Maria Christodoulou New Poetry |Cyprus Poetry |Best Cyprus Poetry

Cyprus an eastern Mediterranean island, is renowned for its stunning beaches, rich history, and vibrant culture. It has a unique blend of Greek and Turkish influences due to its divided status since 1974. The island boasts ancient ruins, including the Roman city of Paphos and the ancient city of Salamis. Its capital, Nicosia, is the last divided capital in Europe. Cyprus is famous for its delicious cuisine, featuring Halloumi cheese and meze dishes. The warm climate and friendly locals make it a popular tourist destination, while its strategic location has shaped its diverse heritage and history.

Dear readers, today we will read poems of popular  poet of Cyprus, hope you like it.

Maria Christodoulou

Sweet preserve
The sun on the backbone
of the bitter orange tree
warms the blood
of patience.
 
Citrus peels
collected in the basket
for the sweet preserve.
 
Days of  hope
anger the spiders 
in the webs of  life and death.
 
The taste on the palate
moves  like a speedboat
on the optic nerve.
 
Eftychia Eleftheriadou.
She is called to the podium.
 
She reads her will.
She begins.
The sun on the backbone
of the bitter orange tree
and free, she speaks and talks
about a daisy that seals
love.
 
She faints.
 
The siren of the ambulance
restores her spring.
 
Leave her alone, shouts the paramedic.
can't you see?
 
She smiles.

Card suits

Hollow words, empty deeds
the hours swelled
and you have been turned into
aplaying card.
In front, the Joker, the King
and the Jack.
Alone and deserted, the Queen.
She introduces herself...
Queen Sophia, nice to meet you.
They came close.
A little further back, the Ace
was acting as an interpreter.
He requested an audience.
All thesuits lined up at the table:
diamonds, hearts, spades,clubs.
The hearts, with the King at the head.
gave her the floor.
The suspense was well and truly on.
Words like a torrent.
Rules.
In every round the same colour
The same figure, never an ace.
Objection.
In every round a different colour
adifferent figure, always an ace.
 
The decision was reached.
 
The King blew the final whistle.
Let's go for round two.
Deal the cards.

Alas

Laundry in the open
sea
for the salt to dry
I am searching for sun in the crevices
to evaporate the homelands
of hatred.
 
Waves are cracking
the retina
like snakes wrapping  around me.
 
In the passions of water
what destiny came down on you?
Predators of love
where have the stars gone tonight?
 
My soul is howling.
 
In the basket a pile
of turtle eggs.
The opposite wall
painted with clouds.
 
People
are consumable.
 
A green soap
is being sought
a medicine for every stain.

Ambushes on a journey
 
Cloudy horizon
this love
controls my life.
 
Suspicion of fear.
This is no time for experiments.
I lie awake
with sleep leaning on the knees.
 
I memorize the
coordinates:
Paris, Rome, London, Prague
places with vibrations of youth.
 
Persistent sunrise
gives away its colors.
I sleep, I wake up
between reality
and the dream.
 
History or myth?
 
Poet
with a beating heart
on the head.
 
Lurking symphony music
with independent chorus
to my own sensitivity.
 
The horizon
gardenia white
mirror
without mutilations.
 

Amulet

I love the extinguished eyes
of the summer
as they search for hope
to touch moons
thatare bleeding.
 
The burned trees in the yard
-the nakedness of the first created man and woman-
a bombed site
frozen lullabies
children-fish wriggling.
 
Shipwrecks
prey of their fate.
 
Dead states
endless graves.
 
But in the vigil lamps
the flames are waving
white scarves.
.
Flesh and blood of the Lord
on the Holy Altar
flesh and blood of the Lord
for the forgiveness of sins.
The amulet is freedom.

Homeland  wanted
 
Indigenous people with a Greek crest,
phoenician collar, assyrian tail
feet full of wounds.
 
They retire discreetly
in the quiet moments of  homeland.
 
Inhabitants for many years
on the island of the stretcher-bearers
are searching for identities
with stamps and symbols.
 
Egyptians, Persians, Romans, Templars,
Lusignans, Venetians, Ottomans, English
with rhyming voices in the possessions.
 
From tree to seedling, from branch to bush
and the rest selling building materials.
 
Torn wallpaper.
They watch the mould
spreading like gangrene through the flesh.
 
"Going once, going twice, sold"
 the auctioneer insists.
 
 
The country is going under the hammer
and  silence is  now a storm
to be heard.
 
A dance is set up
with the explosions of anger.
 
The vote  makes sense.

The Call

On the peaks of times
the clock of the soul
strikes midnight
memories kick in.
 
A tribute of honour
to the betrayed blood.
Every crossroad
is an epitaph.
 
Today
I
you
we
defying the walls
we invite the children
the women to come
with embroidered dreams.
 
For gallant dances
call the elders.
 
The roots of a plundered
homeland are groaning.

Fifty days and fifty nights
 
Waves like dead bodies
in a restless sea
consumed by the salt.
 
In the evening
theirsmellchases me
even if I climb to mountain tops
with strong wind.
Voices of wailing
and weeping
vertigo brings me down
into the abyss.
 
The insomnia won't let up
fifty days and nights counted
on the icon before me.
 
"Lord, cease the grunting
of the nations... deliver us
and your world
from all threats against us."
 
He beckoned me.
 
The body shakes.
two giant wings
to protect what?
 
The dead children
or the unfortunate sea?

Poetess: Maria Christodoulou
Translator: Andry Christofidou-Antoniadou