Hellas 1979
my homeland, with blood I write your history
cities surrendered to concrete
streets scarred with foreign signs
in every building a bank
in every corner a school of foreign languages
every apartment a place of corruption
wild kids on mopeds
cars on the sidewalks
uncounted hotels and servants
abortions in private offices
sick people in the halls of hospitals
thirteen thousand lawyers in Athens
drinks on the rocks and roasted nuts
contractors on strike
traitors praised
collaborators rewarded
narks recording the tracks of our agony
before the commercials and after
people wait at the cafe in the village
for the immigrant's next money order
for the next serial cop show
for the next exclusive outlet
for the common european buy-out
the fish are dead
the air is black
the land is sold up
bourgeois status quo and free enterprise
and the olive tree grappling stubbornly
palms branching toward an incredible blue sky
for centuries
and the pines caressing the sea
my homeland
there is no end to your grandeur
(Translated by Domna Pastourmatzi and Michael Mott)
(from “Με τη Φωτιά στα Μάτια”/ “With the Fire
in the Eyes”, 1982, Displacements, International Quarterly,
Volume 2, No. 4, 1996)
London 1967-1971
dreamy city of the North
dressed in your mute colors
your magic enticing voices
heard amid drops of everyday rain
for years I lived in a low attic
wandered in your neighbourhoods
saw the crocus blossom in the snow
got drunk on the aroma of your girls
squares in peace they have conquered
surrounded by fairy tale houses
vast gardes and dark palaces
victorian mansions
incredible city
with a smile on the policeman's face
red buses with destinations from myths
city of strikes
indolent as the Thames
city with a fine skin of sensuality
universal city
with a thousand versions of the same language
with a thousand faces of the same person
with a thousand churches of the same deceit
city that has learnt to live without passion
you hide your spoils with affection
in the halls of medieval buildings
city that has been successful in welcoming
both the arrogance of the ignorant
and the aspirations of the persecuted
women with strange hats
the scent of tobacco and wood
a ¨thank you¨ in every encounter
the inexplicable signs
the boisterous alehouses and warm beer
you return often, city of the North
you appear pale in my sleep
bathed in your uncertain light
but never, never, never mine.
(Translated by Domna Pastourmatzi and Michael Mott)
my homeland, with blood I write your history
streets scarred with foreign signs
in every building a bank
in every corner a school of foreign languages
every apartment a place of corruption
wild kids on mopeds
cars on the sidewalks
uncounted hotels and servants
abortions in private offices
sick people in the halls of hospitals
thirteen thousand lawyers in Athens
drinks on the rocks and roasted nuts
contractors on strike
traitors praised
collaborators rewarded
narks recording the tracks of our agony
people wait at the cafe in the village
for the immigrant's next money order
for the next serial cop show
for the next exclusive outlet
for the common european buy-out
the air is black
the land is sold up
bourgeois status quo and free enterprise
palms branching toward an incredible blue sky
for centuries
and the pines caressing the sea
there is no end to your grandeur
in the Eyes”, 1982, Displacements, International Quarterly,
Volume 2, No. 4, 1996)
dressed in your mute colors
your magic enticing voices
heard amid drops of everyday rain
wandered in your neighbourhoods
saw the crocus blossom in the snow
got drunk on the aroma of your girls
surrounded by fairy tale houses
vast gardes and dark palaces
victorian mansions
with a smile on the policeman's face
red buses with destinations from myths
city of strikes
indolent as the Thames
city with a fine skin of sensuality
with a thousand versions of the same language
with a thousand faces of the same person
with a thousand churches of the same deceit
you hide your spoils with affection
in the halls of medieval buildings
city that has been successful in welcoming
both the arrogance of the ignorant
and the aspirations of the persecuted
the scent of tobacco and wood
a ¨thank you¨ in every encounter
the inexplicable signs
the boisterous alehouses and warm beer
you appear pale in my sleep
bathed in your uncertain light
but never, never, never mine.
(from “Με τη Φωτιά στα Μάτια” / “With the
Fire in the Eyes”, 1982, Displacements, International
Quarterly, Volume 2, No. 4, 1996)
asked the plastic mermaid in the room
everyone knows he's the last poet
a joyful child with sad eyes
an immortal spark in human flesh
a consoling touch of the earth
prostate at his feet lies the sun
my life on the slimmest thread
a world full of sky blue toys.
I know his fingers and his voice
he traces invisible shapes
transfuses the light into words
(from “Με τη Φωτιά στα Μάτια” / “With the Fire
in the Eyes”, 1982, Balkan Visions, Visions International
No. 48, 1995).
*Τοlis Nikiforou: The son of Greek refugees from Asua Minos and Northern Thrace, he was born in Thessaloniki, Greece in 1938. He graduated from Anatolia College and studied Business Management. He worked as a management consultant until 1999 (four of these years in London) when he retired and devoted all his time to writing. So far he has published 56 books (40 collections of poetry, 9 collections of short stories, 4 novels, and 3 fables). He was awarded four (4) literary prizes, the two most important being the State Prize for Short Stories in 1989 and the Grand Prize for Literature in 2025 for his lifelong contribution to Greek Literature. He was also awarded a prize for his consulting work and several other distinctions. Now at 87, he continues to be creative and has approximately 230 unpublished poems.