Four Poems

The Enemy of God is Time -- So Little -- The Big City Soul -- The Hole

by Dimitris Palasis

Dimitris Palasis was born and lives in Athens, Greece. He has written poetry since 1979 and prose since 1989. He began translating his work into English in 1995. Dimitris characterizes his poetry primarily as symbolic and secondarily as affected by surrealism in a dreamy and memorial way. According to others, there is a strong sense of place and parallelism. Sometimes his style seems to come across as poetic without being willing to expose the "stuff of the poet". An internal monologue or a dialogue to an unknown person cuts in at various places his poems. His other interests include art, music, philosophy, culture, psychology and sociology.

The Enemy of God is Time

The enemy of god is time
The catarrh of a dream
in white flakes
Diaphanous rivers
in the orange sky

The sky with the gray stones
blows heat into my fingers
The wind-plane with the colored nails
The rose ears hanged
by the diamond eyes of the blinded

Fake eyes of the people
true eyes of the beast,
the enemy of the god is the time!
That empties the days
with a colored blade cut

I wedged, my God, in the passing
with my hands empty to search

So Little

Dreams less than dreams
Men less than men
Why all so little
in this land?
Tell me, my dear, tell me!
Lady with the legs-reels
with your parts spread in order
like an experiment
Tell me, my dear, tell me!
Use any word you like
I am hear to listen
the murmur of your skin
like iron sheet being torn
Tell me, my dear, tell me!
Why is everything so little
in this land?

The Big City Soul

The trees
like funny caps
tortured by the people
spoil my healthy thoughts
Bright tin snake creeps
dusty breath into my body
The shop windows like big mouths
were ready to swallow my soul.
I could see so many souls
flying like fogs
in the dark air
slowly suffering the torture
of the light body.
Their faces were like distorted moons
changing to nothing
over the time
Oh, soul of the big city night!
You blow me up to the youth
on a skyscraper terrace
looking after the week hidden sins
grown up from the body depths
Praise in hymns
on the ruin in a cloud
making circles to belong
Punched by the sun in my eyes
alive continue my city bin

The Hole

What a mess!
Don't you listen to me?
My voice is coming from the hole
under your chair
I am the well
I am the abyss
Deep voice from the black cheek
I sing for you
Till you fall
Who else to come
I'll ask him, too
Another and another and another...
Always to empty the chair
with deep feather cracks
accompanied by the dark thought
The miners' group
The group of dead
The miners
What a mess!
You don't listen to me
How long shall I wait?

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