The following are selections from Dimitri Soulis english books of poetry
Thoughts of midnight
Everything around is fragments,
pieces of old blurred mirror,
reflections of infinity,
in a black mass of seaweed.
Narrow flexible thoughts,
without a beginning or an end,
multiplying between themselves endlessly
so it is possible for them to be preserved,
diffused, unconnected, incessantly
branching off in their small shells searching
for one meaning, one exit.
(But they never find a passage).
The same people
(The people who without any exception
sooner or later all of them will believe
in the word love...)
People to whom, once you opened
your heart might now be laughing
with their acquaintances,
in groups, gossiping.
Because you wanted
to tell someone your pain,
because your naivety, your loneliness,
your sorrow, heavy as never before
asked for someone to lean on,
one more shovelful of soil
in a piece of infertile land.
Now that you must speak,
now that you already know
where to believe in, now you can't.
Because the others have taught you
not to believe even the air itself,
to not be possible even to cry out
now so alone as you are,
now so far away from the crowd.
because behind the air you know
that someone will hear your voice.
So, as much as one wants the other,
as near as one is to the other
you are far away from me,
I am far away from you.
(...are the same people who sooner or later
destroy what they believe in,...love)
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.
The life we live
Us and them, an endless game.
Everyone with his hopes, his disappointments,
his dreams, his few delights within
his endless loneliness.
Everyone individually with his own researches.
A continuous search among the anonymous
crowd for something that many times
even we, ourselves, don't know very well what it is.
And we live seeking...
Like the cypress trees
You give the impression of being busy
searching for the grains you want to find,
in a stack of seaweed, hay or bran.
You mostly limit yourself to the last ones.
From the seaweed, be careful,
because you've picked up a nice dozen.
One is going to be a leader,
that's what it's saying, or that's
what they told it to say.
The other is promising.
For the other they speak about.
You said as well. Do you remember?
So, you're turning and turning...
You'll get dizzy!
Me, maybe more sensitive,
I've been dizzy already
I'm now turning the opposite way
to pass my dizziness.
But I'm also turning.
Until when all these things will happen, my god?
The pollution of the environment
has reached a concerning level.
But still, even today, exist some areas
which are preserved
because of their few remaining trees.
Which, even though few,
can still stand proud.
The other angle
How fast people walk in the streets,
though how often you see them
again and again, the same people
always in the same corner of the street.
And they run, in the streets, to their jobs.
You are thinking and time rolls,
it's to your advantage,
you mature because as time passes,
you don't put your head down and start the run,
you get the opportunity to think even more.
You know what you are doing.
You are waiting for the suitable chance
and it will come -They always come-
but those who run can't see them.
And across from you
I discreetly watch your glance.
I admire you, I'm not jealous of you,
I know we are worth the same.
I pay attention to read in your eyes
what will be written.
and I'll take this with me
until I come back again.
Life whirls and for us: patience
I stay there holding a flower
in my numb hands
trying to make them remember.
Yesterday we were two strangers.
Today, cowardly said hello.
Tomorrow strangers will find us again.
I grasp my hands on the window sill
I nestle my head between them,
and is it the rain, the tears
or the cold sweat that makes them damp?
The black yesterday fluttered
in my mind again,
I take two or three sips of today
to forget. Can I though?
The figures of some unknown people
under the balcony.
The flower shop.
They choose with no expression.
They buy with no expression
and with no expression they leave.
So many meaningless question marks
in the sediment of nostalgia,
in the labyrinth of mind,
and then confusion and despair.
It's not worth it, I kept telling myself.
All of a sudden something like lightening,
like a sun ray in the middle of the night.
It becomes day, for a moment.
The ice of the heart cracks and melts.
And I see you that time so different
even though you were far away from me
and I yearned for you so much, I remember.
Who knows why, I was wondering...
