Konstantinos Papaioannou was born in Athens, Greece, in 1981. He graduated with First-class honours from the Department of German Studies at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, and earned his postgraduate degree in Cultural Management from the Deutsche Akademie für Management in Berlin, Germany. He has worked as a teacher for children and adults as well as a therapist for individuals on the autism spectrum.
From 2013 to 2019, he lived in London, UK, where he worked at Haute Collage Fine Art Gallery. There, he developed his artistic language, and started working as a visual artist. Upon returning to Athens 2019, he delved into Ancient Greek Philosophy and Ancient Greek Religion. These have since served as a source of inspiration for his poetic and visual work, which interact and complement each other.
He has exhibited his artwork in Greece, the United Kingdom, and Slovakia, and he is represented currently by galleries in Greece and abroad.
The “Mystics”, published by Elikranon Editions, marks his first appearance in the field of poetry, and was awarded the first Prize for Visual Poetry by the Hellenic Authors’ Society.
The Moon Does Not Want To Pass Over The Mediterranean
The Moon does not want to pass
Over the Mediterranean
Because there it sees itself
Clearer than anywhere else
There it strips bare in the deep blue
And shines brighter upon the waves
And so it loses
The sense of its own Mystery
The Moon does not want to pass
Over the Mediterranean
Because it grows dizzy
From the songs of the cicadas
And from the scents of the night-blooming flowers
And the jasmines
And so it alters its orbit
The Moon does not want to pass
Over the Mediterranean
Because it cannot compete
With the silver underside of the olive leaves
And it feels ashamed
The Moon does not want to pass
Over the Mediterranean
Because it knows
That she was never made
For its Night
Midsummer
Part One: High Noon
With his index finger, the Greek follows the line left by a drop of sweat on the shoulder of the man from Sialkot.
The cicadas have been singing for hours, their ancient rhythm in Greek, unbothered, monotonous, “Skisti – skisti – skisti…”. Rip it – rip it – rip it….
The droplet rolls down, dying upon a stalk of wheat. The Greek watches it, remembering.
Sweat clinging, bits of straw, hands that touch, gently peeling them away.
A small white butterfly, languid, over their clothes, resting on the orange-red elastic of an underwear.
His eye catches the airline ticket protruding from the pocket.
Cicadas. “Skisti…” Rip it. Are there cicadas in Sialkot? What do they say in Urdu?
An ant climbs up the thigh of the man from Sialkot. It crosses onto the calf of the Greek. Countrymen.
Part Two: The Countdown
The man from Sialkot half-opens his eyes. The sun, vertical, burns. Dry thyme between his fingers, smelling it.
In Pakistan, the cicadas sound different. There is no thyme, the sun has another color.
Colors, sounds, the heat, the scents… And this Greek body, languidly stretched over him.
Cicadas. In English. “Stay – stay – stay…” Do they have families too? He weaves a wild yarrow flower into the Greek’s hair.
Motionless, paralyzed by the heat, not moving, so as not to break the moment.
His forehead glistens with sweat.
The sun has shifted slightly. “Damn it…”
Cicadas. “Stay…”
He doesn’t want to know the time, but he must. He lifts his hand, clears the damp hair from his brow. The buzz of a beetle — like airplanes.
He looks down at his belly. The shadow from the wheat stalks wasn’t there before. The sun is setting, damn it.
Part Three: The Aftermath
It won’t be hot tomorrow. The cicadas sing no more. Coolness, a breeze. The small white butterfly fluttered by, it didn’t land.
Upon the blue swimwear, a silver chain, a silver crescent moon.
Thyme smells wonderful — they say scents linger longest. Mosquito spray, coconut and banana. He can no longer smell the thyme.
He stands, puts on his white tank top, his olive shorts. The swimwear was left behind, with the chain.
A tiny spider struggles along the nylon folds. “Where are you going?” It pauses before the crescent moon, changes path.
“You didn’t fall for it. You left. But I stayed…”
The Greek turns, walking through the wheat, the weeds, the thorns. The deep blue swimwear, the silver chain, left where they were.
The tiny spider had disappeared.
The evening had already begun to fall.
The Swimmer
And I saw the broken statue of a swimmer in the waters of the Aegean
And I saw planets aligning above him
And I saw the Soul extending everywhere, endless and ever-moving
I saw her taking the form of a buzz,
becoming waves and swirling into the Infinite
I saw her dominating, captivating, vibrating
And the only thing covering her was
Light
Poetry in this post: © Konstantinos Papaioannou
Published with the permission of Konstantinos Papaioannou