Poetry

*** “Love itself is childhood”, As Tsvetaeva wrote. Between you and me There is no comma, No cup of tea, no ‘sogno’, Only a beat of heaven. To tell the…

*** I see your image always on the foreground Of my morning walks, my attic sunsets, All my verses are as much for you As for the snow and seas.…

*** We began at the real beginning, With love. We discovered it covered completely By vast olive groves, Among the Maniots, Inhabitants of Mani Peninsula, They lived in house-towers To…

*** Her hair bobbed And a smile on her heart-shaped face, Muscles welded into Ilissan hocus-pocus, Has no sandals nor school - Only a charcoal, A half- clothed Greek, A…

*** Railroad stations, Outdoor pedestrian streets, Pubs - We used to chance encounters, No more now. Touching online - 'Betweenness' as choice, Motionless movements all day , Talking to screened…

*** Birds never look down, Their boat-shaped mouths Let the vowels out, Absent from all the photographs I’ve done, Were they even in the sky? I lower my eyes: Have…

*** When you are sitting late on the balcony, In a thin white shirt, With the lamp shade hitting you from the window, You are transparent. When you are looking…

*** Happiness Is dozens of happinesses. A new planet. Clouds in full sail. The sulphur smell Of matches. Availability. To try again. An open door. The joy of hearing. Wearing…

*** The beginning suggests something, The suggestion becomes a silhouette, A silhouette, caught on canvas, By hand is made real. A line starts from fingers, Spends their energy, then, the…

*** The morning of love Is precisely what elevates us Above ourselves, The height where we do not yet realise That we are soaring, Above dispassionate fogs, Behind which a…