Eva Modinou

"You cannot cross the Abyss armed
 with Knowledge Power Authority
 but only with the humility
 washed in your own Blood"

The most powerful moment of poetry is when it's revealing, when it's based on insight. When it can immobilize the Moment and expand time. Then memory can connect the cause to the result retroactively, to "rebuild" the past, life itself in a way. - Eva Modinou

In the context of the poetic dimension of radio art, we are primarily interested in contemporary poets whose work is not particularly highlighted, poets who create quietly, with humility, and do not exhaust themselves in public relations.
Although within the radio art group, there are two exceptional associates with deep knowledge in poetry, the poet Giorgos Douatzis and the poetry critic Manos Tasakos, discovering and selecting noteworthy poetic voices proved quite difficult, as it is known that hundreds of poetry collections are published each year. Few of these collections stand out for their quality, withstand the test of time, and even fewer distinguish themselves. Critiques, of course, are subjective and by no means infallible.

Recently, I came across the poetry collection "Asia Minor - the cycle of hours" by Eva Modinou. It was the first time I had seen her name. I quickly skimmed through it, as I always do before carefully studying each poetry collection, and randomly landed on page 73, in the section "Smyrna 1922" and the poem "toward the fragrance of the dead." I read it and felt a tremor in my soul. I realized I was in front of an exquisite poetic gem that, although referring to the Asia Minor Catastrophe, is closely linked to the present. I quote the lines of the poem:

"Which sea washed us up on this shore?
Which fire covered us with its ash?
Without a homeland, without belongings, without hope
in that escape, we carried a golden-threaded breeze
the memory of a Paradise lost forever
We have neither myrrh nor frankincense
we have only our souls for the scent of the dead"

My initial positive impression was confirmed and strengthened by carefully reading all the poems in the collection. This is one of the best poetic voices I have read in recent years. In my humble opinion, we are facing a significant Greek poet. I hope time and the reception she will receive from the public and critics will confirm my opinion.

I sought her out within the context of this specific tribute, and our discussions confirmed what I had already understood from her poems. She is a very humble person, a genuine poetic voice with innocence and the knowledge that poetry can brilliantly illuminate the mystery of existence and answer what ultimately distinguishes a person from being inhumane.

This is precisely what the poetry collection of Eva Modinou uniquely illuminates, drawing inspiration from the Trojan War myth and appearing to be invisibly connected to the Asia Minor Catastrophe, the greatest catastrophe of Hellenism, as well as to the present, where wars surround us from every direction. Because, as she herself says: "This poetic composition attempts to shed light on a part of human history and through this mystery of the heart. Only poetry can illuminate the mystery without violating its inaccessible core. Because there, only silence..."

Below is the dialogue I had with her and an anthology from her poems.

L.M.: Dear Mrs. Modinou, welcome to Art Radio. We are thrilled to have you with us.

E.M.: Thank you very much for the invitation, Mr. Mitropoulos. I am particularly delighted about our meeting.

L.M.: The recent events with the wars in our neighborhood are dramatic. In your latest poetic composition "ASIA MINOR - The Circle of Hours," you start from the Trojan War and reach the Catastrophe of Asia Minor. Do you believe that there is a continuity in war and the destruction it brings?

E.M.: These days, we witness a relentless war between Israel and Hamas, where the majority of victims are civilians, innocent women, and children. Simultaneously, the war rages on between Ukraine and Russia. In the first case, it's a war between two peoples with different religions and cultures, while in the latter, it's a war between two countries with the same religion and common cultural characteristics.

One might say that war has its timeless roots in history, in the competition among people and nations. And there's always an attempt at justification by the attacking side, sometimes strong, sometimes weak, as there's a need for the moral right for something that almost always goes beyond any limit and becomes immoral.
Many times, a war starts as a defence for those who have been attacked. However, I wonder where the defence of the strong ends and the arrogance begins. In September '41, Seferis wrote in one of his poems:

"Lord, we don't know what we are / what we can be / [...] how we breathe as best we can / with a little prayer every morning / [...] // Lord, not with them. Let your will be different." (Postscript, from "Deck Diary, II").

