Pegasus 2022-23

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by Christina Boutzatza

ADVISORS & CONTRIBUTORS

EDITOR: MS. JODI HILL

LAYOUT EDITOR: MS. CAROLINE MARTIN

MIDDLE SCHOOL WRITERS

Evdoxia Maria Dimitriou

Stamatina Eirini Eleftheriadou

Angeliki Michalopoulou

HIGH SCHOOL WRITERS

Sokratis Brizas

Antzelina Viktoria Fykatas

Eirini Gidari

Ioanna Machalia

Vivian Karavasili

Erasmia Danai Kanli

Athina Koumioti

Marios Michalis Kyrimis

Eftychia Panousi

Vasiliki Politi

Agni Pyrovetsi

Alexia Sextou

Andrianna Solomonidou

Anastasia Spyromitrou

Zoi Tzika

Achilleas Ververidis

Klearchos Panteleimon Nikolaidis

Dafni Vitsou

VISUAL ARTISTS

Athanasios Arnaoutoglou

Christina Boutzatza

Apollon Charalampous

Afroditi Godi

Eftychia Panousi

Vasiliki Politi

Konstantina Tsigdinou

Konstantinos Vrangalas

Leandros-Marios Mirliaountas

COVER ART

Christina Boutzatza

Vasiliki-Phaedra Rangazas

BOUTZATZA

Life in Full Color

POETRY &MUSIC

By Andromachi Stefanou

CHRISTINA

By the Sea

by Andrianna Solomonidou

A gull repeatedly stealing glimpses of hope, timidly diving into your sea that sang the coordinates of my tunes, warm and remote humming.

i breathe you, and the eyes touch deeper and softer than hands, and your hands are a semblance of home. The ticking is so Still;

Yet racing since time has lost its meaning and everything is defined and deconstructed by you.

Waves of feverish insanity kiss my feet while i accept i was weak. You didn’t make me strong. You let me be weak with you. i wonder if i am lost or found.

Child: a haiku sonnet

By Andrianna Solomonidou

A young foolish soul: draped in Apollo's chiton, worries over shoes.

No worry’s so great As the worry of to-be, the “shoulds” and the “musts”.

Bees swim up ahead, the fishbowl is cubical; all is rhyming, they said. And a little girl dons a gray suit of guilt and recites Sartre.

Pieces of self fly awaydenying self expression (?)

Vasiliki

All is rhyming

by Andrianna Solomonidou

Young foolish sot: Parades in Apollo's dress, worries over shoes.

No worry’s greater than the worry of to-be, the “shoulds” and the “musts”.

Bees swim right ahead, the fishbowl is cubical; all is rhyming, they said.

And a little girl

Dons a gray suit of guilt and recites Sartre.

Pieces of self fly awayrevolting self expression

By Argyro Kotziagkiaouridou

Untitled 2

by Erasmia Danai Kanli

There is a nostalgic evening blue

Dressed with a tearful smile of purity

Life as it was before we were more than it could bear

Our minds free before we started living consciously

Do you ever think in a dream?

Life was part of it.

There is a nostalgic evening blue

Children’s eyes, memories afloat

Eagerness for a world unknown but never frightening

A calm sea, an exotic name, the wind

Green and blue, what's more to love

A hideaway, the image of youthful play.

An end, so smoothly sudden

So slow you forget it's happening

So fast there is no time to try and bring it back

The end of the beginning or simply the end?

Does the blue have an end?

Does the sky?

An end, so smoothly sudden

Our lives a skyless ground

They say everything starts now

They say there’s more than just blue

But can the rest be music?

Can the rest be pure?

A song is playing somewhere far away

It’s calling us back, but we ought to stay.

Red nymph

By Vasiliki Politi

Her dark cherry red hair shining in the sun. A smile radiating safety to everyone around her. A heart willing to give all its power to anyone in need. A human embodiment of Nabokov’s pure nymph. A mortal resemblance to the beautiful Annabelle Lee. Their fates alike.

From the corner of my eye the flash of her hair warms my heart, she stands befriending the strangers approaching her. She seems like an angel but I get a glimpseof her pocketknife ready to attack. The perfect balance of her personality. Oh, to smell her hair, her breath to tingle in my ear.

My eyes focus on her, the background blurry, unnecessary. This night she leaves alone but reaches another destination. A cigarette in one hand and in the other her shiny companion walking the dark roads. She finds a bridge on top of a river and throws it into the abyss.