I wipe the moisture from my eyes,
I bind with tomorrow
your hands with my hands
like a bandage around them
tightly many times never to unravel
and finishing that I kiss them and I sigh.
Is it a dream,
or is one truth thrown to the rubbish,
forgotten feelings that come and knock
on the door for one more time.
And I look into my coffee cup.
Black shapes are passing
from the depth,
mine, unknown, unfamiliar,
I see yours and the vision stays.
The smoke of the cigarette
designs your silhouette tall in the room.
It gets larger and larger
embraces the walls
The candle alight on the table
for only a short time longer
and then it will extinguish.
At that time it will be twelve o'clock
it will not make a mistake.
The day has finished.
And I write on these pages
and keep notes.
Dull thoughts like the people around
who hold me back often
and push me and walk over me.
And me I only feel sorry
for that kind of my wretched state
but I am a human being as well
I feel sorry.
I am walking without plan
where are we going?
I leave the flying carpet,
we are sitting on, unguided.
I don't care even if it goes to another world.
I will have you.
A new candle will find us alone again.
Was it the mistakes,
the hypocrisy or the selfishness
that didn't pass over the threshold
- who knows -
it was only yesterday you told me `I love you'
and you grasped my hand.
New candle, new grief,
sadness and temporary happiness
you give me and leave, I leave
and in our place only memories remain.
Waiting in an empty room,
for the dark and forgotten yesterday.
And the people under the balcony
are ignorantly passing
I don't see them anymore, I know.
fill me with disgust and repulsion.
And I wonder, I turn back a hundred years.
What's going on?
I believe, because that's what I've been told,
that walking one day on a path,
next to a blue lake,
I would find a wooden door.
When I open it,
a girl with a beauty never seen before,
would fall into my arms.
She would be waiting...
She would need my assistance...
She would need my warmth,
and I need her's.
I had a long time to see you.
It would be a day that I shall remember forever,
the day that I was waiting
tied to a pole, helpless.
When I was released
I embraced it again.
It was a prison
when I came out of the darkness
the light covered me
made me blind
and I still remember the darkness.
I start from my bed
my hand switches on the light.
My vision clears, I can see I am sweating
have you left?
only silence, the coffee cup,
an extinguished cigarette,
half open window shutters...
it's past midnight
and people are not passing
under the balcony anymore.
I pat two strings of my guitar while it cries.
Your picture, that present of yours
and the first morning sun ray.
People again on the streets
and they are the main reason
that we are following without any thought
and that I can't escape,
although I want it so much.
That's the reason, my labyrinth.
You wake up on an April morning
and you search for a hand to touch.
One heart, whose eyes you want
to always see, to read,
because in a while you know
even this one will stop beating,
because you aren't sure of anything.
The days are passing...
Even me I'm not sure
nor is anyone else around.
The days are getting longer.
You grow up with it
in your cold green house
you learnt to live, where I found you.
You will bloom again, I tell you.
I grew up as well from above,
looking, observing, judging,
feeling and hurting my self much more.
It's difficult to escape from there.
As comfortable as you are
you hurt too I know,
the surrounding thorns wound you.
You will bloom again later on
you may feel pain again.
you will bloom again.
You are always a flower though,
soft as a flower
and when I learnt how sensitive flowers were
I understood you as well.
I started to come closer to them
to speak to them without expecting
an answer, I got used to it.
I learnt to love them,
and probably they understood that.
When I touched their buds
with my fingers, they started
to open their petals, regardless of time,
even at night.
They started to move as well.
They tried to convince themselves that
there is a heart inside them -like in me-
and that they can love as well.
They could never manage to speak of course
but I understood everything
from their movements -it wasn't difficult-
especially when they wanted me to take them
in my hands, which was most of the time.
But one morning when I woke up,
three years later -it was not April-
I also searched for a hand to touch,
to feel a heart beating the same as mine.
All I found was a plant, soulless
without any scent,
without any flowers
and that smell was a creation of my imagination.
