12/10/2025

Σας έβαλα σε ένα κουτί, γιατί δεν ήθελα να σας δώσω στο χάος.

Ίσως φοβόμουν τη μονιμότητα της πράξης αυτής.

Φυλούσα αναμνήσεις, πάντα σε μια οριοθέτηση, σκηνοθετημένη γύρω από συμβιβασμούς και καθωσπρεπισμούς.

Μα ρήμαξα τα θέλω μου και βρέθηκα σε μια ερημιά, περικυκλωμένη από έναν μωσαϊκό ντετερμινισμού.

Και μέσα του, γύρισα κι είδα όλες τις εκφάνσεις των επιλογών που θα μπορούσα να είχα πάρει.

Βγάζω τις αναμνήσεις μου στο ράφι, τις επεξεργάζομαι και τις ξεσκονίζω.

Να πάρουν φως.

Δίχως περιορισμούς, δίχως κλειδιά -

Μια ελευθερία 

Στον διαχρονικό χώρο

Με ένα μειδίαμα μόνο, λίγα δάκρυα και

Μια μακρινή μουσική 

Να μας υπενθυμίζει την ιερότητα της λήθης.

Copyright M.E.S ©️ 

Brushstrokes of presence

In essence, we are colors in bristles of time

We intertwine, link and become refined

We attenuate our circumstances - our pastels, bronzes and ashes

We cast shadows, fades of regret

Through glossy lights, we illuminate a quiet respect

Though the canvas can be refitted, redesigned, reprobed

Our permanent mark is forever valiant, quaint, exposed

Copyright M.E.S ©

Computational Enlightenment

Musings on the wall

My muses: come alive; speak in parables, rhyme their crimes

My muses: quirky; stand with their feet rooted, their back against the wall

When initiating movement - that's when they stall

A competitive brawl and crawl

To handover inspiration 

Enthralled

Without a destination 

Conformed

To laugh with hesitation 

Adorned

Their sounds arrive to my ears, remarks of silent reputations: prayers for eternal bliss and alienation.

Copyright M.E.S ©

Maria, you brushed your hair in the high ceiling house with the colorful stained glass windows. In the neighbourhood, kids laughed and competed. 

Your pots and pans still emit heat from the feasts you prepared and visitors' stories of their homeland in your home. 

Your coffee tasted strong and bold like promised tomorrows.

You would smile and patiently give us the lettuce of the world to feed those turtles. 

Slow living, that's what I remember of Beirut. 

And how your lemonade was always kept to high standard, year on year. 

I remember hints of bar soap; exploring your pantry of eclectic spices, herbs and nuts. 

Your thin paper where I wrote my first rhymes. 

There was something mesmerising about those patterns in your tiles, those sculptures and books. 

They would open a new conversation piece; we would come together to weave our tapestry of roots. 

I carry your name, 'Maria', it's a part of me.

And I always remember you dearly.

Copyright M. E. S © 

26/10/2022

What would she think of me? Those nights I'd lay on the grass on the mountainous terrain, smoking and looking. Looking above at the stars and moon; hearing the night sounds echo and hinder the answers I sought. 

It was so sweet to long for someone. The pain felt familiar. It's one that's personal and comforting, it brings out the struggle we have to endure to prove we are alive, outspoken, challenged. 

Would she smile at what I have become? Those days I would make lists of things to talk about. I wanted to know everything. I felt as if I wouldn't know who they really were if I didn't know their favourite color, how they drink their coffee or what they do to console themselves. Part of me still thinks this.

She told me I would do great things. I wonder if she meant it or just said it to make herself feel better for how she ended it; I wonder if her family ever accepted her and what they really thought of me. I hope she thinks about me with less heartbreak.

Would she look at me with those eyes and shake her head? If we could see ourselves being those naive teenagers from the corner of a room. Would she be grateful we bonded over society not being ready for stories like ours?

Would she touch me if she could? We used to worry about each other's fragility that we could have enjoyed each other more. We idealised each other but perhaps that's what we needed back then - something unphased, something life couldn't take from us, a relationship unable to be tarnished.

I have many questions to ask them. I am that person for someone else, we all are that element in the cycle.

What questions do you have for me? 

08/06/2021

Don't you find it strange how people we once thought we couldn't live without now are a passing thought, if anything?

June and summer. I remember laughter, heat, cigarettes, music, sweet perfume and air conditioning.

I remember trains and planes and buses and giggling, hiding to kiss, getting release, dreaming about the future, feeling untouchable about youth.

Youth. The fixation of the now. The plead to a better us. The hope for less agony, less stress. More presence. More savouring of people connections, food, feeling found and safe.

Finding myself in people and figuring out my sense of serenity, my contribution and place in this chaos, my weaknesses and strengths. All of this does not mean anything without others. There is no ripple effect if there is no continuity but there is no action without self realisation. 

Ὁ ψίθυρος τοῦ χεριοῦ του Νικηφόρου Βρεττάκου

Τά χέρια – τό χέρι σου, εἶναι ἡ πιό τρυφερή 

ἔκφραση τῆς δημιουργίας. Φαίνεται πώς, 

καταλήγουν στά δάχτυλα μελωδίες 

καί πώς ὁ Θεός δέν εἶναι αὐτός πού μιλᾶ

μέ ἀνέμους, κεραυνούς καί θεόρατα

κύματα, ἀλλ’ αὐτός πού μιλᾶ μέ τά δάχτυλα 

χαμηλόφωνα κι ὅπως ὁ φλοῖσβος στήν ἄκρη

τῆς θάλασσας, ψιθυρίζει ἀγάπη.

[Από τό "ΗΛΙΑΚΟΣ ΛΥΧΝΟΣ", 1984]

Στη φωτογραφία σχέδιο του Picasso, από κάρτα της φίλης του Νικηφόρου Βρεττάκου Ρενάτας Λαβανίνι (Renata Lavagnini).