Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Wednesday, May 31, 2017


It came to me in a reverie. 
You are so deep inside.
You are not a bearded man on a cloud.
You are not male nor female.
You are not something I can grasp, or explain.
I have to dive and pass through countless layers to find you.
Past anger, past fear, past regret, past even hope.
You have no commandments.  
The tears you demand are tears of joy.
Your favourite music is laughter.
Your only rule is live and learn.
Even if you are a figment of my imagination
Even if you exist within me only
You exist.
And I will do my best to bring you into this world
through my words, actions and decisions.
No-one can take you from me.
Religions, people or events can't take you from me.
"Home is where the heart is."
I push my hand inside
deep deep deep down
and curl my fingers around your flame.
I am home. 

"...But my writing hands/ are the roots/ of my misery."

Monday, May 01, 2017


Photo by Alessandro Carboni

Heart within, as well as without,
Remove the barriers I've raised to your grace.
Soothe me at night, when doubt tortures me.
Push me through the day when every moment is agony.
Give me solutions my mind can't conceive.
Fill me with hope when life crushes me.
Embrace my darkness when I am scared of it.
Help me make every moment meaningful. 
Offer me understanding when I am given none.
Help me live with dignity while blind dogs snarl at my heels.
Offer me the justice this world denies.
Let me cross the bridge with no fear or regret.
May the skies of Forever take me
and let me rest inside you.
Thank you.

Monday, April 17, 2017

The ends of the Earth

One hundred years of rain falling in sheets of ice
eating away at the foundations of memory
and desire.
One hundred years of the walls moaning 
and slowly giving way
to the past.
Our whole lives are monuments to loneliness
words in a dead language chiselled
on scattered monoliths.
We travel wrapped in shrouds of past laughter
in ragged wails,
in tears.
Our wings marking us as outcasts
our eyes clouded with wonders
long gone.
The sky is filled with rain clouds 
forebodings of endings
and new beginnings. 
Ashes and bloodied footprints mark my passage
and under them
new shoots.
Twin spindly bridges of black stone
one leading to the land of the living,
one beyond. 
The one will lead me to your embrace.
The other,

Saturday, March 04, 2017


I was raised by wolves 
in a land where water was poison 
and only shadows were my friends.
The wind howled with my swallowed pain.
Hecate found me bathed in my blood
and took me in as one of her own. 

Lucifer has three pairs of wings.
Black, as brilliant as night skies, to create.
Grey, to keep the balance.
And snow for death, destruction, and end.
His eyes reflect the Heavens at night,
obsidian orbs that witnessed Creation.

The dragons I command have a scorpion's tail
and the wings of a black dove.
I made them with the voids between the stars
tightly wrapped around the heart 
of a mother who killed her twins
and went mad.

My pillow is filled with small black pebbles
broken promises and chances that never came.
I don't always sleep well.
But late at night I open the door
and walk back into the Garden
I won with my tears.
I am revered there.

Now go. Do not look back.
Everything I said was true.
Never forget the name you were given
before the blade descended.
Clutch it tightly.
That's all you're allowed to take.

Monday, September 26, 2016


I am tired like ashes
Spiderwebs and red thread
I am sad like the sea
Under your pallid fingers
The piano weeps
Your terrors and secrets
Letters I'll never receive



Ice dragon of the heavens
Chasing the North star
Kiss me goodbye
Give me the key
You died sealing the floodgates
And opened the doors of hell
Inside of me

I am tired like ashes
Spiderwebs and red thread
I am sad like the sea
Fate will guide my steps
Take care of loose ends
And push me off the board
When there's nothing 


Friday, May 20, 2016

Back online

After two weeks offline I have a running laptop again. Weee! Two friends gave me their old laptop, bless them. I have a history of using old computers and laptops. I've never had to buy one due to the kindness of friends. Truth is, I wouldn't have the money anyway.

I *did* notice that the world did not end during my internet absence. I also noticed how much time I spend on the computer. It's inevitable. I watch movies, listen to music, write letters and stories, kill time on social media. During my offline days, I read books. Lots of books. There is only so much reading a person can do and remain sane. I haven't discovered it yet. I do know I have to stop reading when my eyes burn and my head aches. It takes a long time to achieve that state of bibliophilic grace.

I am watching the sixth season of The Walking Dead. It is a very good series. It shows what happens when the social web collapses completely. Something not different than what's happening in Syria and many other places in the world now. If you subtract the zombies and add the 'good' European countries plus US and Russia bombing for freedom and the local factions killing anyone who doesn't belong to their faction, which is basically everyone else, the brutality and mindless killing is the same. What's happening in the world now is not different than a post-apocalyptic zombie series, but for some reason, human beings don't find this alarming. Unless it's happening in their neighbourhood, it doesn't concern them.

