Manifesto of Love or How To Become A Poet (Asimina Hasandra)

"Αh! The simple things mean the most. Like a circle meaning a rectangle and falling in love. And if I wait a lifetime, will you come?"
Yiannis Antiochou

To Ria anyway…

IF YOU WANT TO KILL YOURSELF here’s a good idea for a suicide hang by the words. If at some point the vision of a poetry was proven this phenomenologically corresponds to the emotion and not the tangibility of matters. A body speaks! And the speech is thoroughly transcribed in the texts the poetry that confesses is no other than the importance of the existence of a deep blue ach..on the verge of boredom and so be it.

Our issue is the reconstruction or how to interpret poetry in the so-called material world Universe since love is the motive power. Let it be the only one who needs its disability and its tied-up dream in the eyes straight as you teach a child to read, the poet of "chaos". If for example we told how is fulfilled a dream tied at the waterfront with a little whitewash darkness falls and always always slowly moves the hand betrayed in front of the telephone.

Affection is love and love is the autumn at the just vacated fingers of a woman or a man, with the eyes straight to the waves. I mean to say that sometimes you reach the significant from far away but what happiness when next to your bed sheets awakes your second life. And then you realize how precious is the breath of a poet in love, in the summers of his life.

When I read the poems I feel like washing my face with clear sky water, like visiting a sick body and yes!.. to recover you have to be sick first..

The sickness of love is a little church in a storm, is the storm of a date of seven a.m. at the torn canvas, is what your intuition tells you or else your instinct under the sea.. Truly I never felt such strong pain in the viscera the guts and in fact the aortic arch but only when I fell in love with that smile. And I wasted days and nights of my life trying if possible to trap it in an image a poem a word the vowel of love. So be it..

In how much danger was I and was it real? The minefield of darkness corresponds to an existence which if we want to name its name would be none other than amity. Yes amity and aurora borealis! Wobbling the traces of the body on the waterside and the cells of midnight we face creases speaking another language the language of heartthrobs…The branches of the arc and the breaths interpreting the atmosphere are on the other hand the only thematic part due us. And from above the palm trees make an impression otherwise. The traumatotropes are a music to the just permitted. And imagine that they do nothing else than what their heart dictates. I mean to say that stirring the minefield we discover our passions and our love that explode in the depths of the horizons…And so be it!

The movies are my life and if there was still an islet where Saint Symeon has tread with the outside world I would have no azure thought. And yet everything is the great Wisdom from the moment you temporalize the pit of the flowers, and be it a dream. You watch it and wake from the torpor of the seven days and nights of your work. Time runs in circles and loses complexes of checkered rock formations. From your neck hangs nostalgia in open space and love armed and ready. I man to say that all the magic of lightning rod love consists in exactly its noons and in fact the most secret phosphorous consumables. When you held me in your arms the birdies between the pavement were eating my memory and dying automatically Imbecilic associations were operating besides…

This was the reason I loved you!

But once more the natural phenomena with the painting of always say it is the most momentous "the sorrow that mellows you". And it is not only this it is also love which never and nowhere lets off if it is to be born it leads you tenderly to the sheets and the hypodermic feelings. How can you go around in the landscape if you are to be drowned every so often in the most archaic building even if it protects you from a war. I mean to say that if you are to duel in all in the powers of the sea in the bodies that are given you you write and write about your crease which is not seen. If only those that get angry could understand you even if here is the problem…But usually the problem is not here but only in the words of Elytis "I have no relatives, from all mylife I tried to make a stony youth. I filled love with crosses." And no hope.

To smell the excellent…The juvenile caresses reach the place of poetry and the words that if nothing else charm lost are found in the look and you follow me if possible to the guardhouse of love. Everything talks to me however even the docile rectangular horizontal and vertical of the body that weaves a story a memory a past delaying the enchantment!

I mean to say that one thing is affection and another is love, love endures like a solstice in the middle of the Nile leaning flirtatiously the female body on its moonshore and love always encloses the significant without the fall from the deep blue waters of Niagara being feasible. Suffice to say and say forthright in the blue of the breath as slow burning as it is.

I burn for a truth the truth hovering over the crimson cover of a book. The river flows and whispers are heard the bodies darken and screams are heard, it is the time I have to see you in my dream have to conquer Mesagros and the ray of the precise. A feeling overwhelms me and I cannot sleep, the hours wrestle with the shipwrecked sheets, Spring finally came, the words will flower again...

My agony is poetry and the magic that the verse in the viscera respires, the bowels explode and I learn to watch my vision, a rocky shadow that hollows to rceive a wave the sea eating up the body with its saltiness and the spluttering of the moon in dreams. Death is no more!
To dine poetry and love need the human body, to get drunk they want the poet and thus the transparent reflected word upon the verse is the truth jeopardized in the city without mind and intellect scrapings dark like a ray of sun even if under a magnifying glass.

And if I sensually ask you for the overt lip of the Universe, will you kiss me?

I have to say that the magnitude of the calamity seems to be completely recompensed by respectable meetings of if I want something I want it now and so on. The jugglery of love never renders you reach. It so happens that the innocence of poetry seduces and thus you write how else? To become a poet or not is a state you verify in your inmost dreams, you wake up and you know that to fall in love you have to write poems and vice versa. The most priceless I ever received was an avalanche of affinities of souls and bodies. Fateful was the snapshot of empty wine glasses, with a collar round the table of our desires. And then came the thrill…

Extremely we completely comprehend the body of imagination and choice if it is known beforehand but then again. We have to spend ourselves on the back of the palm tree and the erotic banquet when the girl falls in love with a man and the reverse, without incrimination and totally lackadaisically different. Love has to drown and resurrect the bodies by a flame like the one of the Roman yellow candles in the background. The room shines and silence hovers and I want to touch you to smell you and poetry is late but comes with the look of a girl on the floor because there the heart lies in the bottom of the fog, from there I speak to you! It seems that the fingers resemble serenades of an orchestral ensemble in the midst of the stage playing the piano or preferably the violin at the tracks of a fibrous heart about a decade ago and let it be…

The truth is found inside you and it is important that the questions of writing to be solved endoscopically like love nevertheless is resolved…

Even if it is not in vain!

The misspelling of love…

Comments

[Robert]

Enjoyed.