I saw from the window
people passing indifferently.
I had forgotten how to speak
and I could not call them.
I ran down the street
and with stupid gestures I tried
to make them understand that I am
a human being too and I need them.
They could not understand.
I started crying, hating flowers, nature
but when I walked into my house
I caught myself
watering that pot again.
If you could
An empty room, white walls,
the music continually supplies blood,
people around, entertaining,
Saturday night on the island,
tomorrow many will leave.
Sixteenth of August,
who knows where else and how far.
No voices anywhere,
the telephone is far from me,
no postcards or letters.
Without address, without anyone
knowing about my seclusion,
without news, job or self-esteem...
The rim, the edge in conversation.
The tear, the sun and the sea
can burn you or cool you if you want
people love again if you want.
In the thunder the union,
in the lightening the dream.
In the wakening a weight,
nothing is waiting for you.
You will have a nice time if you can,
you would laugh if you could,
you would love, if you also could,
you will forget...
I don't get upset. Congratulations
I give you, when I see you in the street
with a glance serious as never before
and strong in my eyes,
your tear of begging, slipped out
as you want to escape again.
And me, coming and going,
battle of thousand yes
and thousand nos, for me, for you.
Me. Yes me, so what ?
Now, I adore the amethyst, I am proud
and I am not getting jealous any more.
And I am sure that it should be very pitiful
for the limpet watching the fish swimming
free above her holding onto nothing.
Even without feeling her security,
they are free.
And in the battle of yes and nos
you are still fighting.
Everybody is fighting nowadays.
That's the sea.
You have to know how to swim, to enjoy it.
Even though some others shout
deeper the water is dangerous,
you risk it and live how you want
far away from seaweed and slippery shores.
During a walk at night
Sometimes, all of us, are embraced
by a feeling of loneliness,
like the cold mist, waiting outside
the closed gate of life,
shaking on a cold step.
Fate is in front of us, silent, pitiless,
and is strictly blocking the way which leads
to the lights, warmth, sweet music
Sometimes our heart is torn by sadness
our mind is wandering in the thick forest,
like a lost explorer
walking into trees and over stones,
searching the path of faith,
which leads from the tight knot
to the way of the sun.
The moon that night was strangled
by the thick pale grey clouds,
when I felt the change.
A cowardly twinkling of that strange ray
darkened with its poor light my black shade
and I raised up my head.
The clouds spread out
in the silent appearance of the Moon
offering inside me a devotional warmth
a shiver like a soft breeze.
The invisible power magnetised from me,
at that moment, the heaviest weight
I was dragging that night with me...
That sad, misty night
I had taken the way of returning
which lead to nothing, alone,
with a bent head, eyes to the ground,
with eyes staring towards nothing.
That night shone for me one sunny, spring
- in the middle of a winter's day -
Paris 4th October
And I turn my head to the thrown clothes
for a while it looked to me that
they were not mine.
They looked to me unfamiliar,
like they were poking their tongue out at me,
cast costumes, which after the show
don't belong to me anymore.
And I understood that even my clothes
were not on my side anymore.
They couldn't even follow my life,
and I felt alone and empty...
I should do something so they, at least,
would take me seriously,
and belong to me again.
And I see the world like a rake.
If you turn rakes with their teeth
facing up, then they are useless,
one gardener advised me.
And why do they exist those instruments,
that we call rakes, I asked him.
And surprised, he answered me,
but... to separate the wild thorns
from the fruitful offspring,
and also to prepare the land to be fertile.
And I said thank you... leaving
with the question why do rakes exist
The gardener without a rake
It's been a long time since I was shuffling
the soil in the vineyard,
and deep down I have managed
to do nothing.
Nowadays, sometimes, I pass outside
the fence and I spit inside, to water them
a little bit.
I have lost enough time when I was young.
And I hear the people around clapping
It makes a lot of difference to me, I told them
but I don't move my sight from the earth
which is in all places the same,
and I love her.
