trying somehow
to put together a set of words to describe
the sensations
of floating


the sounds of tree, of water
and of hand and paddle

the sweet flow of movement
never quite straight
never quite random

a sense of direction
and a path guided by curiosity

(a what if, a where, where-from, where-to)

just looking at the treeline and asking
where is this sound coming from?

(a distant hope of seeing a beaver
knowing that this is beaver territory

or a hopeless attempt at seeing black grouse
performing their mating rituals in the evening)

finding it hard to put into words
the smallest of things
the beauties that
might not even be worth making into a poem
but which make living such a worthwile thing


just
being here
immersed
in the fragile sounds
of an almost silence
(but never quite).

yesterday, at sunset
I somehow forgot the names of things

but it wasn't scary
because I still had

memories

of moving
of dancing


of small, almost-nothing moments
of an early morning
lips touching (tenuto)

and you
so gently on me


and suddenly, all I want
is to slide my face in yours
you to pull my hair just a bit too much

and smile, as we delay a kiss

and -for a moment-

to forget
the names of things

sunrise, a few clouds -
a beautiful spring morning
to look at the snow!

to unravel the kisses of life

one lover at a time


(a universe talented
at teasing)

a lover
humming the beginning of a song
its words perfectly irremembered -


what a waste of a moment
to think about love.

fresh snow on pine trees
nothing but a late birdsong -
mid-winter calmness

rascal me
I was trying to write the shortest poem
only to wake up this morning
and find my heart smiling
realising no poem would be shorter
than when –eyes closed– I pull you a little closer
to whisper on your lips
almost nothing
(oh, that sweet fragile warmth of morning closeness)

a memory of you crept under my dreams earlier
stared intently
almost demanding I let go and
fall into some half-remembered story
beneath your pillow
and so I'm taken, lying next to you
we take a moment – we smile into each other's eyes
(a stolen hour, a perhaps-gift)

and then you're gone

(I don't know why, but this is how much you disarm me
like this, you disarm me)

life threw a crystal vase at us


and we
hands-in-pockets we
caught mid-sentence, unprepared

a split second too hesitant -
the vase, now, a million shards between us

like a joke that didn’t quite work
an uneasy moment of what-do-we-do-now

(nobody gave me a handbook
on how to be human)

all I know
is I want to feel my heart
skip a beat
as we lift our gaze
and meet each other
and smile wryly

and tacitly agree to catch it
catch the next one
knowing that all we need
is to spend more time
talking less
in that delicate hinterland
between touch
and poetry

like a late summer sunset's gentle light
lands on the leaves of some birch
preparing for autumn

like a gull caresses the wind
and glides, not quite seriously towards
not quite somewhere

I want to hold you and touch you
let my fingers run across the skin of your naked back
feel your heart in my eyes and say

almost nothing
and slowly, vaguely, melt in that intense lack of words
that no song prepared me for

no poem offered to help me understand
how to untangle your loving eyes
from mine

oh how endless that moment will be
an ecstasy of soft sensations
the heart's subtle fireworks

and that little space between us
all the magic of the world is there
glimpsed at in those small hours of the evening

between an almost-kiss
and a half-whispered goodbye
that memory of tomorrow sits in my fragile words

as I try (oh, believe me I try!)
to figure out what this is all about
but I can't

all I know is I want to hold you
to hold you deep in my arms, and our moment
to be a metaphor for something more real

a poetry of life
danced in each other's hearts
(unspoken)

I have reasons to believe blue must be a lonely colour.

Not only because it is the colour of the sky, the sea, of such vastness that no other colour can compete against.
Not even because it is the colour of sadness. (one has the "blues", not the "greens")

But rather, I think that blue is a lonely colour
mostly because


it was the last colour to be named.

the spacing


of

words





an invitation


to
surprise


lost

(
in
the
)



maze of




meaning..




where
is




the



honest beautyof


simply




arranging







things?

a familiar little melancholy kicks in

like the last couple of puffs of a joint being passed around
a group of good friends

now it's just my turn
(nothing more, nothing less)

the tips of my fingers tingling with reality
as memories gently stir that line between the conscious
and the unconscious


like a half-remembered song
sitting somewhere between your lips
and nothing


it's as if I made eye contact with the city
for the first time
and fallen in love (again)
with its every move
its every smile

the way it sleeps


the harrowing complexities accompanying
the feeling of leaving a place
that's just started feeling like home


(daydreaming about London
in London.)

life – but in the end
the only thing that matters
clarity of mind.

we think we're lucky –
look at the swallows! they sing
they dance in the air

πλάκα έχει να'χεις φτερά


νά'ρθω μαζί σου?

λαδωμένα τα χέρια μου
με ελληνική φιλοξενία

ένα χαμόγελο αμυδρά
χαράζει στην καρδιά μου

τις λεπτές (σχεδόν αόρατες)
έννοιες μιας αρετής

που αναγνωρίζει κανείς
σε κάποιου αγνώστου την ματιά

αργά το βράδυ -
σαν έναν κλέφτη που γνωρίζει

τον άλλο χωρίς να ειπωθεί
(τίποτα).

unlocking little beauties
revealing the hidden
interstices between
words


like discerning
some time ago
the different smiles
of a lover's lips.

a life full of
elsewhere

is everywhere

but here.

hold
her heart


in your eyes



and
whisper




the first word
of a secret




(a little
exploration



of silence.)