Monday, October 26, 2009

Works Of Elli Griva

Elli Griva is a major young artist who lives and works in Athens.


2009:’’Yes. The Bound Home.’’
Art gallery: Astrolavos, Athens.

2008: ’’I want you’’
Art gallery: ART-SPACE, Santorin

2007: ’’I want you’’
Art gallery: Nees Morfes, Athens.

2007:’’I want you’’
Art gallery: National gallery of Napoli, Napoli.

2007: ’’I want you’’
Art gallery: IONOS, Karditsa.

2006: Why don’t you play with me?
Bar Hoxton, Gazi,Athens.

2004: Oh!!!What a wonderful world!!!
Art gallery: Tricky trick Art, Athens.

2003: It flies…It flies…
Art gallery: Statement, Athens.

2001: Oh!!!What a wonderful world!!!
Art gallery: Paratiritis, Thessalonica.

2000: Why don’t you play with me?
Art gallery: Ios, Athens.

1998: Paintings
Art gallery: In the Fine Art + Art café Grotesque,Thessalonica.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009


By Yannis Livadas

Night from within night
We change hands like a coin
Modern elements
Our sprouted laughter
The movement of the gulls away
From the sea
Some waves reach perfection
The eye of the orphic raft
Is glancing eyeless and unsuited to the sinkage
I’m in a state of alert
I’m aware of my interest
Same as the night
I waste no minute
A cogwheel falls in the sink
I’m breaking down in front of the mirror with a
Creative annulment:
The oncoming man.
Sky threads sew me
Into the cavities of time
I’m the tree of the remedies
With roots in the western and the eastern poles
I’m the weather in the most fearful cities
A radio transistor in the shantytown a luster
Of bronze to the childless palace
A command forgotten
A map folded
The first apple of history
Ever learning from the venerable propaganda's of the souls
In the buildings of intellection
I make fun
I’m extending
I open.

Under certain circumstances
Beauty continues
The light the bombshells the balloons
But nothing from all these does not thrill as much as
The sun disks between the shopping
The statue of a liberty at the feet of some eros
I’m loaded with scandals that take form
Like mandalas
Upper and lower levels
Messages of life like tidewater

Iridescence that give you fear for seconds
Meanings with not even a poem
Thumps when you are absent on the door
Death in the roses under the cold
Lights in the flower shops of the night
The coal fire of a carefree visionary.
And lately
Something is heard of
Openhearted mouths,
To look out.

I cover the poem like
Grass covers the grave
Like devil covers the milk
The apathy of a gargoyle
That reveals
Lonesome internal crowds.
I find my place via words
Buried pillars that delay
The wave to the fire
We have big mouths ideas
Who dislodge from icebergs
And become headlines
The earth that echoes our shatter
Continents devastated by dreadful
In the bar I get drunk with a bottle of tears
It’s because of the mucus of some enclosing phalanx
Variety of dimensions
An orchestration of ceased windmills
New fortunes of planets
The climax of the worship of modern verse
Leads to an attic of rats
The mob’s shocking feeling of tedium
Since be spared of madness
My existence becomes a religion
From the unction of some tender injustice
Lust like diamonds plod.

I’m typing under the heaviest burden
The solidification of emptiness
One iromancy
As if there are no other elements
Like the lions race
Before enter our thought
Under the shadow of this
Bust of time.
Someone from the rudeness
Is spinning golden courses of words in the air
The evil
Vulva of universes
Discord of characters
A page of expansion written
By the fashion of death
Spread wide open –

Pedagogic, the restructures
Of the libraries and the real heroes
With bad outcome –
I surmount the evil counting with whispers a
Greater magnitude
I grasp life with my hands and is warm
The future is manning in the papers of the poet
With the tangible and the unreal
With the ivy and the wall
With the mouth of the nightingale in the blast of the storm
The temporary gives birth to
The everlasting.

