Dimitri Tsaloumas : a poet loves

Are You ready to be loved ?

A mediterranean voice

Beauty and the Poet

When they print the floods of blossomand the scents at the passing of the youth,where they set on pages the moonlight prayersand frame the trills of nightingales,where they tear the shirt from the viper's sleepand thread from Fate's embroidery-frameto bind the volumes with the glorious hymnalsof the hours of exorcisms of love -there I'll send at dawn to have your birth recorded,at noon to have your dowry reckoned upand 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 throughinhuman times. Even the banks will feel the pinchand already many merchants scourtheir dusty books for long-forgotten debts.This is no time for borrowing.Manage as best you can. On the marginsof insomnia and the boundaries of sleeplurk dubious shapes and shadows, and if you cupyour ears and eavesdropat the doorcracks of night, you'll hear deadlywhisperings. 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 birdfulfilling the expectationsof the holiday-maker,but like good newsto those who sit upon the rockpatiently, expecting nothing.I beg you, don't deny it me.Your laughter. Your laughterwas not like gurgling waterin some landscape of romanticsentiment,but like a water-melon, split open by Augustto quench a muleteer's thirston a steep climb.Such freshnessI have never tasted in my life.

Advice

I take for my pattern the high windowand cut our daily skyinto a tablecloth. And on the tableonly the tender pitcherwith all the beads of down.

Don't dye your hair blackdon't rush to the doordon't steal the firefrom 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 pilgrimageI travel by what light and signsthe sky affords. I do no penance,seek no remission of sins.Majestic highways and safe roadstook me to famous places of worshipin the far country of youth, where I prayed and saw my dreams come true.   Yet archmagician timeturned all those gifts to tractsof waste and thirst, whereI wielded number and calculationto reckon the worth of friend and foe.This I regret, though my riches grewand glowed, yielding a measureof satisfaction.

Now new landsborn of the lifting mistsbeckon to the nomadic soul,uncharted streams and mountain pathslead it to shrines long strayedfrom memory,mentioned in parchments long decayed                     whereI now hear musics not heard before,smell scents from alabaster jarsand phials buried in vaulted tombsto make sweet the sleep of queens,visit old crimes that strange faithhas turned to things of veneration. On this my last pilgrimageI seek no evidence of factbut firmer certainties, not hopebut truth of nobler substancewhere, in secret folds, the mind still dreams of wings.

..so, did you enjoy ? Was it love?

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