We have not seen the moon since we arrived.
All these nights of dark, and stars, and song,
all these fears of returning to the world
that feels so lost but has been there all along.
If I could roll over and over in this water
between reflections of Orion, Gemini
Ursa Major, over and over between dark
and light until I lose all sense
of up and down, here and gone,
air and ground, melt into a liquid peace,
what would I feel but happy,
what would I find but release?
The sun sets softly, suddenly, this far from home.
I’m sitting in my underwear below the veil of a mosquito net.
When I close my eyes I still see the Lake,
the trees, and you. So easy to be lost in this longing.
For a moment, I’m sure I see the particles that make up the world
and you, and me, and her, dancing in their perfect glory
while we dance around each other, imperfect, sometimes discordant,
sometimes in tune. A broken-hearted melody.
Earlier, in the water, I was sure my heart would break right out
of my chest. My breath, like an erratic bird, would carry it away.
My precious heart. My precious breath. This precious life.
Too much, too much, and yet never enough.
Ways of Being
My whole life has been a journey to
this boat, this land, this moment.
Firing up my heart amidst
dark mountains, green water,
a box of bananas by my feet.
I am finding ways to be human,
to let myself be seen.
Just another small spark of humanity.
Here at last I burn.
Sophia Argyris was born in Belgium, spent much of her childhood in the north of Scotland, and currently lives in Oxford, England. Her work has been published in several journals including Magma, Prole, Reach Poetry, Structo and Under the Radar amongst others. Her collection “How Do the Parakeets Stay Green?” was published in 2014 by Indigo Dreams Publishing Ltd.
In the morning birds fly
closer than the mountains
closer than the sky.
Below them, in the valley,
In the afternoon is thunder,
rainwater falling into water,
we slip in too, let ourselves sink
like memories wild and deep,
In the evening fire lifts into the final
breathing of light, and on into darkness.
We are a circle with flames at the centre
and all around us
Soft darkness in the belly of the valley,
lightning blinks behind the mountain.
Here on the path fireflies
like earthbound stars.
I have always been here.
I never left.
I am full of the land,
the air, tall trees
and the water where
frogs send out ripples
and solitary fish swim
Keep me safe
and I will always be here
Sophia Argyris was born in Belgium, spent much of her childhood in the north of Scotland, and currently lives in Oxford, England. Her work has been published in several journals including Magma, Prole, Reach Poetry, Structo and Under the Radar amongst others. Her collection ‘How Do the Parakeets Stay Green?” was published in 2014 by Indigo Dreams Publishing Ltd.
It’s so hot
the lake pulls us in
like happy hour
to the world’s most dedicated drunks
The rocks hurt my bare feet.
“We’re not here for you,” they say.
So I keep my sandals on
and my glasses
but leave my shirt on the bank
We fish for the sake of pretense
and give up soon enough
when sufficient time has passed,
and then the day is ours to
marvel at the line between sky
land and water
striations — variations —
birdfights like warplanes
minnows and fingerlings
slashing to the surface in the terror of nature
“We’re not here for you,” they say
“You’re not one of us”
I use my flip-flops like fins
limping to shore
wondering if they’re right
or only jealous
The birds can eat us too
if they only have the time to wait
then scatter our scraps like sacramental rain over the water
catching around bushroots where the little fish shelter.
“Finally,” they say.