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Old Gods of an Unsettled Isle

In 2019 I managed to live on Santorini for a month.
There I made pan-pipes, filled my head with myth, moulded pots, explored ruins, sat on volcanic beaches, rescued stray cats, drank heavy local wine and had numerous fights with my would-be house mates.
I aslo wrote a lot of poems.
Read three of them here.

The view of Oia, with thrassia island in the background. White concrete buildings neer an ocean at sunset.
Photo by Alex Azabache on

My first set of poem on Vocal adress the old god that I found on Santorini…

  • Limbo– Based on the sleepy sloping hills, slow growth and long days I spent on the island
  • Clay– Working for a week in a smoke filled, wine-drunk pottery studio can do things to a person
  • Thirassia– A sister island that is years back in time, filled with old people you wont see but they’ll sure see you.

Comodifying poetry, by encoraging you to click the link above, is not something I’m fully comfortable doing (yet). Ideally we would all be able to put poems into the world, they would be found and loved, and money would not even factor into it. But capitalism is what we’re all trying to survive here. So by clicking on my links to, giving my poems a quick read, and (hopefully) a like, you will be supporting me to continue creating.
But this is about more than money, I am activley looking to create a community; poets supporting eachother. To do this, I would love if you would leave a reply down below of your Vocal/Medium/Wordpress pages. Things you would like me to check out or like or comment on. So we can all beat the anonymity of the algorythm together.


Limbo has let herself , sprawl heavy
on the side of this unsettled isle

She crawls sleepily , rested handles
white domed steps down the hillside

Limbo whispers sweet , through cane
into cradled baskets of too-soon grapes

Be still she says , it is not yet your time
Wait here with me


I am new, in the land
of old gods and soft clay
where pre-noon wine
pressed on the end of an august-day
and dripped sweetfull
into heavy basement pots
spills red into my cheeks.

The brown paper fumes
of earth coated smoke
held between lips, yellow hard
hands the air with
the flavour of sleep I try to forget.

Forged and folded so
then forgotten, or remoulded
I found myself, on fumes
in the bowels of an old god.


They will not venture
into old grown caves
for the years of youth
spent in the dark

They wont let waste
of water, in pools, jacuzzis
for the memory
of a dry mouthed love.

They will not eat
the lemons, but let them rot
when fallen from the tree
fresh counted freedoms

They will watch
washing line rustle
leave little favours, or tricks
and judge if you are worthy. OLD GODS OF AN UNSETTLED ISLE

Read here.

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