This ignorance of man and his boundaries, who we really are and where we can reach, might be the whole history of humanity, and within it, the most tragic part: war, as an inevitable madness that repeats itself.

L.M.: The first part of your poetic composition, concerning the Trojan War, starts with a dialogue between Iphigenia and Beautiful Helen. What does Iphigenia represent in this war, but also in every war? An expiatory innocent victim?

E.M.: Iphigenia is the first victim of the Trojan War and belongs to the civilian population. She is an innocent girl called upon to pay with her life for her father's ambition, the leaders' deceit, and the impatience of the army. Isn't her personal story timeless? She sees clearly what is coming because she is innocent. However, she cannot overturn it. Power is not in the hands of the innocent. In the poem "V. unyielding mourning" she says:

"great the hopes fatal the torch - the nations
in this war will enter with a rush
into the womb of fire passions will forge
the unyielding mourning"

"He sees far not only because it is innocent but also because it is close to death. And he knows that there is mourning that has consolation and mourning that has no consolation. When a person surpasses the limit, the limit of humanity, when they become inhumane, then mourning becomes inflexible, it has no redemption.

L.M.: All creatures in life do what they can to claim their survival, even the herbivore for the grass is carnivorous; what is your perspective on innocence, does it exist?

E.M.: The grass is so humble that it is offered to the sheep self-evidently. And the sheep is so innocent that it feeds on whatever humbly offered to it. I mean that in the marvellous world of creation, there is innocence and guilt as a consonance or violation of a divine Law. Deep down in our souls, we always know when we are innocent and when we are guilty, but we do not want to accept this truth because if we accept it, we come into conflict with our desires and instincts, which, like the truth, are deeply rooted within us.

Animals and carnivorous plants - few but they exist - compared to humans are innocent because they act based on instinct, while humans are the only beings that have an awareness of what is fair, what is unfair, what the limits of their jurisdiction are. Because potentially they are creators, in other words, minor gods. This makes them guilty. Besides, the behaviour of animals does not have the power of mass destruction nor the nightmare of irrationality that the "deviation" of human behaviour can have.

Ultimately, I believe that innocence is associated with Paradise, and its absence with its loss. To the extent that a person rediscovers their primal destination within the creation of the world, perhaps then only do they rediscover their innocence. And along with that, nature around them flourishes. An example is the Saints of all ages who had such harmony with the environment that they transformed wild beasts into lambs. Like Saint Gerasimos of the Jordan, in the 5th century, who removed a thorn from a lion's paw, and from that moment on, it followed him everywhere like a lamb; Saint Seraphim of Sarov, in the 18th-19th century, who fed bears; the contemporary Saint Paisios, who fed snakes as if they were domestic animals, and many others.

L.M.: The first part of your poetic book refers to figures of Myth, the second part to recent History, to the Catastrophe of Asia Minor. Do you believe that Myth and History meet somewhere?

E.M.: Yes, because the tragic figures are timeless, and their history is repeated. Myth refers to timeless tragic figures with specific experiences. And what humans better understand is what they experience. When we speak of the history of specific individuals, we refer to experiences that we ourselves may have felt, to something familiar and close. When we talk about historical events, judgment operates more; it is something more distant.

Listening to my mother narrate what she had experienced during World War II, the Occupation, and the Civil War, I gradually realized that the patches of History are essentially the experiences of people filtered through the objective dimension of events. The experiences of tragic figures, Ifigeneia, Filoktitis, Aiantas, Ekavis, and the Beautiful Helen, which make up the Myth, encounter History through their timelessness. Sometimes what makes a person tragic, especially if they hold power or are within a sphere of power, is linked to the tragedy of an entire race, a nation.

L.M.: The title you gave to your book "ASIA MINOR" and the subtitle "The Circle of Hours," how are they connected?"

E.M.: The title "Asia Minor" and the subtitle "The Cycle of Hours" have spatial and temporal references respectively. Asia Minor, as a place, holds a particular weight not only for us Greeks but globally, as the myth of the Trojan War has been integrated into the collective memory of humanity. It's not coincidental that Hemingway and other war correspondents of the time connected the Asia Minor Catastrophe with the Trojan War. Furthermore, it holds a particular symbolic significance as the seven churches of the Apocalypse of John were founded there.