A Coward of a Tap

by Eftychia Panousi

Droplets of water, one after the other following a linear path to their ends

As a heavy silver of a tap veiled in rust never enough to hold them

Leaves them, as it knows best

And they leave, as they know better

You stared, you heard water is afraid of unmoving eyes But yours can’t afford to stay rigid truths never enough never enough to fill them

And still cowardly they left Out of love, out of worry

That you would find a foolish way to mend them

To gift them a goodnight kiss to wake them

Before the metal could cop another feel

Before the drain flies could orchestrate a dance in the rhythm of the water

There he is, a wrench and bolt away

Melting the whims of pipes in his fingers

Softly murmuring little good nothings

To ease the pain of remedy the exponential breaking of the spine, to rearrange the bones into the perfect degrees of circles

And she, the tap, In the absence of sound, In the lack of power to disrupt

Returned to the origin, The origin of obedience

The duty of cowering submission, The pair of inked hands in kindness gave her

Music of the Spheres

by Agni Pyrovetsi

The season's return

Echoes memories once lost Blossoms in the air

Nostalgia dances in the wind

Petals, whispers from the past

Springtime's symphony

Notes of life and hope reborn

Nature's orchestra

Each blossom, a solo

Melody, timeless art

In the cycle's gyration

Memories, like petals, fall

And return again

Spring's song, an endless refrain

Eternity's sweet call.

Silent Whispers

by Ioanna Machalia

A feeling that comes tightens your lungs and a silence whispers everything you don't want to hear. You were forced to lie to sleep in winter’s cold embrace but lost the chance of waking up to spring singing the melody of hope and renaissance.

Under the asphalt angrily lies the old bloodied dirt , Under the stars, the sky had been waiting like a child to show you all the impossible sunsets he would paint.

Are you still here?

I hear your voice when the summer breeze soothes my skin

I see you when my eyes rest on the endless blue sea. I feel you now as silence whispers everything I want to hear.

You are still here.

To Reign

by Vivian Karavasili

The tsar grasps the heir

In remorse

In anguish

In sorrow.

He has sinned.

He has harmed.

He has purloined his son’s last breath.

Yet, a tear falls gracefully from the son’s despairing eye.

He understands

He loves

He forgives

As blood stains his aristocratic corpse. He has fallen.

Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan by Ilya Repin This work is in the public domain.

The Eternal Skirmish

By Sokratis Brizas

‘Tis not the first time

That men cross swords

Over ideologies, possessions

And other such folly anyway.

Death envelops the battlefield

Both soothing and horrifying

That is man’s eternal fate

To bask in Thanatos’ sublimity.

Yet amongst that chaotic order

Eight men dare defy the law of nature

Whether it is their will or not, matters not It is a rare act nonetheless.

How will their tale end? I haven’t the foggiest. The least they can do is put up a good show. Even if the Moirae Sisters have already decided the outcome, even if no one can escape the Norns.

Maybe we can learn from these brave men: Let their resolve be an example for all under the sun, For one should challenge fate and nature even though it is a futile act.

Now I bid you adieu as I must.

I shall return to my land amongst my sisters. You shall move on with your everyday life. And may we Nymphs and Muses never have to aid you again. My beloved poet, I adore you.

Samurai Death

By Achilleas Ververidis

I’m weird and the roots of my hair feel golden this is dead land is there anybody out there?

My fighting style resembles a panic attack this sound is kind of silent is there anybody out there?

Relationships like neuron spiders gloommongering over my slivered hands tangled in my brain forest invisible?

I can cut the fruit with my wakizashi drink hot cocoa from my thermos bottle

heartless but sentimental honest but pretending alone when not lonely lonely when not alone

the sun behind my eyes the blood still inside me the faint strength in my fingertips

I think I’m still alive

Borders by Andrianna Solomonidou

Freedom is not freedom which plucks the rose’s red. It is not freedom which makes grown men cry and beg and bend. It is not freedom which has mothers pray for the lives of their children. It is not freedom which kills hope and seals the deal with the screams of a child. It is but deliberate, delirious deception. We are watching the living cross the borders, many, yet alone.

little- we are so little

from the face of the earth like that, I found it impossible. I still remember the sickening feeling I got in my stomach after the officers rang the doorbell. The kind of feeling that starts crawling around your insides and slowly makes its way up into your head. The funeral was held days later. Gray clouds covered the autumn sky and the weather was unreasonably cold. Or maybe I was too sensitive. I don't know.

I thought if I just continued living my life, maybe everything would go back to normal. Dad would come every Sunday to talk about the news, we would cook pasta (his favorite) and we would have a good laugh. Sunday came but dad was six feet under the ground. I hadn't got proper sleep in days, I hadn’t gone to work for three days and my concentration had vanished in the infinite forest of my imagination. The sun had risen, and I creeped out of my bed, put my suit on and went out of the house.

The cold breeze hitting my face made me remember my forgotten tie and scarf and a sandwich I had prepared to take to work the night before. Right at the corner, a gentleman was selling the newspaper. Inflation was up by 3,2% and NASA was preparing to launch a mission that carried five astronauts aboard theSpaceShuttleChallengeronasix-dayflight.

