Celebrating Launch Day of “All the Words”

April 21, 2015 § Leave a comment

20th April was Launch Day for my poetry collection, “All the Words”. My publisher, Elizabeth Adams (Phoenicia Publishing), celebrated it by writing a post about why, if you haven’t already, you should consider placing an order, and then started immediately shipping the first orders!

Unfortunately, between Elizabeth and me lies the Atlantic Ocean; between me and most of you, my readers, the Atlantic and many other oceans too. So we all drank a toast to this book’s journey far away from each other.

But here, for all of you who have been kind enough to support this project on Twitter, here in my blog, or now in its book form, a very first reading (with quite a few tongue slips caused by red wine, I’m afraid) to celebrate this book’s departure to, hopefully what it will be your hands, and then your hearts.

Thank you!

My Book is Full of Words

March 30, 2015 § 5 Comments

AlltheWords_500_cover

In 2013 I spent a whole year on Twitter exploring the meaning of “big” words like life, death, love, sex, pain, pride, violence, hope… When I started writing these “definitions” in January that year, I had no idea they’d become a project. I had just entered a period in my life where reflection and its creative documentation not only felt necessary but became my life’s red thread. A thread far from following a straight line, though, but mostly curling into circles that only slowly, if at all, formed a moving spiral. Most of the words escaped permanent definitions; life kept, and keeps, redefining them for me.

This project, I later named ‘All the Words’, became something like an online journal of aphorisms, epigrams or naked verses — sometimes looking for a poem and coming closer together, and sometimes running away from each other, contradicting and opposing each other. All of them were based on my personal observations and emotional reactions to readings of all kinds, the news and everyday experiences, or chats with friends, online or in person. Many people followed my ramblings on Twitter, retweeted and frequently replied commenting on them, as they felt addressed by one or the other poetic definition.

The creative process on Twitter has been a unique experience for me but now I’m delighted that ‘All the Words’ has also become a beautiful little book thanks to Phoenicia Publishing and my publisher Elizabeth Adams. Even if you’d read each one of those tweets on Twitter, Elizabeth has created a typographic design that will make that process, that Heraclitian river of words and meanings, visible for you and aesthetically a new experience. Some of the earliest supporters of that project on Twitter shouldn’t be surprised to find yourselves also mentioned in my words of thanks as your generous feedback kept me writing and posting.

Among those precious early readers were three people I enormously admire and am grateful to for they were kind enough to write what they liked about ‘All the Words': the poet and translator George Szirtes who has won a variety of prizes for his poetry (Reel, The Burning of the Books, Bad Machine) and for his translations (László Krasznahorkai’s Satantango), the multitalented Natasha Badhwar, columnist at Mint Lounge, film-maker and fashion entrepreneur, and the poet Dave Bonta (Twelve Simple Songs, Odes to Tools) who is a very well-known blogger and online publisher of Moving Poems.

You can read what they had to say about the book on the Phoenicia website page for ‘All the Words’ where you can also pre-order the book in a pre-publication price between now and the official April 15th launch.

I will be happy for your feedback, here or elsewhere.

Night Lies

February 3, 2015 § Leave a comment

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There’s the night lying
next to my bed and lying:
Tonight you’ll sleep well.

I try not to think
of Mondays, of yesterdays,
and the missed voices.

Shadows take over
step by step fragile bodies
move and talk like them.

We are sleepwalkers,
looking for a place where safe
we can stay awake.

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Of Trains

January 18, 2015 § Leave a comment

F1020004 And like so many other poems this will also start with a train. The train from Athens to Munich, to Hamburg, to Amsterdam, the night train. Darling, don’t love part time, don’t love sentimentally, at the ticket counter. Love with a newspaper in the hand, love by writing letters. Listen! The voices are many, yet the night favours one that whispers in your dream. One that once was a body sitting in a train, leaving. And like so many other poems this will also end with a train, first on the track this morning wiping last night’s lines with fast light.

The Hours

November 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

F1010025
 
Endangered, she said,
when I drink my morning coffee
to disappear, to lose control
to find everything unreal.
 
Take these memories of last year,
dip them in hot water like tea,
add sugar, take a sip, come near!
 
How long long can take? How
immediate can be now? And
where is yesterday when one needs it?”
 
Awake. In the wee hours 
thoughts are preserved in darkness,
to dissolve with the first light.
 
 

A German House

October 11, 2014 § Leave a comment

F1020018

“My brother.  He was the miller.  He built the house all by himself. Yes, a three-floor house for all of us.”

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“One floor for each sister. But only one of us got married.”

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“Also five garden sheds. He was a collector of all sort of things.  The sheds were all fully furnished and prepared for our summer evenings. Still are. ”

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“Oh, haven’t we had some lovely evenings with neighbours and friends here…”

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“Now it’s just the two of us. She, 95 and I, 88…”

F1020029

“… and the house.”

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“Once a Turk came by– or was he a Greek like yourself? Can’t remember… He was a puppet master.”

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“I got these from him. They might fit you.”

 

The House On The Hill

September 27, 2014 § Leave a comment

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That house on the hill was from the 18th century.

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He said they’d moved out of it and into the new house in the back yard in the early 70ties but everything was still in place inside, just like the day they had moved out. He cleaned it regularly himself.

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His mother had been an adopted child. No papers were needed those days – you could just get the youngest child from the poorer relatives. They had been thankful.

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“All very religious people.”

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His own children, in their late twenties, early thirties, had left the valley because of the bad Internet connection.

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This had been his room.

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“Where are you from?” “Your occupation?”

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