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

31 August 2017


I pick one up and score

each pole circling — but not too deep
I draw crescent moons
cutting superficially, merely grazing the orange with my blade

Tough skin

From slight incisions
dimples turn fragrant
at a moment’s notice or when the time is right

Peel it, taste

moist orange orange
lips and tongue, saliva and sweet juicy flesh all one
my green scent for love


postponement takes a knife to desire
unless I’d rather not
because I pretend I’ve forgotten how

Crunching the fruit, a crunchy orange

14 August 2017

imperfect joy

grainy beneath
white round
and time round
battered into shards
piercing for universal reminders
all wide long
moving mounts farther out still  

evening hadn’t yet approached nor had this been
a perfect day, although there was joy in it still

the woman with cigarettes and coral lips
the young man sitting by the entrance, his tousled hair
a girl with the skin, she thought, of a giraffe
none of us happy although joy to the day still

I placed my hands beneath his arms and we walked

clear translucent
warm, always brackish in these parts
and rows of grapevines heavy with fruit:
there’s no joy taking things for granted.
for a while I could find the indentation of my footsteps
then my toes started kicking up dust

startlingly beautiful, a perfect disk approaching the horizon

swimming back to a metre and a half standing
but sometimes the sea tried to bring me to my knees
The sea can be funny that way. Thalassa, I like her.

as I was saying, some things are heartbreakingly beautiful

the night breeze arrived, it knocked the salt off my gums,
that kind of breeze.
I’ll wait as long as it takes

waiting slowly —  slowly obscured the brilliant orange
the solitary dot near the cloud-empty horizon
but wondrous our earth
apart at red green spectrum 
but luminous, and myself alight
sliding below the line of the horizon

to a sunrise

my lost love, my love 

10 August 2017


At the cafĂ© they set tables on a narrow stretch
A wedge of shorn grass giving way to rock, to sand, to shore
Staged by an unseen hand to entertain the wanton inclinations of fate
A tale unfolds: chance in the fading twilight

The woman approaches in silence  
In silence resting
Her cheek against the back of his neck 
Done quickly lest time run out,
Lest he say no, her arms

It’s needless, he thinks, and after all this time too much of a liberty
He pries them apart with easy execution 
Half annoyed-half curious he stands to bow in greeting
When he spied her at that table with her chatty friends what did it matter?
The hour was late and the ache buried
He focused west into the riot of purple-saffron hues

You’ve grown a moustache she says
I’m thinking of shaving it off he replies
Her lips are mellowed by resin-wine
By the taste 
Of salty mist glistening his skin  

They stroll at the edge crunching seashells 
And broken waves drift ashore 
Let’s climb there she decides
Where will it take us that path?

Below, the deep is wine-dark tonight
They’ve learned its belly resembles the wine-dark within us all
“Don’t let go.”
“I won’t.”
Choppy water travelling in circles