Walking to the train station was already hard on its own. I had to climb the stairs which made my heart beat even faster. I stared at the people waiting, everyone in their own little world, their own anguish, their own agonies, it was quite painful to watch everyone’s miserable face. Maybe it was defeat in disguise? Anyways, I didn’t have time to think about it because I had to get off the train. Soon enough I arrived at work. I sat on my dark wooden desk and took a look at all the files I had to review since my absence. I didn’t seem to concentrate at all, my speech was disorganized and the gray clock above my office was ticking annoyingly loud. Time was passing unordinary slowly, my head was getting heavier, my legs were twitching, it was too warm and sweaty. I became exhausted and needed a break. This place was too miserable for me to stay any longer. I knocked on the door of Mr.Nelson'sofficeandtookabreaththathalf-filledmylungs.

‘GoodmorningMr.Nelson’,Isaid.

‘Oh, David good morning, I couldn’t reach your telephone the last couple of days, is there a reason you were absent?’, he said as if I wasn’tsomeonediligentenough.

‘I actually came to discuss something with you, if that’s ok’, I answered.

‘Yes,pleasegoahead.’

‘I see that I have days of workload waiting for me, but after I finish all that, I wanted to ask if I can now utilize my ten-day brea-wellnowsevendaybreak’.

‘Yes,ofcourse,’hesaidinakindmanner.

'I better get to work then’, I whispered as I was just about to leave.

‘David, wait, is there anything else you want to tell me? ‘he questionedasifwewerefriendsofsomesort.

‘No sir, that’s about it’, I answered and went off. After I finished work I immediately took a taxi home. My head was hurting, I couldn’t stop thinking about dad and a veil of guilt covered my already troubled mind.

I understood a long enough time had passed because a layer of dust started formulating on the kitchen counter and the fridge was getting emptier by the day. My unironed clothes were now falling out of the basket. Time flew by and I had lost count of the days. I had read every book in my library all over again. When I had eventually read them all, I just wanted to lay down, there was no reason to leave the bed, nothing to look forward to. Dad wouldn't come again on Sunday regardless of how much I wished he would. I had no more books to read, no plants to water, no dog to pet, nothing, just me and my empty house.

If you do things over and over again, it starts to get insignificant when you actually do them. It made no difference if it was night or day. So, I found myself reorganizing my plates at 3 o’clock in the noon. As I was trying to decide if I should categorize them by size or by color, I heard a fist bang on my door. Who could it possibly be? I looked out the window and I saw Richard! What did he want? I half opened the door but he kind of forced himself in. He seemed concerned, I could sense it by the way he looked at the stacks of books that were lying on my coffee table and the plates that I hadn’t finished organizing. He sighed and advised me to come to work or else Nelson would fire me. I was confused because I was sure that I had a few days left. I glanced at the calendar which was hanging over the kitchen door to check the date, but I had forgotten to erase the previous dates, therefore I didn’t know what day it was. He broke the few second silence by joking around, ‘For God's sake, David, eat something you look like you survived a twenty-day trip to a deserted island’, he said. Legend has it that

every joke has a grain of truth or in this case, the joke was an analogy of the condition I was in. He was right. He was the only one here. He would and could understand if I told him. He would… he will. He did.

His kind brown eyes were staring directly at me, I must have been thinking for a minute or two, anticipating whether to tell him or not. I finally gathered the courage to speak to him, heart to heart.

‘Richard, I want to get something out my chest—'

‘Yes David, are you alright?’

I couldn't look at him anymore. I so badly wanted to get this awful pain off my chest. I just wanted to explain everything to him. He radiated warmth, he filled the house with light. Not the kind of light that blinds you from its brightness, more like the light of the moon on a summer’s day. I didn’t need to say anything else; he knew.

‘Stop it David please, get a hold of yourself, you haven’t shown up to work in days, your house is a mess, you’ve got books taking over your table, you sound like a mad man.…Ah look, I know that your dad loved you and tried his best after your mom’s death, but don’t let your life go downhill because of this!’

‘So dad is dead after all’ I thought, pulling a chair to sit at the dining table.

‘Look, Amanda’s birthday is on Friday and she’d love to see you. We are hosting a dinner at our house. Many guys from the office will be there, so take a bath, put on a nice suit, go out, buy something new and I will come and pick you up at 8:00 pm. Come on, you have to make a fresh start David, what do you think?’ He said this with a cheerful but serious voice. I nodded.

‘Oh David, why are you being like this?’ He got up from the couch and sat next to me.

‘OK, Richard, maybe I will give it a try,’ I answered, and just like that I felt my lips forming a smile.

Richard saw me smiling and I believe that he felt relieved. He waved goodbye and the following days had me looking forward to the “fresh start.” I cleaned my apartment, went to the barber’s, and bought a new green wool scarf to match my brown shoes.

Before I knew it, Friday was just around the corner. I took a warm bath, dressed up, put on the watch my dad had given me on my birthday last year, wrapped the new scarf around my neck and went out to wait for Richard. As I went out the cold wind and snow made my ears hurt. Richard had already arrived so I quickly got into his car.