Maybe it is too soon yet to love the sky,
You say they are your friends,
they complete you.
You walked out, with them,
away from a world you do not accept.
You always try to do things
in your own way.
I will help you.
You have met a lot of people,
so you know what the human being is...
And I said no,
holding my cat in my arms.
I am now searching in the sky
to find the rest of the stars,
to see their light.
Was it the quarrels or some details
why the sky is full of clouds.
And a star? Nowhere.
Will you ever manage to reach so high,
much higher than even the clouds,
to always see stars?
Did you believe that you
never had to do that?
Did you believe that clouds would
never appear near the earth?
(Dressed in bandages, Night asked me
where I was going.
-I'm alone and I go for a walk.
-But... you have so many friends.
-Not... so many friends,
acquaintances I have a lot... I answered her)
Crossing the dark tunnel of yesterday
projects in front of me, vaporized and
unexpected, the brilliant and diffused
luminous greeting of the hopeful today,
full of dreams and promises, magnet,
In the altar now the, just showered,
goddess Day is given to a soft intoxicating,
attractive scent which makes you
In your way insoluble fog around you.
Sometimes you can see through
and other times so thick, impossible
for you to walk.
Fog which is sprayed by strangers
in our eyes, to remain always strangers.
Fog sprayed in the eyes of all of us
by the big ones, to go even higher.
Fog our enemies blows in the eyes
to slyly win us.
But even the thick, cotton like, fog
the one which can tie our eyes sometimes
thrown by the surrounding flatterers.
What kind of messages can you send
from a deserted and infertile land,
from the one where after the shipwreck
the wild waves threw you.
The one that doesn't have the scent
of the flowers you adored
when you were smelling the picture
with the islands.
And you have to put the cork in the bottle
to send the letter to someone.
To whom though?
Who cares if you are alive or not?
Like who cared when you sailed away?
And you hesitate for a while,
you stop writing.
I understand you. What to write?
What is unknown for me
is the way you feel.
Because I think I feel the same as you,
in my twenties,
and I'm not alone on a desert island
but on a town island which slowly, slowly
dries around and gets bigger
but souls around nowhere,
hopes get further away and me lost.
You passed so many ports
and you don't care for your end.
Me, why so quickly though?
Strange the world through my eyes
like your island
and its not the iron door
I am standing behind,
neither the dirt or the mosquitoes
make me think of all these things
I was always waiting behind a transparent
door, waiting for it to open.
Now I understand why you look far away
to the ocean so often,
you didn't want to be there,
you just waited for something from there.
Today we have visitors and I understand
why people are becoming hospitable.
And they have passed a lot of days,
remembering you saying that one day
it will come.
A few days before,
after you finished this letter,
you said that it will come, I know
You remembered something,
These days you stay silent and numb.
One day has passed since you shed a tear
for the first time after being so sure.
And you stay sceptical.
A few hours passed since you shattered
your last bottle, and you laughed
for the first time after so many days
in the island.
You may have felt where you were
and scent spread around you
and green foliage.
And you saw all those trees and beaches
real in front of you like those islands
in the picture.
You sail in the sky blue ocean
in front of you a brand new city,
possible to escape from at your will
because you are now free.
Me, when will I be able to fly
without the weight of my heart,
the sounds of music and memories?
The hammer which is beating
in the rhythm of the parade
reminds of a train leaving the station,
empty again like last night.
The violin is crying, this time,
in its own language and the ice will melt
leaving behind only wrinkles in the pale faces
of the farmers, in the fields.
Only the gloves are moving,
while the air is blowing and whistling,
caressing the whips.
The day is breaking,
the cock would crow, the animals
would wake up in the stable, the flowers
would open to welcome the sun,
if there was one.
The hammer continues in its monotonous,
Trunks are falling one after the other,
the leaning moon is trembling, it will say goodbye
and tomorrow will come to search in vain,
I feel that.
