Are You ready to be loved ? Dimitri Tsaloumas : a poet loves
A mediterranean voice
Beauty and the Poet When they print the floods of blossom and the scents at the passing of the youth, where they set on pages the moonlight prayers and frame the trills of nightingales, where they tear the shirt from the viper's sleep and thread from Fate's embroidery-frame to bind the volumes with the glorious hymnals of the hours of exorcisms of love there I'll send at dawn to have your birth recorded, at noon to have your dowry reckoned up and then at dusk, when sorrows pay their calls, I'll hand you over, a finished song.
Prodigal II It's time for parsimony and circumspection. I told you before. We're going through inhuman times. Even the banks will feel the pinch and already many merchants scour their dusty books for long-forgotten debts. This is no time for borrowing. Manage as best you can. On the margins of insomnia and the boundaries of sleep lurk dubious shapes and shadows, and if you cup your ears and eavesdrop at the doorcracks of night, you'll hear deadly whisperings. Mark my words. Take your children and head for the bush. The years of squandering are over.
Beauty And The Forgotten One Your voice surprised me. It came not like a summer bird fulfilling the expectations of the holiday-maker, but like good news to those who sit upon the rock patiently, expecting nothing. I beg you, don't deny it me. Your laughter. Your laughter was not like gurgling water in some landscape of romantic sentiment, but like a water-melon, split open by August to quench a muleteer's thirst on a steep climb. Such freshness I have never tasted in my life.
Advice I take for my pattern the high window and cut our daily sky into a tablecloth. And on the table only the tender pitcher with all the beads of down. Don't dye your hair black don't rush to the door don't steal the fire from the memory of carnation. Say, simply and tastefully: Good morning, my love.
Dimitris Tsaloumas lives in Australia
...and was born in Leros (Greece) in the '20s of the last century
Old Man’s Last Pilgrimage On this my last pilgrimage I travel by what light and signs the sky affords. I do no penance, seek no remission of sins. Majestic highways and safe roads took me to famous places of worship in the far country of youth, where I prayed and saw my dreams come true. Yet archmagician time turned all those gifts to tracts of waste and thirst, where I wielded number and calculation to reckon the worth of friend and foe. This I regret, though my riches grew and glowed, yielding a measure of satisfaction.
Now new lands born of the lifting mists beckon to the nomadic soul, uncharted streams and mountain paths lead it to shrines long strayed from memory, mentioned in parchments long decayed where I now hear musics not heard before, smell scents from alabaster jars and phials buried in vaulted tombs to make sweet the sleep of queens, visit old crimes that strange faith has turned to things of veneration. On this my last pilgrimage I seek no evidence of fact but firmer certainties, not hope but truth of nobler substance where, in secret folds, the mind still dreams of wings.
..so, did you enjoy ? Was it love?
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