‘Hello there, someone looks nice today; I see that you followed my advice,’ he said and we both laughed. When we arrived at his house, I was greeted by concerned stares and awkward silence. ‘Happy birthday, Amanda,’ I said and then called, ‘long time no see’ to the staring faces, and everyone went back to normal. I hugged Amanda and gave her a bouquet of flowers since Ι hadn’t known what to get her. The night was moving along smoothly, and I was active in the conversations that were happening. They all skipped the fact that they hadn’t seen me in a while. It seemed everyone had something nice going on with their lives.

I suddenly took a break and stood back observing everyone for a moment. Their smiles, their laughter, the way they were getting so passionate about sharing their life experiences and how others enjoyed themselves. I realized I had lost so much precious time digging myself in a hole that was impossible to get out of. The sense of an unbearable void slithered around my insides. The more I kept thinking of it, the more I panicked. It was getting progressively harder to breathe. I was feeling dizzy, but I don’t know if it was from the lack of oxygen that was getting to my brain or the fact that I hadn’t drunk so many glasses of wine in a while.

I stood up, went to Richard and whispered, ‘I think it’s time for me to go.’ He stared at me.

‘Are you crazy? It’s eight below outside. Wait for the guests to leave and then I will drop you off, or you’ll sleep here tonight.’

‘No Richard. I don’t think I will be able to stay any longer.’

I raised my voice and shouted, ‘See you on Monday, everyone!’ I stumbled across the room and rushed from the house as quickly as I could. By the time I got out, I was gasping for air and in my mind I was replaying the most precious memory Ihad of my mother and my father together at our old house. I kept recalling all the other childhood memories and felt so lost in them. ‘Why didn’t things

stay the way they were? Why...why...why?’ My feet guided me to the train station and a dark, deep desire swam to the surface of mind. I could hear the whistle of the train getting closer. It was approaching, and my heartbeat was beating louder and faster, yet life hadn’t felt so peaceful in weeks, it was time for me to finally rest…

‘Stop!’ A man screamed at the top of his lungs, I turned around with my eyes filled with tears. It was Richard. He had followed me. He ran towards me and hugged me so tightly that I almost couldn’t breathe. ‘What were you about to do, are you crazy?!’

Ι surrendered myself in his arms and between sobs I managed to get the words out of my mouth ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me Richard, help me, I can’t do this anymore!’ He stroked my hair like my late mother used to do and said ‘It’s ok now David everything will be fine. It’s ok now, we’ll find a solution together.

‘It’s ok’ he repeated as I cried a river of tears in his arms.

LEANDROS-MARIOS MIRLIAOUNTAS

defying gravity

Caught off guard

by Vasiliki Politi

I see you in every corner of my town

Following my every step

My heart beats in my head as I walk alone I try to act calm when in reality my stomach is in knots, my legs giving in, my eyes trembling in fear and adrenaline rushing in my blood

The serenity in your eyes pierces me through With no effort you have turned your world right side up

And I am exhausted and worse than ever. The only escape is to leave this place, to travel somewhere just out of reach to be a no-one, a stranger, a person

To start my life

Spring

By Antzelina Viktoria Fykatas

Its claws sink into me as I look down Into a colourful abyss of poppies and cornflowers and lilacs

Each cherry blossom tree, another paper cut

(I wonder what will happen after the thousandth.)

I could, I suppose

Just hand you a branch, and ask if you’d do the same, But when have you known me not to put up a fight?

I gave you poppies for a reason.

(I hope I won’t need them.

I hope I can bury something else.)

Let’s put a bad thing to rest, for once.

Why Bother?

by Vivian Karavasili

Why bother try

If you know you’ll fail?

Why bother scream

If you know you won't be heard?

Why bother write

If you know it won’t be read?

Why bother live

If you know you’ll die?

Yet, I am unfazed about the ending

For I know I have lived.

And what is life

If not a marvel.

The Red Roses

By Athina Koumioti

How can a flower flourish without a sun, how can a sky exist without its stars, how will the flower grow when the sun burns it?

How will the sky remain after the world’s ending…

How can life exist without a sun

How is love born without a laugh

Yet, what if the sun betrays and burns you

What if love invades and tears you?

All these Fears lying in the back of your mind

You’re covering them up with illusions

Lying to yourself, saying you’re fine But still…

Roses are red

Lilies are yellow

Violets are blue

Death is black

Rage is empty

Lust is shallow

Violence is endless

Death is envious

The meadow is collapsing

Bodies are buried beneath it

The last standing tree toppled by the rushing of water

Last summer’s planted seeds slowly wither, dying by the sharp edge of the sickle

Spring is falling

Love is dying

The world turns black

Just close your eyes…

It will all be over soon.

Untitled 1

by Erasmia Danai Kanli

Give me some words of gratitude

Before it is too late

Is it?

No one can know

Give me some words of happiness

To make up for your anger

Can't you?

You only know

Tell me do you hate it here?

Or do you perhaps love it

A little too much?

How will I know?

Wouldn't you like to go back?

To love and hate it

One more time.

You'll never know

Golden by Anastasia Spyromitrou

Sun sits heavily in my hair

Its weight lowering my head onto the grass. Drop by drop it draws the thoughts from my mesmerized eyes.