On the other hand, "The Cycle of Hours" refers to the succession of roles between victors and vanquished, and by extension, to Hubris and Nemesis. Hubris is followed by Nemesis in an unbreakable pattern, akin to a cycle. In ancient tragedies, this cycle was enclosed, and only through the intervention of divine power or a contrivance, a deus ex machina, could there be some resolution. In contrast, in Christianity, redemption from this cycle is granted by God Himself, Christ, through the Crucifixion and Resurrection.

L.M.: You speak of redemption, yet comfort and hope in a significant portion of your work seem to traverse rather dark paths. Do you believe the reader can easily perceive and grasp them?

E.M.: These challenging paths are intertwined with life itself. After all, as Antonio Porchia says, "only the wound speaks with its own words." And poetry must speak solely with its own words to be genuine and to communicate with the reader. Don't we say, "Everyone has their own cross to bear"? No one desires it, yet we all know that life is not strewn with rose petals. You mentioned earlier that "what's happening recently with the wars in our neighbourhood is dramatic," indicating a dark atmosphere and an impending danger.
Dark paths are inevitable in human life because the heart, whether one's own or that of those around, is dark. Ultimately, humans are always in a battle, whether with themselves or with others.

Gaston Bachelard in his book "Water and Dreams" somewhere says, "There is a poetry of blood; it's the poetry of drama and pain because blood is never happy."
Indeed, if blood is in some way the messenger of the subconscious, that which connects us to those who preceded our generation and those who will follow, it can never be happy as it inherits from one to another all the suffering of existence. Simultaneously, however, it also bestows all the blessings of life. This, I would say, the reader can perceive as bittersweet.
Comfort and hope lie in the fact that although the Crucifixion is a dark passage, if one does not lose love, if one does not lose oneself, it leads to Resurrection, to joy, to Light.

L.M.: Can poetry redeem the poet or the reader?

E.M.: The bittersweet I mentioned earlier is like a balance between melancholy and hope. Poetry watches this balance, sometimes leaning towards sorrow, sometimes towards hope. Of course, if the stockpile of sorrow and futility is too substantial, the balance leans more towards sorrow.
I believe that poetry is a way to relive the experience, the trauma differently, to reconcile with the tremendous fait accompli. And that is already a form of redemption. If the poet can achieve this through their poetry, they can certainly convey something of that experience to the reader.

L.M: Have you found this redemption in poetry and have you faithfully followed it for quite a few years?

E.M.: Yes. In an online discussion I had with students of the postgraduate program "Cultural and Film Studies" at the University of Athens (instructor: Elli filokyprou) in 2021, where I had the opportunity to speak and discuss with an exceptionally mature audience, I had said that poetry can give you the levers of catharsis in a traumatic event. It can reveal its background not in a psychological way but in a deeper spiritual way. To open a horizon in the soul, a self-awareness that surpasses any corresponding knowledge acquired through analytical thinking and psychology. Because poetry is an event, an experience. It suddenly illuminates the causes, the motives, the lies, the truths. It helps you to step out of the personas and become a person. This is already the beginning of a catharsis.

Ancient tragedy gives us pure catharsis, either with or without the intervention of a deus ex machina. Poetry can give the levers of catharsis. To place a mirror in front of us without idols. To open a spiritual horizon. It can even change the stigma of time within us, the burden of memory, and this is already another way out of the drama.

L.M: Regarding the time and the burden of memory you mentioned, in your previous poetic composition "The Age of Stone," I read a couplet from the poem "On the Bank":

"I sat on a bank and saw the river·
the time that passed within me without an estuary."

I understand the poetic expression, but I wonder what time without an estuary means. Could it be the unfulfilled? And what can poetry do about it?

E.M.: The most powerful moment of poetry is when it's revealing, when it's based on insight. When it can immobilize the Moment and expand time. Then memory can connect the cause to the result retroactively, to "rebuild" the past, life itself in a way.