The hammer has started to hit more quickly,
as if it is in a hurry.
How many years have really passed?
The window is frozen and
you are sitting in front of the fireplace.
Is it warm inside?
The cuckoo-clock, the gun on the wall,
the huge dog lying on your feet,
the soft carpet on the wet planks.
The light of the lamp is shaking.
Your breath on the dull window.
My steps in the snow, more sure,
more steady are coming closer.
The owl in the tree and you are afraid.
Your lips shaped on the frozen window.
The light of the lamp is getting lower.
The shade is getting smaller and smaller,
and is becoming one with the darkness.
It disappeared. Goodnight.Silence.
The hammer stops beating.
Did its turn come so quickly?
I am shaking, not from the cold, I feel it.
Red is the colour of the town
from the first sun rays same
as the streets, the parks,
the mountainside and the bench.
Around me shaken eyelashes,
are opening and closing before they seal,
watching the nearby, never reached,
closed window, and the hammer,
by itself now, is hitting around,
like a few hours ago.
It kept its promise
In the house, in front,
there was no smoke coming out
from the chimney
although today was colder than yesterday.
The hammer stops.
In the capital of lies (The reveal of truth)
I try to avoid movies,
magazines or papers,
radio, television and other books.
Uninfluenced like that
I write whatever comes from the heart,
primitive and true.
I write whatever I experience with people,
not about conscious, unconscious and other confusing meanings.
Despite all of this,
Art is my courage.
She comes as a symbol of dream and hope.
That's why, despite of this,
she must exist,
Truth, newborn everyday, mother of all ideas
shows us a different way to approach them.
Truth will secure, for a while, her children
and will go to sleep.
When she awakes
we don't know if the same things are valid or not.
So, Art comes and covers
the gaps of the impossible
or temporarily impossible
...with her lies,
she becomes sympathy and hope,
the opposite image of Truth, the unreal
... and if Art is not exactly lying
it is the only excuse,
which is also a lie...
until it becomes reality.
They don't exist, fantasies.
Only exist... if and when I can do it
otherwise they stay a dream...
Art wears her cousin's, Media, clothes
to put a dream in your mind that you never had.
The children of Truth
come closer to the bed,
they wake her up
but she doesn't arise
until she speaks with her eldest daughter, Luck.
Their dialogue influences the mood
in which she arises from her bed to start her day.
Look how people are getting lost in masses
behind mountains and seas.
how quickly mailing addresses and telephone numbers change,
how contacts, answers and post cards are lost
and only today remains to choose from.
Closer to the animals
I write inspired
by the slippery skin of a crocodile
and read poetry aloud.
The flowers turn their heads to my side.
The sun is smiling.
Behind the thick green bush,
I see the deer's heads,
listening very carefully.
The day is changing colour
turning to purple,
houses become velvet and streets marmalade,
cars of paper, but you fly far
with the wings I gave you.
So, tomorrow will be a day like all the others.
I am now writing
leaning on the slippery skin of a crocodile.
Red palm leaves and blue poppies,
pink coconuts and white sparrows around me.
A dove is biting my hair,
a lion drinks water from the lake,
a black panther plays with butterflies
and I'm dreaming.
Backpackers pass by looking through binoculars.
The wooden hostel was small, full of mystery,
a light blue snake and fluorescent cockroaches.
A room with red light
and negatives of colourful pictures.
The crocodile slithers quickly into the water.
A beautiful faced doll with a nice body
next to you is a temporary illusion.
The point is how much you need it
and how much you can, if you can,
accept people around you.
I continue reading poems aloud
under the view of more animals.
See how the ivy climbs up the wall
to escape from people,
and how rubbish tries to get out of it's
bin... to be free.
The islands (The light blue light)
The tropical islands,
my infatuation with their colours.
Shallow waters in white and light blue,
represents the peace and easiness.