The golden hour hits me once again: Birds are rushing over my head. Maybe they are off to a warmer land maybe they are returning, or maybe this is a ballet and I can’t grasp what I am witnessing.

There is something poetic lying within their wings. It’s as if the only reason the birds exist is for poets to write about them, and then scatter the manuscripts from the rooftops of their musty poets’ apartments into the air. While young children stop to tie their laces on their way to school, the poems slide through cracks of their bedroom doors and wait for the children to grow.

Let me sink into the light and meet you in the higher atmosphere of my mind where everything is golden, so golden that it browns my skin and scatters seeds to the birds almost in time.

My eternity

by Zoi Tzika

There’s an empty house on the top of my hill

It’s far away from the mill, far away from the streets.

It has no rooms it has no space

It is just time, furniture and a place

There are chairs on top of the floor

You can’t lift them or you‘ll fall

And if you fall you just return

Without remembering the turn

You don’t see a where or when

Because the clock is ticking ten

Ten seconds until you disappear

And ten seconds until your eyes meet

The beautiful Italian baroque styled decoration

The endless grandiose corridors

The meaningless paintings that show images

You have already seen somewhen

As you wonder slowly admiring

The time is not enough for you

To realize the panic of your consciousness

Because the clock is ticking ten

And your mind resets again

Ten seconds are not enough

To walk around the garden

And pick all the flowers

Ten seconds are not enough

To break the laws of the universe

To wake up

To start running screaming

To spot the person trapped inside the garden well

LEANDROS-MARIOS MIRLIAOUNTAS

World of ours

by Agni Pyrovetsi

The sky so vast, so endless blue, With clouds of white that sail on through. A canvas painted with hues so bright, A masterpiece, a work of art's delight.

The sun, a fiery orb of gold, With warmth and life, that doth unfold. It rises each morn, with gentle might, And shines its rays with all its might.

The earth below, a carpet green, With fields and forests, rivers clean. A bounty of life, both great and small, That thrives and grows, surpassing all.

The mountains rise, with peaks so grand, A fortress strong, a home for man. The deserts stretch with sand so fine, A sea of gold that sparkles, shines.

The oceans wide, a realm of blue, With creatures strange that come into view. A world beneath, a mystery untold, That teems with life, that's always bold.

This world of ours, so vast and wide, A treasure trove, a beauty spied. Let us cherish it each and all our days, And bask in its magnificence always.

For every sight, so fresh and new, A gift of life that shines so true. A beautyfor our heart and soul, That leaves us with roles to extol.

I Am a Pearl

By Antzelina Viktoria Fykatas

I am a pearl

Plunging into infinite blue

I fall through the sea

And the rays of the sun follow

Watching

Then fading away

Seafoam

Green

Then blue,

Then black.

Every layer

Another home, (Another me.)

I know it well

From the sun to the fish to the sea.

I built it all myself.

Womanhood

by Vivian Karavasili

She who is graceful as air

She who is fluid as rain

She with a flow as streaming water

Yet a mind solid as earth

And a heart fervent as fire.

She who is sunlight in the tempest. She who is nature itself.

Waterjetswirling,Chalkidiki

Tutorial On How To Transform Into A Turtle

By Achilleas Ververidis

First, make sure it's an airtight space put on your colorful fleece jacket lie on your stomach.

stop slamming the brakes

Then, bring your legs up to your chest the warm milk and soft cookie crumbs

It’s psychological and psychedelic never lonely but must be done alone

Lastly, Millions now living will die forever hug yourself tight, tight prepare for impact on planet Mars.

A timid love confession from the shell the lettuce galaxy’s soft warmth Mother?

No, it was the heart’s underlying hum

Clouds

By Athina Koumioti

Abstract mutability

easily drifting away

But when alone they meet others

They become dark and gray

It is not longer wanted

When it’s dark and threatening

The sky no longer bright

And the clouds just hanging

The lonely gray cloud does not trust Cause others will turn in black

It has to leave the sky

And must never come back

Where can a cloud survive?

Is there any safe place other than the sky?

If a slow breeze blows the young cloud could die

If it meets others and turns dark, it will cry…

Growing Away

Solstice, Vol. 2

by Anastasia Spyromitrou

Evenings fall earlier and mornings already feel cold. I can’t bear losing another August. My knees weaken as my flesh recalls last September's bitter raindrops.

My taste buds still tingle with watermelon and roasted corn. Not from this summer, but from the ones when we Wove wreaths of flowers and rode our bikes, shirtless.

The combs in my hair are tangled with stories of clement evenings and noses stuck together with vanilla ice cream.

Still running with our scratched knees, Mosquito bites, pounding hearts, sweaty armpits and we kept running with the moon. Nothing could stop us on the village road.

Naughty giggles stained my lips

The dirt under our fingernails reversed french tips. We were the kings and queens of sandcastles.

I watch my grandma sitting alone on her dusty little porch. Her wrinkles, proof that she has lived. Somehow she makes growing old, less unnatural.