There's a film by Andrei Tarkovsky, "Solaris," based on the science fiction novel of the same name by Stanisław Lem. In this, the protagonists who go to a space station relive their past because the planet beneath that station, resembling an endless ocean, gives substance and bones to their memories. So, they relive the dramatic events of their lives in a different way.

Truly, one can't do anything with the unfulfilled as long as it remains as an active request within. But I believe that poetry ultimately, and art in general, is a purifying bath of memory. Specifically, the pain that memory bears. Through poetry, one can relive their past differently. Not only retroactively, but in a different way. And this dynamic transformation of time can be conveyed to the reader through emotion and reflection.

L.M: Based on what you just said, I wonder if self-critique could also be a purifying bath of memory. And if it is, what is the most important lesson it has given you?

E.M.: I believe it's because self-criticism is an essential stage of self-awareness. It's enough not to get stuck in the unpleasant events of one's life, in the mistakes, unfulfilled dreams, and the negative emotions they provoke, such as disappointment, discouragement, resignation. We are not infallible, but we can try not to repeat our mistakes. It's a great art to be able to look back, making a sober assessment while also looking forward, not losing one's optimism, hope, and purpose.
The most significant lesson it has granted me is the invaluable value of selflessness and genuine love. Because acts of love are the only ones that are worthwhile, the only ones that endure, and selfless creation is included in them.

L.M.: From your latest poetic composition "Asia Minor - The Cycle of Hours," I read an excerpt from the poem "The Thorn That Perfumes," which I particularly like:

"This mosaic waterflow
from missed and unfulfilled desires
towing a wind-swept sea
this kiss, an ungiven emerald
shining in the mouth, but not uttered
no bridge to cross
the futility of days
these are the ways of anguish
and the ways of love"

Ultimately, what is love? A thorn that perfumes but cannot assist us adequately in life's difficulties?

E.M.: Love can assist us in all life's difficulties as long as it is genuine love. But what is genuine love? The Apostle Paul describes it excellently in his First Epistle to the Corinthians, in the wonderful hymn of love, explaining what love is not and what it is, or rather how genuine love acts:

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal... Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered... It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."

However, do we love this way? Without any selfishness, without asserting our righteousness, without being jealous, without claiming ownership over the other as if they were the object of our desire? Usually, our love contains many "germs" of selfishness; it is not genuine, which is why it doesn't help us or others when difficulties arise.

Andrei Tarkovsky delved exceptionally into the subject of love. In his book "Sculpting in Time," he says somewhere that the meaning of love lies in sacrifice. And that only love can oppose the cynicism and moral vacuum poisoning the modern world, "even though we no longer know how to love," as he puts it.

I believe that love, in the sense of selflessness and self-sacrifice, offers us a sense of peace and unity with those around us and, in general, with our environment.
In the "Song of Solomon," the poet says:

"Love is as strong as death / and desire as fierce as the grave"

(translation by Seferis). This contradiction is tremendous. It's as if describing the tragedy of unrequited love, the tug-of-war between love and passion. Sometimes, however, love is more potent than death.

L.M.: The Stoics said that a person fears death from birth, can we, during our lives, "exorcise" the fear of death?

E.M.: I believe true love is the only "charm" against the fear of death. Those who truly love fear nothing, not even death. "There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear," says the evangelist John (1 John). But it is very difficult for anyone to reach that perfect love. Perhaps only the Saints achieve it. Because our love, as I said before, has many "germs" of self-interest. We love with conditions or through passions, desires, our interests. Through our egoism. Our love is filtered in a way by our "Self" and weakened.
Of course, this does not mean that someone who loves does not suffer when they lose a loved one. We are human beings with emotions, we ache at loss, but pain is different from fear.

In one of his poems, Vyron Leontaris wondered, "How can one pass through an entire death?" ("En gi armira"). Perhaps ultimately, we live many "deaths" until our departure from this life. In terms of fear and decay.
Fear in the sense of agonizing anxiety is a prison. While pain can be transformed through poetry and art in general. Because true art opens a horizon beyond decay. It is a window to eternity. It helps us approach the mystery of life and death; the mystery of our soul.
In my previous composition "The age of the stone," in the poem "A light step," I say:

"Love, like an Angel with large wings
is very far very close· perhaps within us
As is death·
this nakedness of the soul before Resurrection."

