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.
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 vocal.media, 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
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
Clay
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.
Thirassia
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.
Vocal.media// OLD GODS OF AN UNSETTLED ISLE
Read here.
Xandua 