is a translator from Greece. He studied psychology
and philosophy in the USA and Canada and now lives
and works in the town of Heraklion on the island
of Crete. In his spare time he writes poetry inspired
by the events that take place around him and in
his country. Women are a significant source of
inspiration for George. He holds their spiritual
and intellectual aspect in great respect and admiration,
while he is enslaved and tormented by their physical
appeal. Testimony to his strong feelings towards
women are a few of his poems. However, the most
important source of inspiration for George is
a universe of unintelligible, yet virbant constellations
of ideas and feelings that push for expression
when they are least expected, e.g. as he lies
his head on his pillow at night, as he walks through
the local market half-dazed by the noon sun or
as he sips his morning coffee in the company of
hibiscus trees. George believes that nature is
an unsurpassed poetess, mysterious and lovely
at the same time.
CrucifiXed between Hunger and Lust
I turned my head to the right and saw
Hunger enter a Bakery, her hair in long
braids carrying the sleeping soil and
the waving grass of the fields,
her clothes bearing witness to the aftermath
of Sodoma and Gomora.
“Father, deliver me from this hour!”
Her unsightly misery threatened
the conscience of customers and employees.
She was begging for an eye-to-eye contact
which would give rise to sympathy
and sympathy to something to eat
If they would only look at her.
But they pretended they didn’t.
No more than three minutes had
than she turned back to haunt the streets again.
The redolent warmth of the premises,
the savoury aroma of fresh baked bread,
cakes and croissants were too much for
an ulcerating from want stomach.
“Father, remove this cup from me!”
I watched her tattered clothes
flatter and vanish
like thieving crows around a corner.
Then I turned my head the other way and lo! Lust
came into sight, curvy and smooth she was,
well fed but not bread, hence more desirable.
with the hips and breasts bursting at the seams
of her skimpy dress; her look melting iron.
“Father, forgive them, for they know not
what they do.”
Truly, the world is a stage, set
up only for mine
to hunger and lust at the same time:
to race the hours for bitter bread
and blind my blind eyes for want of sweet bed.
What good is erection without the cross?
or the fangs of affection without some loss?