Recently a friend was telling me how lucky we are that we don't have a war here, and don't really realise our privilege. It's true. In a sense, my country is lucky. In another sense, we're not. If I place on the scales outright war and economic strangulation, I am not sure which one is worse. And economic war is happening on a worldwide scale. Billions of people are below the poverty line, or barely manage to live. How did we let this happen to this planet? Why are we not rallying on the streets instead of uploading coffee and doughnut photos in Facebook and Instagram with mobiles we bought on credit? What the fuck is wrong with us?

A few days ago I saw a series of dreams. I no longer remember what they were about, but I remember my state when I woke up. In my dreams I remembered how I felt when I was a preteen. The hope and awe and unbelievable sensation that life was open for me, that all possibilities were open. Now I am older, disillusioned, cynical almost, and so very tired that my soul aches. And it aches even more when I remember even for a little while how I used to feel. That amazing sensation of trust and faith and belief and the deep certainty my life would be so exciting, so amazing, so... magical. I don't dare think about it because it hurts so much and at the same time that sensation makes me feel alive. It makes me remember what it is to have faith and trust and an open heart. It cuts deep to expose how much I've lost on the way, and how much I can, perhaps, rediscover.

Here is a poem written about that:


We dream, oh how we dream when we are young
and yet we grow up to become the lesser evil.
It is a matter of priorities
cowardice disguised as sensibility
and the princesses, and the phoenixes, and the feats of bravery
we just grow up to become the lesser evil.
What will your mother say?
Will the neighbours be jealous?
Is he the right one?
Your classmates would have laughed
(like they always did, no surprise there)
and on our deathbed we finally know
we grew up to become the greatest evil.

27th of July,  2010
Be good to someone tonight. Just to one person, yourself included, and just for tonight.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Been here before...


My soul is careworn and homesick

a balloon that lost

most of its gas,

and cannot take flight anymore,

nor can it


on humanity’s

concrete streets that go

nowhere in particular;

only build

a maze of lust

and wasted possibilities.
I wrote this poem on the 22nd of April, 2006. More than nine years ago, and tonight I feel exactly the same way. So, what's new? Nothing, I guess. For all my efforts, I am still at the same place.

(The pictures are for reference reasons. It's all doom and gloom around this time in my mind. So yeah.)

Wednesday, April 08, 2015



Late at night, struggling with words, a cat on my bed
The room smelling of absence and fresh tears
No matter how often I re-arrange and caress my books
How many movies I watch
How many words I write
How little I appreciate the human race
Hope and despair spring up entwined
Conjoined like unlikely twins

I am tired of caressing dead things
Tired of holding conversations with absent people
Tired of being lonely, scared, angry, hungry
Always ravenous for what I can't have
What I can't save, alter or stop
All it took was five letters
And now I squeeze those letters in my embrace and cry
Like I am holding your corpse

No, I tell you
I need no-one
I will surround myself with beauty
I'll populate my days with art
Like others create a court, or build an army
But my court will be in the service of king Death
Saturn eating his children
Each bite another moment gone
Tall like a tower, He comes in due time
To reap our precious harvest

My army will conquer no lands
Save for those islands we visit
In dreams, and fever, and in the womb,
And those breaths we exhale
In someone else's mouth
When time ceases to exist and it all makes sense
When the supernovas of our beings are aligned
With the jewels of the silent sky
Until He rises to claim everything
The Cheater that can never be cheated
The Thief of neverending

I want to scream your name until they take me away.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Story of my life

Does this feeling of discontentment ever go away?
Does life ever get meaningful, or simply interesting?
Do I get to belong and have a place to call home?
Do I get to live at all?
Do I care? Or let go?
What about injustice?


My head cables are arranged all wrong and tangled like snakes,
life is an endless, mind-numbing succession of days that get fewer and fewer
interrupted regularly by sleep and heartache.
The last unicorn is dead.
Reading is a form of sleeping, a soothing void of thought
or a messy affair, sometimes plagued by nightmares.
Writing is a form of avid masturbation with an audience.
I hate everything. Or lack the strength to hate, and I am merely
sick of existence.
I scratch the surface of my cell and the walls
remain intact, as if they are made of water.
Yet my nails break,
and I get to keep them as proof.
I am off to recount facts and steer clear of sympathy,
while worms and sycophants
rule the world.

Saturday, November 09, 2013

Three nights ago

Tarot of The Old Path: Six of Swords, a barrier to travel removed.

Night departure

The city’s lights look like a jewellery box left open
Like a mirror for the constellations in human size
They swell and ebb, an ever-flowing river of possibility
And there too is the promise of immortality.

The wind around me blows like a caress
Like a transparent shawl of memories and conversations
The candle flickers in my hands
Unknown to all, I stand here, not lost, but found.

All those faces, now gone, all those chance meetings
None of it matters when I lay my head to rest  
Travels on the back of a book, or in person
All leading back to the same starting point.

If only I could once more feel
What is like to expect the future with eyes open wide
The worm of doubt is such a trustworthy companion
And yet the heart tugs, tugs and reminds.