Death is
Ripe bananas
The worst
I could think
Doves at midnight driving a police car
And I for no reason
No reason I kiss you
Put my signature
I cut a loaf of emptiness
And I lie esteemingly on
Nothing solid in the marvelous
We bind the sun with a wire
For half an hour
We trumpet it around
Printed letters
Letters big letters small
We drink them
We laugh at them
We grind them for dust
Darn it!
Even if the sun is made of cashmere
And comes out from the attic window of our belly
When night birds guard our oblivion
In inflammable forests.

A wooden statue with cheap offerings
Is inexplicable raised outside the house
And inside yes all the forms of the crushing chronology;
To connect you must be connected
Think on the basis of anatomy
Think of the brothers who lay in absolute indolence
Think nothing
Except the fact that a poem may someday
Be absent
May be everywhere written
Its natural origin means something
It’s an invitation
For Parthenon to find a place
On Himalayas
With the gold of the American bank to
Make shoes or sweet nothings
To bury everything into a dwarfish earth.
Albatross emerge from the earth.

At dawn the star of my prayer
Got shored up
All that happens in the world is minor
Pompously washed up obscurities
Inside the thought of an inconceivable reflection
Flaming of the voices
Pulleys and counterweights
Secrets of the movement of life
Wholeness powerless fairly worn
Of the lexicons
The wild nature
The whirls of declination
The walled glare –
Pain is a rock
That crumbles into my blood creating

Signal before the eclipse
Of the tones and the sequence of the routes
Wishes on postcards that don’t represent
Ancestral skulls debase and roll
To philanthropy –
From under you do not understand much.
More unrefined points
Tissues clapping and be clapped
Into continuities of posterior darkness
For denigration and evident estimation.
What carpe diem restrains you away.
Pose in the gallery of meat.
You have such tremors, while you see me drinking
The fuel of the immaculate camellia like water.
We are of the plurals.
We curse the destination
We are also immobile
Presences less and less recognizable
Like remnants with a slant look.
There is no meaning anymore.
Say their names –
Classicism, oligarchies to the dissimilar.

We are the grand-grandchildren of some strangers
We don’t surrender the soul
We leave a message a riddle of explicity
Two three steps away
You are alone:
The incident of birth
The signs of the times,
The trails of life the meditation of activity
The lights are out at dawn
Someone unseen
Has passed.

In darkness the so many ways of light,
Force is the female of life
The temptations of Saint Anthony
The gallop of the Remington
The tail of the whale
At the beach umbrellas striped
War and profit
You pay you get paid
The communication of the masks –
Conceptions of the many simultaneously
We suffer
The extra large do not fit to us
It’s a shame –
In the third decade of life
I revive from the preservation
Of an obscure rock-painting
Where everybody reads
His half-extinct
Line with difficulty.

The joy and sorrow of the idols,
But yet the thought that some day
Man will make it through –
We say over and over
Not that some day… but now
The whole being at the spectacles
Ball-pen bruising
In the name of some wretched ontology
But I prefer a drink from golden hands
And outside the sleet to look like ribbons.
Dressed in the whole atmosphere
In every breath.

That’s how they call them: circumstances of the currents.
They know us all over the universe by
Our proper name
So you are aware of the perception why
I exploit harshly my existence
With gentleness,
That depends on you.

Together we put
Fire in the storehouse –
Moistened grains of salt and moon-twigs:
The way a decoy
With the decency of a suit
Becomes a sport a hobby of tomorrow.
Unregistered junctions of individualism's:
An enormous value misconceived
Like a mystical religion –
I am one of the Symbols.

Inaccessible then
The fields of the blossoms the turnings of times
The sword of the signature of poet
My page however
Is a beauty solid
Dangerous to read –
The pictures are no longer count
Wild instincts
This is the new poem
A prologue
Apteral Nike
Of one.

