17 March 2018

Anxious Times in New York

that anger shivered like an autumn leaf
as the angler celebrated his pyrrhic victory

paths diverged to opposite sides of the day
and wounded by the barb

yes, I glimpsed backwards
as you may have surmised

to a strut, to a stroll,
to a cup of coffee tall
and the plaid hips she had

08 March 2018


Snowdrops in snow
An anthology of them
At the clearing the wind howls
Its sound spins, repeating itself

Fantastical visions — snow falling
A light brushing passing stroke

I reach for spectacles: the world howls now
Colourful, less placid more silent

I observe the plant’s growing habit 
Stem piercing earth

A petal becomes detached 

Crowded snowdrops in bud in snow
One page, one, one page

02 October 2017


Nature isn’t graceful. Beautiful or fearsome it twists us in knots; let us then be sinuous
as a thunderbolt is, as a riverbank, the limbs and twigs ‘neath our flesh, as meaning is — not easy but sinuous

I saved up all I was, hadn’t done, not yet killed, forgotten games I had played, and whose fine afternoon unravelling by the book, both taking both, then you unceasingly perfect, we sinuous 

Sparkling butterfly, sylphlike innocence ensconced and rising lissom on lithe greenery, to you I write. Rose butterfly observe my inkwell: it’s not empty. The dagger’s quill carves sinuous

At early blue, hope is at its weakest: perhaps a slow fall, silent the conscious drowning. Desired hope stays to mix with the day’s sweat and salt, to be inhaled in the lung, to proclaim: beloved, we fearless, we sinuous

Aged from time and weather yet defiant still to what is no:
I am carried to fire in a foreign hearth, a chambered forest, light blooming at night fragrant and sinuous his curls sinuous

I accept everything, I accept nothing. That yes, that no, that something: poetry like love is and isnt resurrection — does it change opinions, bring a change of heart? Lament and celebration, poetry and love: involuted, sinuous

13 September 2017

Images 3

This mountain
Stone beyond war
Enduring stone
At its foothills I live

I plait thread for lace making
Winding it in spools
Filigreed designs I’ve yet to wear

Evenings I gaze at the summit
Slowly it melds with night indigo

Such hours I long to hear your voice:
a vine fragrant
beads of waterfall upon the parched
dappled river gleam, 
tapestry of mosses 

I hear tales 
wild things nurtured in your solitude
a unicorn roaming sleepless

And I rest quiet upon the unknown.

Ana Kyriou
13 September 2017