Is faith in the Resurrection also one of the best "charms" against the fear of death?

Eva Modinou, sketch by Giannis Vranos - 1982

L.M.: For those who believe, surely yes. But for others, I believe that besides love, art can also help.

E.M.: Surely, it can help. Nowadays, science confirms it. A study was conducted in England, around 2010, to address degenerative diseases such as dementia or mental illnesses like depression. With the help of functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging (fMRI), the effect of poetry on the brain was studied. It was revealed that the more the poem touched the reader's emotion, the more the right hemisphere of the brain was activated. Given that the dominant hemisphere is the left one which we generally use more, the activation of the right one helps the function of the whole brain. I read in a related article that the term "Poetic medicine" has started to be used!
Similar conclusions, I assume, exist for the therapeutic effect of music.

L.M.: Certainly, there are many studies, and the therapeutic role of music has now been proven. So, tell me which music deeply moves you and some of the songs you particularly love.

E.M.: From classical music, especially Bach, and more so, the adagios in the first two Brandenburg Concertos. And opera, especially when I like the libretto, and of course, Maria Callas.
Many of my poems were inspired by listening to music. Due to my work, I had several professional trips. When I finished work, I started exploring the places I went, listening to music and writing poetry.

On many of my trips, I was accompanied by the music composed by Eleni Karaindrou for films, the music of Manos Hadjidakis, traditional Armenian music, especially some traditional songs from the SHOGHAKEN FOLK ENSEMBLE, MADREDEUS, which leaned on traditional fados, the wonderful CESARIA EVORA, who had also assimilated the many musical crossroads of her homeland - I've heard 'Sodade' countless times, perhaps because its bittersweetness suits me - ASTOR PIAZZOLA, who evolved traditional tango. From Greeks, Eleni Vitali, Chainides, the performances of Maria Farantouri, Nena Venetsanou, Flery Dadonaki, and many others.

As for songs, the lullaby "Sleep, my little Angel," with lyrics by Kostas Virvos and music by Mikis Theodorakis, deeply moves me. It is part of the "Lullabies" sung by Savina Giannatou in the arrangement by Nikos Kypourgos. Especially traditional lullabies from Asia Minor and the islands, and some from Nikos Gkatsos - Manos Hadjidakis. I mention these because it seems there is a dialogue between folk poetry and modern lyrics, and similarly, a dialogue in musical composition. Eventually, I really like the set-to-music traditional poems for their simple and unique lyrics. Like this couplet:

"Reveal the dawn of the sky and take from the world
my mind and reason, where you took me, give them back,"

which I heard, along with other couplets, by Arvanitaki in "Songs for the Months."
And the traditional song from the Cyclades "It's not dawn for me to rise." I recently heard it by Kaiti Koullia. Another interpretation I remember is by Nena Venetsanou in the "Images," where she has several set-to-music poems of Seferis, Elytis, Gkatsos, etc. Because I also really like set-to-music poetry.

L.M.: Tell us about a poem of yours that you really love.

E.M.: Poems are like children. The poet loves them as much as they have suffered in their creation. It's difficult to choose. I would say "The Dream of Pentamorfi" from the poetic composition "Forever - Poetry in Seven Acts." This poem was inspired by the sculpture "The Fairytale of Pentamorfi" by Yiannouli Chalepa. It's extensive and structured as a dialogue.
Instead, I'll share a quatrain from the same poetic composition:

"You cannot cross the Abyss armed
with Knowledge Power Authority
but only with the humility
washed in your own Blood"

And from the age of the stone, the poem "Eurydice." Let me share the last two stanzas:

"…You wisely keep silent·
leaving the jasmine to speak to me
with its bitter white fragrance as the night deepens
and I linger, bent in our separation

You wisely keep silent·
words get lost, forgotten
while the tyrannical silence at midnight
suddenly burns the soul as you fend off
as beloved Eurydice as a specter of a dream."

