The Bridge

July 21, 2014 § Leave a comment


 There’s a train bridge around the corner; night trains and the tired travellers carried over the bridge, the sound of their speedy dreams.


I often take photos of this bridge. It’s an old iron one. It’s become something like a chapel, at the halfway mark of a long pilgrimage.



In the photos the street underneath seems not a busy one, but it is. My game is waiting for the quiet moment.
The world outside, sometimes opaque…
 … sometimes clear.

The Dance Group

May 8, 2014 § 2 Comments



She joined a dance group.

Fridays are now for dancing

women, hand in hand.


Sometimes she must stop

to catch her breath; her chest fills

with music, and light.


When she was younger

dancing was a mating game;

they moved each other.


Now the dance belongs

to her alone; she places

her palm on the breast.


March 12, 2014 § 2 Comments


She waited on that bench. There are places that come back to you. She just had to wait.

How often must one tell a story to believe it? How often must one listen to it to forget?

There were names written on that bench.

For whom had these people carved their names? Who was their reader?

Maybe she could choose one of these names. Stand up and walk away named like that. A name has always a story. The story would be hers then.

A man stopped right in front of her and looked at her. She held her breath. Was he her reader?

Some places come back to you. You just have to wait. Your name can bring them back. A stranger can bring back your name.

Come on, darling. Come on, Helen, let’s go home.


My dear, on that bench

I’ve forgotten all the poems

I’ve written and read.

Letter to a Young Lady

March 7, 2014 § 2 Comments


8th March marks the International Women’s Day as the Google doodle will keep reminding us for a day or so. Should we celebrate our femininity and feel good and proud of it for a day, but then go back to being the children of the lesser god we’ve been since thousands of years?

I won’t bother answering this question, sisters.

And yet, this doodle did make me wish to join the community of my sex for a while, share experiences and exchange knowledge and strengthen each other for… life.

So here is my poor advice, alas, just five pieces of it. You see, I’ve only come till my forties so far and sequel advice is uncertain, but if circumstances allow it, I’ll keep you posted.

1) Read lots of books and poetry while you’re a teenager. As years go by you will gradually develop quality criteria, so don’t worry and don’t be too ashamed for ‘bad’ choices of your youth. You’ll never be that emotionally open and thirsty for knowledge and experience in your whole life again – well, you will, but your soul will never again be so fertile for those literary seeds. Although I’ve forgotten now more than I wish to admit, these readings have formed me and are the ground I now plant my thoughts and verses.

2) Go out, travel, and have lots of fun and sex as soon as you’re old enough to hopefully know how to protect yourselves, dear sisters, and trust nobody to be better qualified or more willing to protect you. If you’re living under religious, political, or other restrictive conditions, then do not miss those sensualities either. Use your fantasy! We humans are gifted with an incredible mental power, our imagination. Travel and sexual experiences by the book? No problem at all!

3) But fight for your rights too! Use your voice or pen, your name or a pseudonym, the street or the internet, use what you can to make circumstances better for you and others in your society, because no freedom that you wish to have is illegal, or immoral, or an illusion as long as it doesn’t restrict the freedom of others. Period.

4) Don’t dismiss, or accept, the idea of motherhood too soon. I won’t lie to you: it’s not easy to be a mother. You do give up precious personal freedoms, sleep and solitude, and against what you were told we are certainly not well equipped for this job just by being a woman. But there is wisdom about our own humanity that derives from parenthood. And there is love. Both are to find in other places in life too, but I thought I should mention.

5) And. Age. With love. But. Be loved. Too.

What? This all is not advice solely for women?

Oh, sorry. My mistake.

Migration at Night

February 21, 2014 § Leave a comment


The time was the night.

A migrant’s fingerprint is a map of movement.

Where words would only make sense if in verse.

Canyons of love to fall into.

The promised land without you.

But all in sight. All palpable. All falling like rain.

You took the boat and went under.

The sea at night is just the night itself.

Your body now, a waning moon.

A sigh on the other side.



Photo by Giorgos Moutafis who has dedicated the last years to a long-term project on immigration, focused on the European paths – gates of immigration.

No Shortcuts

February 11, 2014 § Leave a comment


I started running again last weekend. I’ve put on some weight, places I want to go have moved away. I thought I could catch up with both.

He thought: Who are we writing for? Our words enter someone, transform them a little, then run all the way back to us and tell us that story.

These roads know no tricks. No shortcuts for thoughts. They go all the way down.

Three Kinds of Morning

February 8, 2014 § 1 Comment


In the morning the winter is trying hard to remember a bird song.

In the morning the world stands still and waits for us to jump on.

In the morning we eavesdrop our heart beating, our blood running, feel our breath over our lips. Our small planet in orbit.

In the morning we stretch our limbs to the places we want to travel to.


In the morning it’s our truths that wake us up.

In the morning his words, her hair, his hands, her smile and how the light erases them.

In the morning we know other people’s dreams.


In the morning we’re lost and found.

In the morning all the poems we’ve read are street names in the town we live.

In the morning we’re never lonely. We still have ourselves.

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