Poetry is a code of life, it is thoughts that breathe and words that ignite life.

“What would life be without poetry?”
What would poetry be without the strange journeys of language?”

Culture Book talks through the Patras Word Poetry Festival with poets who create around the world. The presentation, recording, and study of these poets is one of those things that we owe to the art of poetry.

The recording without magnification of the true dimensions of the greatness of life, which we are ready to destroy, in and from the textual values ​​of modern poets, shapes the everyday life of modern literature.

Antonis D. Skiathas

POET’S HANDS

Every day an anonymous person sets my hands on fire.
Stained letters of little value.
False words are dangerous for a poet,
fake friendships,
the fake wars,
the false lives.
A poet needs to register a pain
If you don’t have your own,
but the poet’s pain must always be real.
The poet’s words
They must be stained with value.
The poet’s words
They cannot be anonymous fires.

Every day a sign sets my hand on fire.
They say they are going to crucify me.
They say I’ll be the top head
of all the heads.
I look at my hands:
they don’t have blood
nor land
no scars,
none of those things that mark value.

Every day a word weighs on me.
A fire settles in my stomach.
They still haven’t built the cross or the crown for me.
The country is a stomach
that weighs on our heads,
and we still don’t know
yes the men who have just arrived
will be our heroes
or our future murderers.

POET’S HANDS

Every day an anonymous fellow lights my hands
on fire. Stained letters of little value.
For a poet false words are dangerous,
false friendships,
false wars,
false lives.
A poet needs to register a pain
if he does not have one of his own,
but the poet’s pain must always be real.
The poet’s words
must be stained with courage.
The poet’s words
cannot be anonymous fires.

Every day a sign lights my hand on fire..
They say they are going to crucify me.
They say I’m going to be the head on top
of all the other heads.
I contemplate my hands:
they have no blood on them
no dirt
no scars,
none of those things that mark value.

Every day a word weighs on me.
A fire settles in my stomach.
They still haven’t built me the cross or the crown.
The country is a stomach
that weighs on our heads,
and we still don’t know
if the men who have just arrived
will be our heroes
or our future assassins.

Translated by Indran Amirthanayagam

VORTEX

Muslim women learned to cover their heads.
Only the eyes might be exposed to the disaster of the streets.
His eyes, the only possible gap
between the armor of the flesh and the hijab.

The fabric is the circumstance of being mute.
It seems that silence is a mark of fear.
A woman who is silent is not a woman who accepts,
but a woman who thinks.
To women, like to men
They must always be investigated through their eyes.

The Muslims
They know how to take care of the sharpness of the kohl
around the iris.
The act of purification
It goes in the colors and hard words.
In the early mornings their heads lit up.
Sometimes it was necessary
evacuate thoughts
to balance sleep,
stamp unrest
and disguise the verses in masnaví.

The truth is sacred,
That is why it must be covered with metaphor.
It is not advisable for the inoculated brain to disrupt it.
The papers must be covered by the husband.
The head is a valuable organ
who must be protected from hunger and shooting.
A wise woman is more dangerous
than a weapon in the hands of a madman.

VORTEX

Muslim women learned to cover their heads.
Only their eyes might be exposed to the disaster of the streets.
Their eyes, the only possible gap
between the armor of the flesh and the hijab.

The fabric is the circumstance of muteness.
It seems that silence is a mark of fear.
A woman who is silent is not a woman who accepts,
but a woman who thinks.
Women, like men,
should always be probed through the eyes.

Muslim women
know how to take care of the sharpness of kohl
around the iris.
The act of purification
manifests in colors and hard words.
In the early mornings their heads would light up.
Sometimes it was necessary
to evacuate thoughts
in order to balance sleep,
to stamp uneasiness
and disguise the verses in Masnavi.

Truth is sacred,
that’s why it must be covered with metaphor.
It is not convenient that the inoculated brain distorts it.
Their roles must be covered by the husband.
The head is a valuable organ
that must be protected from hunger and gunfire.
A wise woman is more dangerous
than a gun in the hands of a madman.

Translated by Indran Amirthanayagam