April 2015
I have been writing poetry for over 30 years now. Along with traveling, cafes and my darling family, poetry is my sustenance! I am the author of five poetry collections, including most recently We Lit our Lamps Ourselves (Salmon Poety, Ireland), New Girl (Anchor & Plume Press), and Yaya's Cloth (Iris Press). My new book, An Ink Like Early Twilight, is now available at Amazon I live in Madison, Wisconsin.
Eternity Happened
Oia, Thira
once when the Greek sun
had its say
over the terraces and cliffs,
the lapis water of the caldera
waving and blinking Yes.
Even the feral tabby settled
on the veranda
where we stared,
where we breathed
stricken by beauty,
future—a word
we would not understand.
Walking in Greece
Sifnos
I’m surrounded by blue
shining that nearly blinds.
Whitewashed stones wind
a path through the village—
old men at their tables,
a pack donkey tied to a tree.
Something in me
feels even
with the earth,
the weight of sun
that knows its strength.
I climb the steep path,
my grandmother’s grandmother’s hands
softly pressed on my back.
Oia, Thira
once when the Greek sun
had its say
over the terraces and cliffs,
the lapis water of the caldera
waving and blinking Yes.
Even the feral tabby settled
on the veranda
where we stared,
where we breathed
stricken by beauty,
future—a word
we would not understand.
Walking in Greece
Sifnos
I’m surrounded by blue
shining that nearly blinds.
Whitewashed stones wind
a path through the village—
old men at their tables,
a pack donkey tied to a tree.
Something in me
feels even
with the earth,
the weight of sun
that knows its strength.
I climb the steep path,
my grandmother’s grandmother’s hands
softly pressed on my back.
Sleep after Travel
descends
like the path
we took on Oia,
the sinuous wide-
spaced stones that made
a stairwell
to the caldera edge,
the taverna
that was ours
for hours,
bread sopped in oil,
octopus and olives,
tiny goblets of raki,
the Greek sun
slicing the water,
tipping our world
to dark.
Greek Easter Photograph
Last of the lamb on my grandmother's platter,
the sweet-bread loaves torn,
the body made sated.
My grandparents' hands meet
in the center of the frame,
each cups an egg,
pomegranate-red and glistening
through all the years
as if each one was polished
by Apollo.
Between them, a smile
as they pause
to rap egg
upon egg, gentle
echo of luck
that followed me into my life.
Some Questions from the Audience
Why so many cats?
Are those bars on the side of the Parthenon?
Did Socrates really
swallow the hemlock in that cave?
How many pillars make a temple?
Why an owl on top?
What did those urns hold?
Is the water always see-through?
How do the village houses, the steps
stay so white?
What do those stones mean? Tell me
how blue becomes that blue.
-all poems from An Ink Like Early Twilight forthcoming Salmon Poetry.
©2015 Andrea Potos