want,
make fragments of the statues
and the monuments,
and a word will flutter with no name
without flesh or bones, without price,
with only exchange a real smile of relief.
Love and Hate
Love flew on her white wings,
above heads wearing tall,
white, pointy hats like harlequins.
They wore white masks
with noses pointy and beaked,
and holding banners,
those street advertisers,
dancing to the rhythm of music,
others to their own mysterious rhythm,
on tall, wooden stilts.
Tourists shoved behind them
and grimaced at each other.
Many pretended they were within things,
others acted as spectators
and others were more thoughtful
without being able to do a lot about it.
The month of August, on an island,
where everything looked strange to them.
Everything was extreme, everyone was irritable,
they were smiling - nobody was laughing -
nobody was enjoying themselves,
like their predecessors some years ago
who it is said, had flowers in their hair,
were nude on the beaches
and it was said that there was
love and happiness among them.
It was said that there was no jealousy or hate,
like that felt by someone single
watching a happy couple,
who on becoming a couple themselves,
wonder why, only they meet the wrong other half.
Love flew on her white wings
above microchips and LCD screens,
at the time when everyone was in the web
of the internet, busy,
wearing rubber gloves to press the keyboards,
with squinting glasses on, only forward vision,
funny clothes, looking like soulless shop dolls,
with soldier like behaviour.
Some made prisons for four,
as many as their family members are
and others who didn’t
live free, but ultimately alone.
They pretend that racial prejudice does not exist,
neither does class distinction
and inside them boils the need to be distinct
like glowing coals after the fire
ready to burst into flames
with the first gust of wind
Religion, jobs, sexes, countries,
have become stickers, transparent labels
on our foreheads, ready to download into a computer.
Love passed above,
touching the heads of some,
and how difficult it is now
for them all to come together,
apart from the others
because love makes the mistake of forgetting
to leave labels in her path.
And a macho man stands up before you
he doesn’t let you see the others further on,
and there are many of these macho men
who want to make you macho as well
and provoke you to become one of them…
And you occupy yourself with all these things
while time passes and the day leaves.
Love flew on her white wings
and came to my room
to tell me to choose some people quickly.
Love turned her white wings to steel this time
to fly higher to touch all of the lost visions.
What she did there
was to embrace her lost children.
All above poems are courtesy of Dimitri Soulis writings property