Daphne Alexopoulou
Poet. Artist. Writer.
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Distant Cymbals
You say: my wife inhales water through her nose, I don’t know if she’s turning into a Mermaid or an Angel but I know the transformation has begun. She hoards thousands of butterflies in her pockets, bronze sand-dunes fill her chest of treasures and even though I know nothing of Jungian symbols, I notice the distant cymbals, I can hear the shadows growing. I see gaping tears in the four corners of the sky, clouds dart into the room when I open the doors of her cupboards. Pure water gurgles inside the walls. I can hear it when I get close; It sounds loud like a waterfall but I can’t find where it is. I really don’t like her colourful birds. They leave droppings everywhere and she doesn’t clean the house anymore. She just sits in a bathtub filled with rose petals or cross legged on the kitchen table, an otherworldly smile on her face. Wherever it is that she is, I’m locked outside. I find feathers between my teeth, rose petals in my hair and rays of sunlight on my fingertips. When I touch her, she shines like gold but she never notices my presence. She says: my Angel, please look at me, for I am the bringer of gifts and dreams your key to a priceless Paradise.
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Surfacing
Joyful green is making a comeback
somewhere, right now.
In the forests that burnt down,
in discarded pots and abandoned gardens,
green tokens are sprouting, signs and portends
are bursting through tarmac and concrete,
as surely as green covers the graves
of men who once were kings.
Remember the green, in gratitude and joy.
There is a song sung this very minute,
somewhere, right now. Make it your song.
In gratitude and joy and sorrow,
let your heart sing along, or better still,
sing out loud.
In hope and defiance, in love and in despair
sing your song.
Caress the air like the birds do,
puncture the shadow like new flowers do
come up for air trusting
that the sun and the rain
shall be there to meet you,
like the new grass trusts.
There is an embrace opening its arms
somewhere, everywhere, this minute.
Embrace and be embraced
in love and reverence, joy and gratitude.
For we are all in that embrace
as the earth and the sky and the light embrace us.
May the blessings multiply, may the shadows
give us shelter in the middle of the day,
as we walk in reverence, gratitude and joy,
may this my prayer, song of my heart,
come to pass.
Somewhere, my love, green tipped arrows
are announcing the revolution,
Somewhere, hope sings. -
Unreported Miracles
Not all birds find it easy to fly.
As they struggle inelegantly
to stay afloat,
the wind is not playing fair—not for them.
Necks straining
they flap and flap and somehow
they keep going.
Spare a thought for those of us
who find life difficult,
the ungainly ones,
the ones who keep striving to just be,
like birds with bodies too big
for their wings.
On a perfect, clear, silver day,
they walk gingerly out their door,
and reach for the sky.
Holding tight onto their umbrellas,
they take flight
towards an endles blue.
That’s why the weather
has been a little unsettling recently,
a little unsettled.
Small, unreported miracles
are shifting the pattern
into new shapes
to the left of the light,
to the right of darkness. -
Fate and Toothache
I hear the voices of stories lived long ago.
From the belfry next to my house,
church bells sound a halting song.
The priest is teaching the boys the ropes.
In the end he can’t help himself
and gives an impromptu recital
just for the heck of it.
This is how it’s done, this is the sound of pure joy.
I spend time watching the goings on
in the courtyard of the church.
The lives of others.
I see blue and white balloons.
They are baptising a baby boy.
The parents walk slowly in their best clothes,
the father holding the prize,
the mother adjusting and re-adjusting
till it’s all perfect:
a falling shoulder strap, the baby’s hair,
the father’s thoughts.
Two people with huge cameras
are recording the ritual proceedings.
Inside, they will undress the baby,
they will immerse him fully in warm water,
they will anoint him with oil,
cut off a tuft of baby hair,
dress him in wonderful white clothes
to symbolise renewal,
taking photographs all the while.
Some people think the terror and the crying
is cute and funny.
Maybe it is inevitable,
like fate and toothache.
All of us have gone through it,
it’s a shared blueprint
we Greeks
carry to every corner of the earth. -
The Fabric of the Blues
The blues is in the weave:
its colour, tone, rhythm
warps in and out of the weft,
as the melody wafts out of the traveller's trunk
and meanders like a plume of silk
on the decks and galleys.
It caresses the foreheads of seasick travellers
as they wait for the nausea
to pass, pass, pass,
as they wait for this un-willed for
state of affairs to change, eyes closed,
hands softly touching foreheads,
minds empty of everything
but this need to stay still.
The blues is in the sky. Always.
It lays little brush strokes of sound
behind each particle of wind,
it whistles a melody in and out of tune,
it knows it just has to go on and on
and/sometimes/ it tries so hard, it gets out of breath.
So, anytime you pick up a Nautilus shell
and listen to its secret language,
remember there's no need to decipher
every single melancholy word,
just observe its murmur re-arrange your soul
and hum along.
Some songs we recognise right away,
others make us cry
because we've just remembered
where we came from. -
Bite
Increase the volume!
I want strong tastes,
pure, saturated colours,
I want turmeric, saffron,
green olive oil,
fat pink peppercorns, baby capers,
foods that burst when you bite them,
foods enhanced by sunshine,
and their proximity to the sea.
Seeds that hiss and crackle,
that pop and sizzle,
and are not,
necessarily,
good for you.
Foods that burn when you bite them.
Foods that spill out
of the contours that define them.
Foods that bite you back.
Daphne Alexopoulou 