A little bit deeper, the strong turquoise
represents the life eccentricity,
and then comes the dark blue
which represents the difficulty and the death.
As far as we walk on the sandy beach,
the starting point of life,
we feel like children.
As we continue towards the deeper water,
the colours change to dark blue...
there are sharks there as well,
for we are far away from the shore.
So we sail out on a boat
and we feel like ducks.
In the shallow waters swim small fish,
as we continue towards deeper water
the bigger ones,
in the turquoise and in the dark blue,
The same when diving.
As we leave the metres above us
everything around us gets darker,
it becomes dark blue,
and looking up
we will see the light blue colour of the surface.
The door of the dark room
is half opened
and through another room
unfolds powerful and misty,
same as looking through smoke or water,
the light blue light
which springs from the source of consolation.
In the dark prison
there is a small window above with bars.
At noon, the diffusing light blue colour
creates a pyramid, a mirror image
of the outside world,
the reflection of hope,
the statue of freedom,
the fantasy of life.
Strong light blue colours are
in the deep dark room of all of us.
The rays of the light blue light
create visions full of glitter
like at night under the dark water of the sea.
This is why people like the green
coconut trees which pierce the sky
- and other trees-
that remind them of their creations
on the earth. The progression!
They remind them of the high-rises,
and the forests remind them
of crowds of people.
They would walk across the forest
and see a light blue lake,
shining shades of light blue colours,
with the sun on it.
They would feel much better
because they saw the light blue colour
that gives hope and life.
It wasn't you
It wasn't your fault,
you were not the daughter of the sea,
not even of a standard size swimming pool.
There is nothing I regret
for now I understand
that I wouldn't be happy.
Now they call me Robinson Crusoe
I don't know if he wrote so much,
and they look at me strangely
they want my attention,
but I write all the time.
Groups of friends come on vacation for a week,
to have a nice time...
Me, I came to write.
Now and then I write for us,
the things we didn't share together,
but we could have shared
if I had the time after my writing.
Maybe I wouldn't write so much
if we were still together.
It wasn't your fault
that you were not the daughter of the sea.
If you just had even a distant relationship
everything would be much different on the island.
You look far away
and you know you are at
the end of the world,
for your gaze can go no further.
There, in front, is seen only,
the end of the ocean.
There, where the earth curves and fades,
and comes the sky
with it's clouds in shapes of dreams
and speaks to you in another language,
which you may translate as you wish.
You look far
you see waves hugging the legs of clouds.
Colours playing chase,
air and water becoming one.
You look far away
and you feel you are at the end of the world
though this end is not far.
There, before you,
you see your childhood years in the sea,
fishing, rides in the boat and all those children.
You see the same sea
where you were born, even here wetting your legs,
reminding you of the old days.
And this is enough to make you
not feel so far away.
And the sun is the same
only that here it burns more
and gives sharp shapes to leaves on the trees
and the children who are born here are darker
than those children.
Nothing is exactly the same
but everything looks alike.
They all remind of that freedom from care,
the one we had under the sun
while we were young children,
during the summers.
I wonder if I have stolen years
since I've been on this side
the clouds say yes
and the sun no,
and you look further still,
and you realise
how similar are the glances
of people when they look afar.
And the sun, astonished is getting ready to leave,
giving his last directions to the clouds.
Oh no. This is not happening
on the other side.
There the clouds are waiting for him to leave,
so the raving can start.
Here there is no entertainment this hour,
here they fill the empty spaces with lines,
celebration of memories.
How many oceans really
must we set up in front of us
while watching them seeing only one.
This one where when people swimming collide,
there where there are no frontiers,
because there is no land to thrust the posts in
and no money to thrust them in.
And the ocean, here in front,
as if he heard that calmed down,
became serene, a carpet to step on.
How often has he been like a lake
with all people romantically
observing the sunset,
making only dreams.
