Montreal, Canada, July 2000, 21st International Jazz Festival

The Windham Hotel is a skyscraper in the center of Montreal, which hosts, every July, the musicians and bands performing at the Festival International de Jazz de Montreal. In the rooms of the upper floors, all day long musicians can be heard warming up their instruments, while at night, when the concerts are over and the city streets empty, the musicians gather in the hotel’s lounge, they get to know each other and jam. I sketch the view from the big window of our room on the 12th floor.

I hear a saxophone

from the corridor’s end

and I come out of the room

there’s a party on the ground floor

Drinks and jam sessions

with the musicians of the world

all kinds of feelings

tangled within me

How did I get here

in the corridors of the Windham?

in a musical cauldron

in the streets of Montreal?

Young, old and children

Βlacks, Whites and Asians

dance to the musics

from the corners of the earth

And their hearts are open

their bodies loose

in front of open air stages

with electrified speakers

The whole city is here

reveling in the festival

in French and English

people speak to me

«You played well the other night

when will you be coming back?

And if you like in our houses

come and stay

Bring us the music

from your country

So that we all become one village

the time is finally here!»

A global village

in the centre of Montreal

and like the Windham tall

grew the tree of music

Translated in English by Alexandra Alexandri

Chapada Dos Veadeiros, Goias, Central West Brazil, September 2005

They say that this region is a place of energy. Strangely shaped hills rise abruptly above the forests of the savannah. The ground is made of crystals and every stone you lift is transparent and glitters. We follow the footpath to Vale da Lua, the Valley of the Moon, with the sculpted black rocks and the waterfalls. Night falls and the calls of the birds resonate and produce a sound that resembles Tibetan singing balls.

The moon wanes inverted

on the Plateau of the Deerhunters

Night birds are singing the continuum

I tread on the footsteps of the guides

In Vale da Lua

The path is slippery among the rocks

and below us tons of water

Two waterfalls have encircled me

and blue parrots fly everywhere

In Vale da Lua

The moon wanes inverted

on the Plateau of the Deerhunters

They give as blue petals to eat

to be initiated in the life of flowers

To be baptized in the waters of the waterfall

to resonate to the song of the birds

To be dried by the air of the savannah

to sleep inside the light of the stars

In Vale da Lua

Translated in English by Alexandra Alexandri

(from the album taxidoscopio)

Yerevan, Armenia, April 2005, Invited by the ΑΝΒ avand-guard folk music club

Mount Ararat, perpetually snowy, towers above Yerevan.

On the cusp of Soviet, European and Asian culture, Armenia is gathering its pieces and stands on its own feet with the help of enlightened Armenian artists and wealthy Armenians of the diaspora. And while in Greece the drachma has been long replaced by the euro, it is still the national currency in Armenia.

Before we leave for the airport, we record the early morning sounds of the city.

In the streets of Yerevan

a town crier cried

His countries woes

carrying on his back

Black memories, distant scents

Pained words and musics

West and East

strangely Merge

under Ararat

Black Asian night

and everything is burning

in the heart of Chevac

In the streets of Yerevan

colorful bazaars

Armenia’s fate

played on dice

Aging buildings, ruins

Demolished symbols, statues

Asia and America

soviet mentality

in the mind of Chevak

Stifling heat

with a snowy peak

on mount Ararat

In the streets of Yerevan

cranes tower above

Euros and dollars

save face

New mores of the new God

Neon lights of capitalism

Poverty, wealth and opulence

strangely merge

under Ararat

Art and politics

and maybe a drachma will remain

in the purse of Chevak

Translated in English by Alexandra Alexandri

Grape harvest on Sikinos

Come, catch the moon

staring like a white ram

from Sikinos’ peek

Come, give it to me as a crown

and you will get from me

a sea kiss

The port of Sikinos

decked with a necklace

of lights and children

embraces our celebration

quickens our breath

lights a fire within us

The stepping-stone of the gods

from where you can see all the islands

when Bacchus stepped on it

he named it Oinoe

Come, catch the moon

come, do me this favour

on the island of Sikinos

Shiny pearl

spread like a rug

on the mist of the waves

On the gods’ stepping stone

let us tread awhile

and become gods

Let the vines ripen

and give us grapes

to turn them into wine

In Oinoe’s vineyards

we will spread our arms

and dance

September’s moisture

Dionysus’ Bacchic dance

so that goodness may take root

In the port of Sikinos

one last night

let us light a fire

When September has gone

and the day has turned to night

take me in your arms

Translated in English by Alexandra Alexandri

Tel Aviv, September 1998

Glimmers of peace in the most bloodstained corner of the world …

Saturday evening. I gaze at the Mediterranean and the vast beach in front of the coastal highway of Tel Aviv. To the left I can make out Jaffa in the distance. Groups of friends and families have spread carpets and rugs on the sand and are enjoying the sunset, drinking coffee or tea and smoking hookahs. The children are running back and forth, while the women raise their heavy dresses and cool the tips of their feet in the foam of the waves.

Look at the purple sun

diving in the sea

And Jaffa luminous

a palm tree bending

to wash itself in the Mediterranean

Foamy waves

rugs spread

on the infinite beach

Hookahs, yashmaks, the women adorned

The sensual East wets her feet in the surf

Birds fly in the sky

clouds in the background

And Jaffa luminous

awaits the night

strolling along the beach

Darkness falls

humidity’s caress

moon in the east

Angry, aching, persecuted, killed

A moon painted red is rising from the east

The humidity is heavy

heavy is the history

A carved slice of land

waiting for something

with sacrifices, with threats

A country fraught

demarcated

by refugee conquerors

Angry, aching, persecuted, killed

A moon painted red is rising from the east

Translated in English by Alexandra Alexandri