Sophia Charalambous

Sophia Charalambous

Sophia Charalambous – Journalist, Writer, Poet, Director, Editor. Sophia is half Greek Cypriot but was born and still lives in London. Sophia undertook the role of Spoken Word Editor for notable review site Broadway Baby at Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2017, and has been writing poetry from the age of eight. She has written for a number of national UK publications including the Independent, Daily Mail, The Mirror and Daily Star. Sophia is also a comedy director, with her most recent show IlluminArchie performed at the prestigious Soho Theatre, London, in November 2017.

To read more of her works, visit her blog site –

Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

It was summer,
Around August,
And there were hands
With no palms,
Placed in rows,
And the sound of
Silent tears, spitting
On soil, like an
Egg, sunny side up.
Sometimes real,
Really a trick of the light.

Outside, brick crumbles
Like five-year-old fruit cake,
Forming holes, hollows
Where trees once held
This holy ground,
Trodden with
Warrior heels,
What is now
A playground for
Pious people,
Pretending to
Know, polis.

Praise be to
God, Allah
Or Jesus, Muhammad
Whoever can
move mountains now
Cold has come
And lust has lulled,
Panes of shattered glass
Occupy parts
Where the patter
of Children’s paws
Once walked.

A swan sings
Upon a frozen
lake, ethereal yet
Ephemeral, her
Lover has left
And maids make milk,
From unpasturised udders,
Trees tore their
Own leaves, birds
Broke their wings,
The clock stopped on 2009,
It was summer.

L’oro di Napoli

Ruby red apple,
Rabid and rotting
At its core,

Wrap our mouths
In pizza, pasta
And pastiera,

Appease me with
Pulcinella and
Pillage my gold,

Demon darling,
Lucrezia Borgia,
Beastialize this bed,

Santo Januarius
Where is the
Justice here?

Sounds like
The slumber
Of souls,

Mussolini could
Not keep him
From mutiny,

A Catholic carved a
Curse but the
Cure is a coming,

Sea and Sardinia

Wild riches
Grow well,
Upon soil that
Reeks of rest.

While the
World sweats,

I yearn for
A frenzied
Moment, a
Bell chime,
A brawl.

The flag of
The four Moors,
A stirring

But even the
Air is too
Alghero, an
Anti hero.

Sanity leaves
Us when
Our footstep
Scars the
Sandal land.

The worshipped,
Yet he is unknown.
This island
Stays silent.

Ships are tied
Like tongues of
The departed,
Who set sail
Sardonic and alone.

Poetry in this post: © Sophia Charalambous
Published with the permission of Sophia Charalambous