The city sleeps. The city never truly sleeps.
The stars above and I below
Form one puzzle, one promise
And the gateway to immortality.

Monday, March 04, 2013


Νίκος Γκάτσος:
Περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί σ'αυτό το αρχαίο αγγείο αγαπιούνται τόσο όμορφα δύο σώματα
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
Γιατί σε τούτο το μοτέλ ένα ταξί δαγκώνει αυτό το φέρετρο σα να'ναι πούρο 
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
Γιατί τα σκαλοπάτια ετούτα κατεβαίνουν μέσα στον καθρέφτη φτάνοντας εκεί που'ναι θαμμένο το προφίλ του φεγγαριού
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
Γιατί στον κόσμο τούτο όλοι έχουνε το σπίτι τους κι εγώ είμαι ο ξένος που 'χει χάσει τη φυλή του και το δρόμο του
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
Γιατί περιπλανιέμαι έξω από τη μήτρα σου κι έξω απ'τον τάφο μου
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου
περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου.

Nikos Gatsos:
My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.

Why on this ancient vase two bodies make love to each other so gracefully
 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
 Why at this motel a taxi bites this coffin as if it was a cigar
 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
Why do these steps descend inside the mirror reaching the place the profile of the moon is buried
 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
Why in this world everyone has a home, and I am the stranger who has lost his people and his way
my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
Why do I wander outside your womb and outside my grave
my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death
my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. 

(The translation is mine, and a bit awkward. But it conveys the meaning.) 

Sometimes I know for certain something you perhaps don't know, or don't want to see.
I am more like your father than I am like you.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

New arrival in my head

The beggar queen

I am constantly reminded of all that is not here, she said.
People, goods and opportunity are the most usual.
But if you ask me, I do not miss them. After all,
when circumstance becomes your fellow traveler
and time is the only tool at your possession,
you learn to make do.
Her dog says nothing. He’s a bony mutt
ridden by fleas and long winters and disasters
and he’s used to hearing his mistress musing
about a great many things, under the sky
that is their permanent roof.
Most days, his greatest concern is food,
or the lack of. Yet at night,
when the mistress sleeps and scratches herself
and dreams about being a beggar,
he stands watch. The fleas in his hide
throw parties and try their best
to take his mind off things. But he is not that easily swayed.
And when the moon unwraps her pearly nets
with great care, over the city that happens to host them
only as an afterthought,
he rests his battered head on paws that hurt
from walking the roads for so many years. 
Once he complained.
His mistress scolded him. She would have none of it.
This is my job, she had said, and it takes
a lifetime of dedication. If you find it a ordeal,
walk with me not. He felt ashamed. After all,
the only goods they both have in abundance
is time and circumstance, the only certainties in a life
that constantly changes, yet remains the same.
Cities, fortunes and kings come and go. And she doesn’t care
whether it is pity, disgust or hidden pride
that puts the coin in her dirty hands.
She thanks them all, and without complaining
takes from their shoulders the burdens
of people, goods, and opportunity.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Rhyming smutty scatological poetry, or,

...I am overwhelmed with happiness.

Midsummer afternoon poetry.

My ass has become as round as a peach, my boobies are blown up to heaven,
the bags under my eyes fit many gallons each, and I love to sleep in till eleven.
I perform dubious acts with my cats, and we purr and we lick in unison,
and we pat and we shake our prodigious butts, and we vanish in the line of horizon,
I by farting, thus propelling my way, they by bouncing and meowing excitedly,
I believe that this poem has gone rather astray, so at this point I’ll shut up politely.
And I’ll wave you goodbye, but I want you to know
that no mischief was done while creating it,
but my Muse is PMing and my mind is just slow
bet that too has to do with not dating.

Elizabeth V

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Wings of Erebus

Wings of Erebus

Lilith, Second one, consort of Lucifer,
Lend me your strength in this moment of need
Flow from within, flow from above
And cover me from head to toe
With the cloth of silence
With the cloak of humility
Earthly, celestial and chthonic
Goddess supreme, come to me…

Black Moon, married to the Black Sun
She who possesses the Three elements
And wears a crown of Sorrows
Mother of dragons and abominations
Opener, Bridge and Divider
Open my eyes, bridge my inside,
Make the truth plain to see
For my eyes are blinded by grief.

Wise one, Wild one, Silent one
Born of the Ocean beyond Time,
Lover of archangels and ancient gods
Liberating Serpent of creation and death,
Married to the impossible
Make me wise and wild and impossible
As I silently watch over the ocean
Of my life rage and unfold.

Forgotten one, Hidden one, Exalted one
She who rode nebulae and her laughter
Made creation shake with joy and potential,
All pathways open for her, all choices possible,
Reawaken me to the hidden reality
Of hosting heavens and nebulae and wonders
And needing no more than trust and a smile
To push those forgotten doors open again.

Thank you.

[In memory of my cats... Too many of them have died recently and today one was run over by a car. :-( ]