Her face tells me I’m not the only one to hear the ebb and flow of water and time pulling at summer freedom.

Rust

by Antzelina Viktoria Fykatas

Where are you?

I am not looking for you (I never was.)

But I saw you, You know.

Your presence never goes unnoticed, The danger in that sharp-toothed smile, The labyrinth you have carved, Into my bones

Like footsteps in a forest. Here you are again.

(Tell me,)

The red stain across my shirt; Is it blood?

Or is it Rust?

I Should Write Something

by Alexia Sextou

I write poetry.

I put it in my application letter under the word hobbies false limbs

As if it means something

One time upon a prompt I wrote with insecurity fearing ingenuity –as if that means something I figured it may sound exquisite other than empty.

Words decorated with long vowels and French Really I

Should try to say something beautiful

I’m left with slit pictures and half dead flowers – I suppose I should say half grown

You see this is the thing with optimism (thing who writes thing?)

It comes

ruffles and waves

waves away

Perhaps I should talk about love again

Or about the old woman I saw on the street

– should I have helped her cross?

I write poetry in a longing attempt to feel something Really I

Have nothing to write about these days.

270 days

by Eirini Gidari

Everyday is a struggle to keep my head straight

my eyes open

my mind focused

a smile on my face

my legs standing

My ears hear only what others want not leaving any room for my soul to shout the truth to herself and the world

I am relentlessly trying to fit into society's molds

my mom's dreams

my dad's beliefs

my brother's academic success

my teachers' expectations

my hidden dreams remain hidden

All I want is to fall in love fall in love with myself

my life

my books

an older boy who will buy me roses

Instead my whole being is poured into why that red number on the top left corner starts with an 8 and not a 9

why I keep failing despite trying my hardest. And wondering, if my hardest is my actual best whether next year I will have to face this terrible nightmare yet again.

Waves by Eirini Gidari

A smart girl full of time

Time to fulfill all the things

she has in mind

Somewhere along the line everythinggets tossed aside

Waves of insecurity are dragging her behind "Somewhere in the deep ocean, there's always a distortion"

She reminds herself of that in order to keep calm and retain her breath while drowning among fear and regret

Light seems to appear on the island ahead

Eventually she escapes but before she manages to confidently dive and win the bet against the current Her eyes get watery once again

And she relapses back to her unstable self...

The Dark Station

by Andrianna Solomonidou

At noon the sun burns as I make my way to the dark station. “To where?” the old man asks. “Do you know where you’re going?” I reply, “I’m tired.”

The dark station is filled with people asking what time it is, worrying about an appointment, arguing, next to an apple juice stand. I think I can see birds flying in the distance.

I approach a clown. “Tell me something funny,” I say. “It’s funny how we fool ourselves. We learn how to be sad, so as not to be alone.”

The graffiti on the wall reads Truth. Truth is a crying baby with thorns for hands.

Time passes as I’m waiting in the dark station. Waiting for a train that is not coming.

by Antzelina Viktoria Fykatas

1. Homebody

This body is a house. A home?

What makes it a home?

The light shining through the grime-stained windows, The wallpaper, peeling, The curtains, frayed?

Or perhaps

The colourful cracks

Painted over In cobalt blue, In crimson red, In arsenic green, In shimmering gold; The halls and pathways twisting, writhing, turning, Leading through, Eyes

Eyes that watch, carefully and quietly, taking it all in, taking everything apart

A mind

That thinks, that feels and loves and hates

Creating a maze, so easy (too easy)

To get lost in;

A heart –It stubbornly refuses To quiet its gentle rhythm, The drums sounding on, And on, Slow and steady.

When is a house A home?

Why, when you love it.

2. Body/Self

Look in the mirror, See:

Crooked, tired eyes, Chewed lips, Red, scratched skin, Tangled golden hair

All too bright, too loud, too much In their exhaustion, their sadness, their joy.

Can you look away?

Tell me:

Can you try?

Do you want to?

Should you?

Is there a tragedy

Quite like a body That does not want to see itself, And a body, That cannot help but watch?

A leg that aches on rainy days, Scars from childhood adventures, Stretchmarks and organs And a heart and blood; Leg hair, too, And asymmetrical eyes (Are they really?) And a bumpy nose, Cracking wrists And pain in my bones, It’s not perfect. Maybe that’s fine. Because every body Is a story.

May I Tell Mine?

Intersections

CHRISTINA BOUTZATZA

The Acrobat

by Andrianna Solomonidou

We were sitting on that balcony above the busy street, the lights, the life, and you were smoking a cigarette. As the fairies ashed around in the ashtray, you smiled but I am still trying to remember the last time your voice spoke in my memory; the redolent remains of a day I drew circles and skipped the rope, hopscotch.

The sky is milky, our dahlias turned black. The tree in the backyard bears none of the pomegranates we ate; each seed a story. I don’t remember how Rosa from your stories danced the blues with her red dress. And I can’t ask anymore. Now I am writing in my suit.

