OH, THAT HAND OF YOURS
by Artemis Chrysostomidou

SCULPTURE

After the war

the eyes of the ancient statues

should have tears carved all over them;

and not pretend that sorrow never touched them,

whereas beauty is deeply hurt.

​

I LOVE YOU WITH ALL MY FINGERS

Things have no shape in absence.

I can slip on everything.

Your speed next to flying birds

passing by full of the ephemeral

while they are moving into a warmer place,

is making everything look so young

as if born just the day before crushing.

Eyes have so much to explore.

The statues arouse in silence

the hungry look of adventure.

Oh, that hand of yours!

​

A HIGH-LEVEL TRAUMA
Apart from the material
there is nothing else
separating your skin
from the abyss of colours.
 

BETRAYAL

The drama of being Odysseus

and not knowing it,

enslaved to inertia.

​

THE INCESSANT MARCHES OF ANTS
Still, she finds the simplification of things

quite disturbing.

Existence is not rationalised but,

life is simplified
when she listens to its complexity,

the incessant marches of ants

she had only read about

because she had never been a naturalist

and felt she needed words to describe the world.

Where exactly had she read about

the challenge of the gaze?

 

THE NECK OF HISTORY
Why is Babylon confused with Babel?
Hanging gardens are not a matter of vocabulary.
She knows the warmth of the candle
instead of the clumsy temperature
from the fever of a malady.
Warmth is not measured by thermometer,
it can’t cause fever

the already burning fire of love.
She deals with human conflict,
a possibility of death or depth.
Warming cream on the neck of history.