Poetry issues #22, 1/5: A Balcony – The View

Every Friday for the next four weeks, a new poem will be published, along with its unique artwork. Together, they will comprise poetry issues #22.

You can find out more about the poetry issues project here.

I am happy to announce that the poem "Seasons (het jaar rond)" that Alida van Leeuwen and I wrote in collaboration has been published in the newspaper LisserNieuws on October 1st. "Seasons (het jaar rond)" is a two languages experiment, and the result is quite interesting. Here is the poem (without the spelling mistake that appears in the paper):

Seasons (het jaar rond) - Duo dicht Maria Exarchou/Alida van Leeuwen

It starts in winter as a distracting recollection
of poppy red dispersing in the late afternoon sun.

Ik voel de eerste zonnestralen
zie zonnig geel en vurend rood
en spring vol vreugde de lente in

Riding the tip of the rainbow I shed my old skin
freed by the explosion of purple in the meadows.

De warme kleuren van de zomerse zon
geven alles een nieuwe tint
Mijn zonnebril beschaduwt de wereld

I don't want this life to end. I find closure in
silver autumn clouds: Like seasons, we'll return.

Een zucht vol winterse geuren
vullen mijn daagse dromen
De temperatuur daalt

Update

The show mentioned below was followed by another one with the same theme, on another location of BplusC, at Stevenshof Library, Trix Terwindtstraat 6 in Leiden. The show began early May (2019) and is on until the 15th of June. Here's an impression:

Leiden 2019

__________________________________________

Just like last year, the library of BplusC (Nieuwstraat 4, Leiden) is celebrating poetry with a unique group exhibition. And since it is 350 years from the death of Rembrandt, this is an exhibition in his memory. The show has already started (on the 29th of January) and will be on until the 25th of February.

For now, if you can't visit the library in person to enjoy the works of almost thirty artists, you can read my contribution here:

The Night Watch

A darkness as thick as molasses —

a spoonful of struggles yet to come.

There is humanity in simple gestures,

frailty in men carrying useless guns.

Depth is carved on dancing shadows

a soft light enters within from above.

A kind hand smoothens the contrasts

until a night is not a night after all.

Update: Visiting the show, I was happy to find out that another one of my poems, "Psychographics" from the Poetry Issues project, is also included. Enjoy below a small sample of a beautiful exhibition curated by Alida van Leeuwen:

[At the same time, another exhibition is taking place in The Hague.]

A very special labor, the January-February issue. I hope you enjoy stories of identity and struggle:

Scales

Better watch people

from afar, like big cities.

Admire their beauty

from a distance and avoid

touching their fences.

On Saturn I'd be

five kilos less and that's what

matters more in this

floating universe where not

a thing weighs more than I.

Family Gatherings

All children wanted to be men

and no one cared to pick

homegrown rosemary and dill

for the women in the kitchen.

The boys came in pairs to steal

little cheese pies, then went on

with their precious outdoor life

of playing football and riding bikes.

The girls feared nothing more

than becoming their mothers

with lives spent over lemons

and eggs in hot fish soups.

We didn’t know then that kitchens

held so many secrets, far more

steaming than backyard politics.

Women have been always winning.

Breathe

The crashing density  the stuffy thoughts

Of asthmatic lungs      gulping

The fake air               with greed

Everyone is trying

To grasp                   what they can

An old woman's         out of luck

Girlish games

Tired pigtails             unwashed

Nicotine and coffee    but

Without infatuation

The earth is flat         just

Give me oxygen

I'll Play it Cool

Every time

you want to hurt me

you twist your tongue

to warm it up

before it hits me

with whip-like speed.

I was never fast

with words and now

your gun of a finger

is pointing at me.

I will remain silent.

You cannot win.

The Duck Painting

It’s hard to tell if it is monochrome

or just faded into a pale delft blue

and why it's hanging in the living room

in this furnished simulation of some

home. I’ll change it – a lasting addition

in the long list of intentions. I start

counting the ducks but get distracted

by the frame. Gold and metallic and

more eighties than my mother. She

had one that looked the same. So,

there’s a faint reminder of who I am.

You find strange ways to connect

when life is condensed to a trolley bag.

 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

Five months ago, I mailed these works to a person I have never seen, to be included in an upcoming mail-art exhibition entitled What Makes You Happy. This group exhibition is taking place now in The Hague and you can read more about it here (.pdf courtesy of Alex Witter).

This is the second time my work is being included in a group exhibition in the Netherlands. The first one was here. I'm looking forward to many more!

Enjoy the November-December issue!

Psychographics

Some days felt like prose

in a sloppy, ambitious mind,

striving to be written but

unable to attain

comprehensive form.

Trudging through the quagmire

of censorship the days dreamt

of the day they’d flow like verse

unconcerned with technique,

never intended to be performed.

But language and reason stood

as one immovable rock, blocking

intuition and broader definitions.

Those days became ink dissolved

in stale waters drunk by mosquitos.

The Feather

Not from a chaste, white dove

but factory born, with no potential

to reach the sky. Promiscuous and orange

descended from a flamboyant boa, full

of silky plastic charm. Forever reeking

of cigarillos and patchouli, imperfect

and only fit for falling, first right

then left and back in a slow diagonal

dance of false aerodynamics rectified

by gravity’s unfaltering axis.