JohnDoe

ByAngelikiMichalopoulou

I'maJohnDoe,Anobody, Anamelessbody,Inthebackground Ofsomebodyelse'sstory.

Beautiful Insecurities

by Evdoxia Maria Dimitriou

There. Beautiful creatures looking in the mirror, doubting their pretty existence, feeling guilty about it and suffering from the insecurities they let others cause.

What a shame, their being blind of their beauty. I guess that is the only explanation. They can't see their charming faces responding to nature. Or their bodies living and protecting that special heart.

Oh, their hearts! Beating to fuel their bodies. To spark their minds, to inspire the people around them. The romance. The love.

Always taking care. But not of themselves.

What a shame…

My Name

by Stamatina Eirini Eleftheriadou

In Italian my name means morning. In Greek it means a good housewife, a unique cook, or a house cat. It is like the number four. Sometimes it is a dull color like gray but other times a more creative color like purple. It is the soccer ball that my brother and I play with at home on Sunday morning, and my mum yells at us, “Stop playing with the ball in the living room!!!” It is like when I draw pictures of daisies on Saturday night and I listen to calm music.

It is my grandmother’s name, and now it is mine too. Her eyes are the same color as mine, which is a common color, shared with many other people; but I find something special in her eyes. They say that eyes are the mirror of our hearts.

My grandmother. I am so lucky to have her in my life. She is as sweet as chocolate or candy.

At school, they naturally call me “Matina”, but my full name is “Stamatina”. I like it when my friends call me “Matina”. The good thing with Matina is that you can make a lot of nicknames from it; some of my friends call me “Mati” or “Mata”, “Mati-Mati” and “Mat”. I really find my name lovely like my grandmother’s hug and I love It. It is the perfect name for me.

By Theoktisti Dimarchopoulou

Waking up in a supermarket

by Alexia Sextou

I go to the supermarket to buy some mangoes. I’ve had five coffees And spent hours on detangling computer wires.

Reciting a poem I remember from fourth grade

I open another three college letters in the mail

The mailman’s teeth were yellow.

We regret to inform you

We regret to inform you

We regret to inform you that

There are no mangoes in store Says the employee

Eyes grey and sunken I notice His neon blue shirt has thinly stuck to the skin.

I wander and run my hand around metal

cold the fridges are cold

I open the door and let the icy sternness turn me numb.

Maybe my face will fall off Perhaps I can write about it in a supplemental essay. What is one difficulty you’ve had to overcome.

Well you see one day they had no mangoes So I slept overnight on the kitchen tool isle.

I carried a packet of Pop Tarts with me only to put it back as I left.

In the morning I prayed for a mango tree Hazy misty weather

I notice a puff of greasy air There can grow no mangoes here For it is all ashen and tarnished and empty.

That street was where I would once turn with my dog to go to the park When I was five how lovely it had been I remember green and summer and bees and boys.

My hands have written themselves away – inked blue

I pull my scarf behind my neck twirling it around myself once more. Need to Call Aunt Celine for Christmas.

Taking a walk is good for the body. Aimless walking can be a primary sign of depression. Daily activity helps to relieve stress.

Try not to let it take your spark away. Lights pierce my eyes. I missed a friend’s party Called in sick from the lights.

We have other fruit available if you’d like Kindly I turn down the meaty strawberries. Perhaps I could buy some gum Or whiteout.

I think about how the city seems as stiff as I do In the chilled mornings leaving how nice would it have all been If I simply had some mangoes.

A soda and these rice cakes will do. Maybe I should grow my own There in the sun cracks thread between sky and portwater There may grow my mango tree.

Deadlock

by Marios Michalis Kyrimis

The weather is dark, and angry. Clouds block the sun from reaching the ground. They come down to earth. Now, united as a thick fog, they both block your sight. Then suddenly, it starts raining. A big waterfall is created and surrounds you. The marble on the floor becomes dangerous and it is easy for you to slip and fall. You feel the fear as you hear creepy whispers. Something is lurking in the shadows of the tall trees and its target is no one else but you. Their goal, to remind you of the past. You are trying to find a way to escape. Your sight catches the clean horizon across you. There, fluffy cotton candy clouds are dancing ballet, and they play hide and seek with the sun. You try to get away. You want to get away! But fate has other plans for you. The ghosts of your past are determined to always haunt you. Wherever you go they follow, along with the storm full of memories. You need to escape, to forget. You try to run, you slip, you die!

Rolling Rocks

by Dafni Vitsou

She was wearing wide blue-jeans and shiny purple earrings, she had flowers in her hair and her feet were always bare.

The skies were blue, the sun was bright a guitar was playing in my mind, electric songs for youth and love smelling cinnamon and clove.

The stars of rock may shine again behind the thin window pane, the world would dance and smile once more, the world would be an open door.

Yet time and fame always keep rolling, a curse and blessing that keeps us going the beetles, the trees, the honey bees, will all stop buzzing in the breeze.