L.M.: Both poems you've just shared are exceptional. But as our conversation comes to an end, I'd like to bid farewell with some verses from Nikos Engonopoulos' poem "Hymn of Praise for the Women We Love."

"They are the women we love swans
in their parks
they live only inside our hearts
their wings
the wings of angels
their statues are our bodies
the beautiful rows of trees are the same,
straight at the edge of their light feet
they approach us
and it’s as if they kiss us
in the eyes
like swans."

E.M.: Engonopoulos' poem is beautiful. I'd also like to bid you farewell with verses from "Song of Songs," which I believe is the most beautiful poem about love:

"Set me as a seal upon your heart,
as a seal upon your arm·
for love is as strong as death,
jealousy is as cruel as the grave·
its flames are flames of fire,
a most vehement flame.
Many waters cannot quench love,
nor can the floods drown it."

L.M.: These eternal verses by Solomon have been sung by Dimitris Psarianos and Flery Dantonaki in 1972, with music by Manos Hadjidakis in a masterpiece, a true litany to our inner and esoteric life, the Great Love. Here's the specific rendition for our readers.

Ms. Modinou, thank you so much. Our conversation with you filled our souls with noble feelings and gave us great joy. Be well always.

E.M.: Thank you very much, Mr. Mitropoulos, for the opportunity and the joy of our communication on the Art Radio. In our time, any selfless offering given with inspiration is comforting and precious.

Poetry Anthology

Asia Minor - The circle of hours
Sunset

It's getting dark∙
the maps of the sky on the wings of the kingfisher
Ithaca mapped on its spine
and the dark whisper of the sea
the memory of the virgin islands

Silently, the bulk of the night advances
in my heart, a lost continent
the nostos...

What mast should I now cast into the Ocean
to continue the journey?
On the steel docks, cranes
load farewells
but no one finds the nancet of time

Only this little kingfisher suddenly
bridges the silence ─ the depth of time
as if my whole life were this fleeting
flash in her gaze∙

this bloody and insignificant trace
of secret wanderings

Asia Minor I - Trojan war
Helen I
the power of beauty

They said I was a sharp silence
in the mouth of the great river
in the cleft of the dream
a burning breeze
or the warmth of forgetfulness
the form of the wind
in the heart of frost

They said I was
a red desert filled
with the petals of fire
the relief of a storm
an elusive golden specter
a kiss that bent the bow of the heart
to the lunar water
a rare idol
of the power of beauty

They said I was
the stone well of hours
of the near-death thirst
the hollow triumph of pleasures
on a field of unnamed battles

Who was I, who am I?
Did I win or lose? Who knows?
A captive in the passions of others I lived
or within my own deceitful star?

I am still searching for the form of the soul
in love's severe undulation
like a rare stem of deep silence

Who can reach the light
simply by loving?

Ifigenia II
Happiness

The first rays are needles in the palm groves
Sorrow fortified − a variegated shield
Winds stitched; the sky stands tall above
the altar, like a procession of souls

The actions of my generation were sharp
One sows, another reaps in life

Yet I remember the lush joy of Spring
Those deep colors in the sea
The sun's lathe shaping snowy
summit lines

The exhausted darkness before dawn
melting in a moist dew, watering the earth
Happiness changes its face easily
Even the white swans grow old

Helen VI
A golden flutter

Her eyes were like a nighttime sea
hair enchanted by seaweed
A wide belt around her waist with rhombuses
of dazzling rare gems
Suddenly, she scattered her laughter like filigree
and the echo returned it even more dazzling
When she raised her beautiful hand, we thought
she released a tyrant lightning in the air
Near her, love's curtain never closed
spent

You felt the kiss locked on her lips
If she had let it go, it would have scorched the heavens
In her hands, she held our time
only with her beauty, without words
Now, it is nothing but the reflection
of some hazy image∙
a golden flutter
in the trough of our memory

The cycle of hours
The thorn that smells

This mosaic waterflow
from missed and unfulfilled desires
towing a wind-swept sea
this kiss, an ungiven emerald
shining in the mouth, but not uttered
no bridge to cross
the futility of days
these are the ways of anguish
and the ways of love

But the dead do not awaken
from the murmur of our return·
they lengthen their journey
their annulled presence
their vision that remained unfulfilled
in the sharp stones of time

At night, they petrify in our dreams
with their thorn deeply embedded
in memory, still perfuming

How will we return to Ithaca
with these stony wings
with this earthbound body?

