Ebb And Flow - Marianna Pliakou

The beaches here
never grow old.
Just as the rocks raise
their bulky bodies from the deep,
they are covered
by the next wave.

The islanders
know from children
of the constant flux –
the sands that become seabed
that becomes sands.

They have learnt to gauge
and test themselves against time
as the sea tests
its strength
in swallowing.

Marianna Pliakou


Image : Guernseypoets

The Island Where I Live - Marianna Pliakou

is in the middle of nowhere.
Its sky,
a sheet of graph paper,
that plots the intersecting vapour trails
of passing planes.
X-marks-the-sky.
X-marks the spot.
Migratory birds break their journeys here
on their way
to other climes.
As do we.
 
Island refuge,
between
this and that,
point X
where our paths converge
and we move in step.

Marianna Pliakou

Image : Pixabay - Marianna Pliakou

From X by Marianna Pliakou (Vakxikon Publications, Athens, 2021). The collection is all about Guernsey, as the poems centre on facets of life and the history of the island. Guernsey is indeed the point X of the title. The poems have now been translated into English by Jane Gregersen

The Undelivered Promise Of Potency - Marianna Pliakou

"Between the potency
and the existence,
….
Falls the shadow"

T.S Eliot, "The Hollow Men"
 
It is the look of it that fooled us,
as it shimmered and glowed in the night,
like a peacock on a broken floor.
 
We had not grown into our clothes,
and the bitter fruit we had not tasted,
so we believed the twinkle of the star.
 
But the night was long,
and our tired gaze fell on the ground,
only for a dog to take away.
 
The seed was stale,
and our  words broke to many pieces.
 
And half way,
struggling to carve “existence” onto a tree,
we ended up with “exi..t”.

Marianna Pliakou

Silence I - Marianna Pliakou

And there,
beneath the trees,
beneath the broken summer
and the eloquence of absence,
lies the day.
The day that did not grow into a night,
and, wrinkled, stared us in the eyes,
until it fell on the floor,
quietly.
 
No blood, no dust,
no words.
Ssshhhhh.

Marianna Pliakou

The Mariner - Marianna Pliakou

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in March 2012

He weighs his past by the sea,
each year a wave,
each wave a part of him.
In his beard salt and seagull cries.
In his eyes the rhythmic dance of the ocean,
sometimes shifting softly,
sometimes restless and angry.

He weighs his future by the sea,
hoping his waves will soon melt into a rock.

Marianna Pliakou

This is not a moralistic poem - Marianna Pliakou

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in January 2012

The cherry tree carries the seeds of hope.
We look for it when most in need.
It caresses our eyes and speaks the language of our heart.
The last one we forgot. Now it’s all about the language of dry logic.
Its sterilized vocabulary dictates our lives.
Lives of attempted dry logic and linear narratives.
Progressive success is the dangling carrot.
But here we are, looking for the cherry tree.
Because our eyes are aching, our dehydrated consciousness suffers.
But we won’t find it in the forest, nor in the shape of a tree.
Because the cherry tree is the “other one”.
The one we chose to ignore, the marginalized one, pushed outside our micro-world.
The one we need to approach again.
The one that carries the seeds of our decency.

Marianna Pliakou

Nostalgia Is Proportional To Love - Marianna Pliakou

You exchanged the smell of the pine trees for the wet grass of the north.
But your dreams are full of pine needles
and you can still hear the sound of the buzzing grasshopper.

You exchanged the touch of the burning rocks for the beaten stones of the Atlantic.
But your body craves for the sun
and you can still see the emerging dance of the heat on the sand.

Nostalgia floods your room
While images of your mother and father swim across the bed like goldfish.
And in the infertile loneliness,
your friends emerge from the ground like olive trees and rivers.

So you put their smiles in your pocket
and tenderness in your palms.

So you embrace this nostalgia as you embrace their love.

Marianna Pliakou

The Breaking Waves - Marianna Pliakou

The waves came crashing in again.
We knew they were coming.
And so we tried to build an arc.

But we had eaten all the animals and burned all the trees.
And only a few of us were left, our homeʼs Spartan defenders.

We locked up and filled the gaps in the walls.
But the hungry fishes smashed the doors and shattered the windows.
Burst into our living room, sat on the table and ate our books.

Salt filled our mouths, our tongues went numb.
No words were spoken, our voices lost in the water.

Only our bodies embraced one another, like infinite, doomed lovers,
in their harmonious majesty before the last blow.

The waves came crashing in again.
We knew they were coming.
And so we embraced each other.

At last, in the end, till the end.

Marianna Pliakou

Nostalgia Is Not Always To Be Trusted - Marianna Pliakou

I know, Nostalgia lives in the past.

She owns the knot,
that holds it all together.
Faces and smells and sounds,
wearing Her perfume,
they walk on stretching threads of clocks.
Strings from quondam days, tangled up to now,
laying claim.

I think of her as friend,
often I fear sheʼs not.
For whilst our compass faces North,
Her voice keeps pointing South.
And so she comes, in all her majesty,
a lustful Siren whom we, sometimes, must ignore.

Marianna Pliakou

A Very Short Journey - Marianna Pliakou

You stand by the window,
below the silent sky,
before the naked street.

Once youʼd walk together,
and in your path this place would glow
and every star would flower in the night.
Under the sun the hours would grow,
till time became a pale, pure light.

But, sometimes, sometimes, moments peak early,
smiling at us, with their best clothes on
and their sweet scent of certainty.
Like those first grapes,
promising euphoric wines,
before falling on the ground.
Their aroma fading,
before it gets familiar.

And maybe there,
below that sky, before that street,
youʼll walk again, some day,
despite your aching stride,
in peace with that journey,
that proved to be so short.

Marianna Pliakou

Your Flame - Marianna Pliakou

Your eyes are burning,
but within I spy forests and rivers
and panthers jumping out,
in quest of everything there is.
I swear I saw them again the other day,
and then,
last night,
the moon was overflowing on your skin.

And there, before you,
before your sun & your moon and your panthers,
I know that this flame is a noble one.
Marianna Pliakou

The Mariner - Marianna Pliakou

He weighs his past by the sea,
each year a wave,
each wave a part of him.
In his beard salt and seagull cries.
In his eyes the rhythmic dance of the ocean,
sometimes shifting softly,
sometimes restless and angry.

He weighs his future by the sea,
hoping his waves will soon melt into a rock.

Marianna Pliakou

This is not a moralistic poem - Marianna Pliakou

The cherry tree carries the seeds of hope.
We look for it when most in need.
It caresses our eyes and speaks the language of our heart.
The last one we forgot. Now it’s all about the language of dry logic.
Its sterilized vocabulary dictates our lives.
Lives of attempted dry logic and linear narratives.
Progressive success is the dangling carrot.
But here we are, looking for the cherry tree.
Because our eyes are aching, our dehydrated consciousness suffers.
But we won’t find it in the forest, nor in the shape of a tree.
Because the cherry tree is the “other one”.
The one we chose to ignore, the marginalized one, pushed outside our micro-world.
The one we need to approach again.
The one that carries the seeds of our decency.

Marianna Pliakou