Now you can see straight
to the other end of the world,
a lowland without beginning or end
lit by the red sun,
the one who is shamed,
the one who is going to sink his shame
in the ocean.
The water is boiling there in the middle,
they can also see it from the other side.
And people make dreams
which stay dreams forever
and make criticism which stays in history
and from this side,
and from the other side.
The water of the ocean is watching
all these things and moistening them,
still hugging them
until when though?
And the night will come
and the ocean will not show
large at all
but only here, in front of us
because the rest is inside us,
wild for creation.
It is difficult for you to see the other edge
the other edge is in your mind
and you knead it in the shape you desire.
The other edge!
Within the serenity of the night
you are floating in your mind
to the other edge
and you are always looking in front of you.
Within the tempestuous sea you are sailing for
the other end
and you stay throughout the night
as a shipwreck survivor on this small island.
And maybe one night you will be lucky,
at seeing the light at the other end
from far away.
And you will imagine how it would be.
You will write poems for it,
you will paint it, invent lyrics for songs,
which you will dedicate to it.
And if one day they find you
they will call you shipwrecked.
You are looking in the darkness
and you are thinking.
One more step and I have almost arrived.
One more step and I can leave again.
Every night you come closer,
every morning you face the reality.
The dark blue ocean,
basically hydrogen two,
oxygen, iodine and salt,
full of fish.
Simple as that,
and if we want later on,
especially we, the poets...
we fill it with mystery...
So simple is our life.
It can hold heavy ships,
bears all the small boats
which are crossing it.
Shipwrecks are few,
and due to man's mistakes,
wars, hate and ambition.
How many other shores exist
and how easily can
they all become one.
The huge ocean
can become like a small drop.
Which you can put inside your pocket
and pick out, holding him
in your hands
whenever you want
to dream of other parts, other people,
other civilizations, and the change.
The ocean is everywhere.
On the tree, around us,
in the flower, in the shell,
in the pebble, in our heart,
even in a grain of sand,
with the same power
He is being vomited from our mind
like a torrent here in front of us
and we admire him
and many times he is calm
firm in front of our legs
placid like a lake
with his tranquil surface,
At that time we draw inner serenity
and calmness which he offers
and we are rising higher
having his image
with us as the only existing dimension around us.
From there we will see all the shores
which become a small lucid dot
and it's march will be outlined
in the dark sky, so as to be
able to narrate all the stories.
The ocean accepts you
warmly and softly
reminding you that maybe
you were born through him.
Look at him, you will judge.
And from the deep water
far out there
you hear a roar...
something like a grumbling,
the clamour of shells,
piratical shouts and dolphin's cries,
arias of mermaids, fairies,
the baritone of Neptune,
kingfishers and seagulls
one time here and on time there,
as though they offer
to take you with them.
Meeting under water (Waterproof poetry)
Who said I can't write a poem anymore?
Of course, I can...
I will write about the meeting
under the water
in big depth, oxygen tanks,
blue shades and many small fish.
In a different wet world,
I'll take out markers and write verses.
One boat, two people and then
you are lost in blue, the deep blue.
in silence, cleanliness, a paradise
caressing all of your body.
Who said I can't write verses even here?
I can, even in the environment
of purple walls of one room,
in the white sand under it,
in the quiet surface of the sea,
and under it.
There are fish around.
Your can feed them while you play with them,
they are my new pets.
Next to me one body
looking so beautiful while it swims.
All bodies, underwater,
look more beautiful, mermaids
without boring fish-tails,
but with beautiful legs.
Don't listen to what they say to you!
Here nothing can be heard.
In the blue kingdom, reigns calmness,
tranquillity, serenity and mystery.
Under the water the dating
and the separation.
Then you disappear in blue...
In deep blue... a dot,
Two, three farewell bubbles
and then once again... peace.
Who said that even here
I can't write verses?
You can write directly
to everybody's mind...
touching their heart,
don't listen to what they say to you!
That's what the last bubbles were sayin