Asia Minor II - Uprooting
Smyrna 1922
For the scent of the dead

"Which sea washed us up on this shore?
Which fire covered us with its ash?

Without a homeland, without belongings, without hope
in that escape, we carried a golden-threaded breeze
the memory of a Paradise lost forever

We have neither myrrh nor frankincense
we have only our souls for the scent of the dead"

Exile

The sea of our childhood years
left a soundless horizon beneath
the tooth of time, our true hour

It left a love polished by a wild
moon, like a golden dream
nailed to the fisherman's harpoon

But death only happens the first time
when you squander all hope
and all love in a single night

Then you learn to live with bound hands
exiled in the shipyard of time
You learn to travel into the abyss
to gaze at your lost Paradise
to traverse the future without hope
on the edge of dreams, nearly dead

Did we ever live?
The sea of our childhood years
that joy that seemed eternal, now
in this dust of days, is nothing but
a fragile alcove of time

Refutation
I

The open tendrils of the pinus pinea
near the vaults of the sky
buzzing from nests and hatchlings
on the blue spine of the day
Beyond that, the sandy shores, the tranquil waters
the fishermen casting their carefree nets

Cool was the breath of the night
in the twilight a soft cotton silence
sweet the waiting in the seaside
Love, sometimes a warm hood
sometimes an enchanting sea demon
Dolphins played on his forehead
crab claws round his cheeks
in his golden hair, sea anemones
the constellations revolved around him

Then came the fire and the violent wind
burned your blooming will to live and die
at the same time
It left only a scorched memory
the future - like a dried riverbed

Postscript
This Voice

This restless voice, like dust
that you try to shake off from within
or to sketch something upon it, but it refuses
It wants to remain this tiny speck
to become a map without a direction
the toponymy of an unknown time
the sharp silence of thorns when
the blossom falls

Or a signpost to the future
the gentle exhalation of a breath
the talkative water of a source that collapses
yet still overflows

Perhaps it doesn't want to say anything
only to show an empty chair, an empty place
the empty present divided in two: yesterday - tomorrow
the integral absence

This restless voice of the dead exists
outside of any reality
untouched, yet it fills space and time
reminding eternally of a terrible boundary
howling at the soul
as if it were between before and after
the unspeakable now

Short C.V.

Eva Modinou was born and lives in Athens. She studied Mathematics at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki and Architecture at the National Technical University of Athens. She works as an architect-engineer.

In the field of poetry, she first appeared in 2001 by the Erifili editions of Christos Darras, with the poetry collection:

Chitchat

This was followed by collections from the same publishing house:

The Hollow of Silence, 2003,

'Where it Ends... First Notebook,' 2005,

'Where it Ends... Second Notebook,' 2005.

In 2012, the poetic composition 'Forever - poetry in seven acts' was published by the 'Friends' Editions.

Subsequently, poetic compositions were published by Gavostis Editions:

'The Age of Stone,' 2017,

'ASIA MINOR- The circle of hours,' 2022.

The first critical presentation of her poetry was made by Vangelis Psyrrakis on the Third Program in 2001 ('Chitchat'). It was a pleasant surprise. The second ('The Hollow of Silence') by Stratos Stasinos, also on the Third Program, who accidentally discovered her collection in a bookstore, a fact that convinced her that poetry is a bottle in the sea that eventually reaches its destination. There have been other such fortunate coincidences on the radio (Second Program, Athens 984, Communication FM, Voice of Greece) as well as in print media.

She publishes poems, essays, short stories, articles in print and electronic literary magazines. Reviews of her poetry have been written in newspapers and magazines.

Her poems have been translated into Italian.

On the internet, she maintains the website: www.evamodinou.gr