CHRISTOS R. TSIAILIS

 

CHRISTOS R. TSIAILIS

 

My Fig Tree Don’t Let Go

 

“Where is your soul, now, my Queen, my fig tree?

Where your eyes?

Are your roots still there, rotten, proud and grey,

the hair of fate upside-down in dismay?

Where could this soul be flying?

Could she be in your seeds?

Inside your offspring?”

-        My Fig Tree won’t let go -

I call this in certainty

for the little fig tree plants are still growing

among the wild bushes behind houses,

a treat for a look,

a tree and a hook you can never escape.

-not that it would let go anyway -

 

Which yards are you now shading with your million silver-green palms?

Which children are you feeding with your sumptuous fruit?

Your holy empire,

the priests, your followers.

If I dig now where you retire,

and find the thirty pills I never took down,

what says you, if I do so,

and all the full quantity take

with a single swallow

and a pint of fine ouzo*?

-you know, once I heard an ancient Greek call out “OU ZO!” –

If I only knew he was saying “I do not live”

I watched as he wisely fell from his own Queen Fig Tree,

and I saw him die right there

with splashed ripe figs under his smashed corpse.

Green figs smirking with red slashes

are still falling on his shattered chest bones.

 

“So tell me, Eternal Lady,

if I swallow them pills,

still dive from up there

and dance with your falling flesh,

will it be over, will I be free?”

 

The dump sound of a mature fig

that broke not as it fell on a bed of poppies

reverberated inside my head

and I walked away from the tree

-relieved-

 

*dry anise-flavoured aperitif that is widely consumed in Greece and Cyprus

  

 

Can I Finally Ghetto?

 

The big question has always been

'can you belong?'

it has been asked

to the tree roots

it has been asked

to the moon

'can you guys ghetto?'

they had no answer

they had a route

they had to nourish

          and be tuned

but they could not move.

 

 

The big question has always been

'can you believe?'

it has been asked

to the wind

it has been asked

to the troubled rioters

 

'can you brothers ghetto'?

but this deed of separation

was transferred

-sadly-

to the borough,

its segregated etymology

my carcass on wheels.

 

 

The answer has always been there

'I can ghetto'

I can finally find

a small dark humid hole

broken cement

protruding rusted iron bars

-stark naked I enter-

to dress me up some lucid graffiti

of an affluent -so grotesque- ex-life

I gotta give up on asap

puny second-hand utensils

for a write, a ride, and a junk.

 

 

[Knock if you like

but expect no flesh]

 

 

Under The Black Tree

 

There's a certain time

near noon

where you find joy

in the shade

of the black tree.

Years ago

Locals used to say

a philosopher

died there

visitors used to opine

death

philosophised

-in trance-

idle,

and bare

 

There's a certain wish

you need

to memorise

and whisper

leaning

at the roots

of the black tree

 

The priest say

he not tell

the village teller

say he

no priest

as the winds

carried

-afar-

such

amusing

quarrels

and everybody’s

[time]

gaudily designed

all day and night

neatly went by

hugging the trunk

scratching their backs

on the black tree,

in turns,

slowly walking

blindfolded in queues,

some whispering

words of wisdom

some singing

Christmas carols,

-but others-

at the orchard's edge

gambling their fate

on the tarot

or in cards

 

Yet still

until today

years and years

[after]

everybody

remains

convinced

that joy

will pour down

like dark pollen

-would-

just before

noon

under the branches

that claim

no light

nor doom.

 

 

CHRISTOS R. TSIAILIS 

CHRISTOS R. TSIAILIS is a Cypriot Author. He is an English teacher, currently a candidate for Masters’ degree in the theory of theatre. His passion for writing consumes most of his time, when he is not out training as a triathlete. He travels a lot, recording memories from everywhere, which he incarnates in various literature genres.  His publications include short stories and poems in literary magazines and anthologies around the world. He has received numerous prizes for his short stories, theatrical plays and poetry. His work has been translated in many languages. He is the author of "Throwing Dice On A Chessboard", 2010, "The Green Divorce", 2012, the sci-fi novel “Klotho Surfaces”, 2016 and the short story collection “BREAD”, 2017. He is occasionally a member of Panhellenic literary contests’ committees. He has translated poetry collections and individual poems for magazines from English to Greek. He also serves the theatre at the position of assistant director and as a dramatist.