Coming Home

Everything has to end

where it started from.

That’s why I always return

to the scene of our calm crimes

tracing back long lines of sin

filling out logs with updates

on the metastases and spread

of guilt. Everything has to end

where it started from and I’d sworn

there wouldn’t be a doorstep

I would stand on twice

when knocking would be dropping

my arms in unwise surrender.

But how tempting it feels to unburden!

Fake Fighters

We thought it would be the last fine day.

We stayed outside and took it all in.

The sun, the breeze, the smell of green.

When more gleaming mornings came

we stayed in, restricted by circumstance

or obligation. We let out sighs of relief  

when the land finally gave in to the cold.

Even happiness had gotten tiring.

Icarus in the Atlantic

                      *for Ger Lataster

The reverent viewers debated in whispers

whether light could be mastered

in dark times, obscenely reflected as it were

on a pearl earring, forcing them to admit

the relevance of beauty in the ugly,

cranky world. They went on from wall to wall

undeterred by the overload of masters

of the Golden Age, all of them demanding

a bow. A boy of five, with no taste for detail

and no appreciation at all for human effort

pointed at the ceiling and chose

the abstraction of the working man

and the strawberry jam before he ran

straight to the windows past the Rembrandts

and their servants, unabashedly showing

preference for the frames of moving life.

 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

The September-October issue should be enough to keep you busy for a while. Enjoy.

Cooking

Over a boiling pot

we wait for small epiphanies

bemused by the stillness

of the branches outside.

Do our black cats make us

witches? Shall we burn?

The Inquisition says we shall.

The Weather

Sure, let’s talk about the weather

like our lives depend upon it

like our crops will fail

and famine will hit

our fatty brains.

Relieved that it won’t rain

we’ll go for a walk

step on our horseshit

and still come home miserable.

Better stay inside, watch a movie.

110/116

Between birthday parties

and treasure hunts

I have to explain

why I made him and

affirm I’ll still love him

after I die.

I’d never thought

I'd give myself up

but here we are

swearing by Jedi honor,

shovelling sand in ecstasy.

Nothing much in it

but abundant poetry.

Seaside Resort

Don’t scorn the floral patterns

and the doughnut-shaped waists

nor the high-pitched laughter

and the fuzzy stares.

Footsteps echo louder

at the end of August

and pining mixes with the smell

of fresher fish and ice-cream cones.

Grandpa

Old bones assembled by magic.

Nothing else seems to hold.

We all scolded him for lying

but he was the conqueror

of the seven seas

in my five-year-old mind.

He instilled in me two shipwrecks

an abstract love for Argentina

and going rogue under fake names

in the US in the 50’s.

The giant is folding in his seat:

An overripe camellia flower

that forgot to fall apart.

[You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]

Poetry Issues has skipped a beat and there is no July-August issue. However, this is for a good reason besides the holiday slack. I was invited by Alex Witter to participate in a mail-art exhibition and I've been busy answering the hard question posed by the theme: "What makes you happy?"

Silence

A rare walk-in gem

shutting out the noise.

A meditation as deep

as death, with openings

from where to emerge fearless

and wise. Darkness as peace

for wild, overexposed eyes.

Wild Flowers

They come uninvited.

Pink and purple perseverance.

Hideous unsanctioned seeds

making no plea to the bees.

I let them take over the garden. 

It’s always the stranger

that moves you forward.

Driving

I get this funny feeling

that there’s enough air

in my lungs, the certainty

that we will make it.

Brush strokes rushing

past, tangled in your hair

the world, a bonfire simile

lit by midday heat.

If you try breathing

your body simply dares

to ache, making getaway

from its weary myths.

Your Laughter

Not the reserved, polite one

but the one that gushes out

letting your teeth show

thrusting your head back

blocking your breath –

bouncing 

      from wall 

to wall. An echo

fighting dust from dust to dust.

Alex Witter has set up a great inventory of all artists and works participating in this upcoming exhibition, where you'll find amazing work from artists from all over the world.

The May - June issue is out! Here you go:

American Football

Back and forth.

Circles disguised

in straight go routes.

Until you get things

right

things get you.

Until routes go straight

in disguised circles,

forth and back.

In Red

Those toes in the shower

I’m looking down to

belong to a Lynchian heroine.

They say depersonalization

results from violence

and I ponder over the form.

Do not knock, just enter.

Privacy is a luxury

only spoiling a good plot.

Alekaki

My friend likes the number eight.

It completes her broken parts

and promises the unity of one.

You will find her crouching

among quitting and lighting it up

on a white pile of unironed roles.

She’s the colour blue, as found

in nature: A wondrous reflection

of elusive light. A life of words.

Ode to Nothing

As a child I thought

I controlled the wind. Perhaps

the wind controls me.

Before great sorrow

the air stands still. I know then

something is coming.

Dry petals falling

like snow. Who’d have thought death would

be so beautiful.

Unhealthy are

Your stress relief habits

and the junk you eat.

How the world treats you

and what you think of it.

The screens you watch

and the dust you breathe.

But tomatoes won’t

save you from cancer.

Treating the symptom is

not the answer.
Wars will not be prevented

by treaties. And nobody likes kiwis.

 [You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]