A hazy cloud covered her face, she was carrying a suitcase, it was filled with tears and sorrow, she would get rid of it tomorrow.

New York

By Andrianna Solomonidou

They walk the gloomy skiesthe streets, the scrapers No need for talkthe concrete, the papers. He gives her a nameThe sweet, The soft She drains himThe crease, Closed.

rosy-fingered bliss combs sandy hairs that horse the hearts of his and hers who look for what they “need” to find and race until their breaths collide; they’re left with nothing but a sin, the yellow press that reads “been” and a ticket to what might have beenThey stand on the edge of the road.

Christina Boutzatza

Juxtapositions

by Evdoxia Maria Dimitriou

The lights were turned off and I opened my eyes. I saw black. But this time it was the same shade of black I see when my eyes are closed. I thought, "Strange." Then I started panicking. Was there a way out?

I never got to learn. Because you came. Your beauty was so bright I couldn't help my eyes looking at you. I didn't have the power to compete with your existence in the same room I was. Neither in the same thought. And I still can't.

But, you do. What am I even talking about? I am the one who saw light. You faced the darkness.

And I am sorry.

TO: FROM:

by Alexia Sextou

Here are some rain sounds from home Cell Phones Do Not Belong in Fiction read an article so here is the rain on paper

Can you hear it? Can you feel it? It swishes through the wind and makes our hair sticky It lulls us to sleep trickling gently whispering it hits the soil silently

Though I suppose all rain sounds the same the rain from years ago the rain you are yet to hear It falls in much the same way

Here is the rain that fell on our first night We sought shelter in the tall city walls and the rain on the castle that once stood must’ve sounded just like ours did

To think that rain is still the same as it was before you were even born I am sending you all rain there ever was or ever could be

Here are some rain sounds and droplets so you may know when the first tear of water stains the concrete you walk on It is not your rain but our own.

Wow, How Fast Did I Grow?

by Evdoxia Maria Dimitriou

I looked at the child. Then I felt what my mom used to describe as "Wow, how fast they grow!"

That child had changed a lot. The way she talks, how she acts and I bet that she even thinks differently. Oh, she used to be so pretty. What happened to her?

That child was me. And she is not a child anymore, typically.

I am not pretty either. My beauty left me when I chose to betray her for others' opinions.

And here is my question. When we see humans growing and years passing, are we nostalgic for the "good old years" or our "good" old selves?

So, what happened to us?

OF DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

Klearchos Panteleimon Nikolaidis

They are dreams indeed, simple but cruel assets of the pathetic human will, yet they incessantly escape one’s grasp.

A dream’s blessing shall be used wisely, as is fitting, For dreams will forever be unmatched in hope and faith forlorn. Do not be content with your fragile soul drifting in their uncharted domain, shrouded by the smoke of your fading crimson flame.

As for nightmares, they are best left alone, displaying their prowess as masters of the untrue. They shall satiate that lust for flaws. Soothe your deepest fears, and beware of your precious frailty–the very thing that makes you a man. Let your sanity remain untarnished by their sinister creed.

Able to bear this frightful burden no longer, one seeks what is meant for them to hold, an everlasting duty, a curse bestowed upon our very own humanity.

Thoughts while eating lemon pie

by Anastasia Spyromitrou

When did we become old and wise enough that we turned to penning poetry?

Stolen old red camaro at the gas station, Cheap nail polish, Almost empty tank, Sweat tangled up in the necklace he got me when we were seventeen, Halfway to nowhere

When did we become old and wise enough?

I suppose when we started taking tranqs to sleep.

When did we become old and wise enough that we turned to penning poetry?

I only ever wrote bad poetry because all of the good ones Were lost behind words that couldn’t be said.

The Greatest Man

by Eftychia Panousi

The great man

The greatest

He bleeds and sullies his hands

Deeper and deeper into the ground’s crevices

He bleeds his figure into earth

His form digs the grass

An exact replica of his arms

And legs And mouth

Knowing that after death it is there

There he’ll lie

Years and days and lives fled away

And They will come to find him

“There the king is buried”

“There is the greatest man to die”

And his hands dig

His nails wither, dust they drink

His teeth his heavy words can’t carry

And his shoulders kindly draw a curve

Deep in the ground he is buried

His hands having spent a life to bring him to the earth’s core Sound won’t bother to visit, nor smell can shake his nostril

“Let him sleep”, the worms will say

“Let him rest”, the earth will say

Drop by drop his body leaves him, Then life begins to steal it all over again For They need to eat and They need a home to breath and They will soon die too

His cartilage will rest their appetite

The bridge of his nose was kindly eaten away

The shining orb of what was left of his eye trod the water still Stubborn, as nature can be

And soon sound was lost

The newborns failed to warn their mothers

And mothers stopped to birth

They started carrying

All-seeing in their motherhood, all knowing in their governance

And They finally sunk the earth with their steps

They finally shoveled his grave, rebirthing his tomb, his sacred home in absence

And They found him, "There once life was"

"There is the womb of the world, of Nature".

eftychia panousi