Yannis Livadas was born in Kalamata, Greece, in September 26, 1969. Done dozens of different works. He traveled around (India, Tunisia, Algeria, Italy, France, Morocco...) and today he lives temporarily in Athens, Greece. He is also a scholar and translator.
In 2003 he proclaimed “the Greek jazz poet”. He is considered as a Beat offspring but his poetry is oriented toward more dexterous and unsafe forms.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

My Heart Belongs To The Soldiers

Five Poems By Boel Schenlær

The man speaks English

they want me
to get on board
the white airplane

they don´t believe
I understand

they don´t believe
I know what to do

the man speaks English
I watch his hands
while he imagines
what he could do with them

the rage
like a scar
that puts his face in order

The dark-dressed men

much taller than me
push me in front

I take care of my clothes
white skirt, white shirt

the dark-dressed men
keep reminding me
the clothes don´t
belong to me

I know their names now
Jim and George
they call me Laurie
that´s not my name

a little ends up
in the seat
I wipe it off
with an orange
some woman peels
for me

All there is


I try to push everything
through the ventilator

the sounds from a fan
makes me sleepy

there is a light
strong lamps
there is darkness
and my pain goes everywhere

I am four meters long
and my belly is too small
there is no one
capable of this
can I please go home soon

From the dark and cold room

On the third floor
men from shadows
not around my bed
but around hers
four, maybe five of them
holding her
pulling the sheets
holding her head
her belly
they are
already gone
when the fire
covers her

III Back home


I know
she is weeping
there are no tears
on her pillow

What if?

if they knew
I am not capable
of this
but still
they can´t possibly find me
it will cost too much
to go this far


next time he starts his car
his foot will blow up
then he gets angry

because he doesn´t get it:
who wishes him
bad luck

Carried down

shadows made of nothing
but steel
in the cold and dark room

it all shrunk
or got destroyed

I am put in a unit
planning to run away

a needle
with a blue head of glass
in a black pajamas

my memory of sunshine
becomes a lucid vision
I get no air

the darkness
pushes me up
like if my body
is cut in half
pieces by the limbs
there is no pain at all
for a moment
but then it comes around
as the air returns
then they carry me down
it is over

My heart belongs to the soldiers

In my ears

they cry out to me
telling me to die
shouting they fear to die
that they want to go back home
that it´s all my fault
that they don´t want
their intestines torn out
that they have a girlfriend at home
that I am a thin rug.
Children sleep in their beds at night
why am I here
why did I not see to
stay at home
so they wouldn´t
need to be here
stuck with me.


Be glad you´re still with us
many are even worse off.
I saw one.
She was suddenly
Just like that, just gave up.
She didn´t want to be around anymore,
I guess.
No wonder.
Really, I didn´t know what to do.
“But”, they said to me,
“not your fault”. She was
going, anyway.
So, left me with nothing
else to do but pack my bag
or, to leave, I mean.
I hope I don´t scare you, puppy.
You´re so cute,
white and small and all.
Not like her with
those twisted eyes.


You can keep it
if you want it.
It´s from my jacket.
What did they
do to you.
I won´t hurt you.
I will tuck you in
and then you´ll sleep.
God bless you
from this filthy space.


I´ve had it.
I won´t go back.
I´ve got this ticket
so I know what I´m saying.
I will get you out of here.
You´ll come with me.
I know what I´m saying.
Just wait here
and I ´ll
be back soon.


Do you believe you´re the only one here
Do you believe you can force me
to love you.
You must be a joke.
A bad joke.
As bad as me.


I got it from the store
as a gift for somebody
but you can have it
for free.
What are you doing here
living here, anyway?
You are not somebodys daughter,
are you?


Stand up!
Don´t just lie there.
Don´t you have no legs.
What is this? I paid for
her standing.
I want another one. A new one.
I didn´t pay for the strap.

For a second

the sun
was brought to me
it was warm
and damp
someone was kind
for a while
then drove me
back inside

Boel Schenlær : Poet & playwright.Hometown:
Södermalm, Åtvidaberg, Sweden.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Advice: LCD TVs

by Tim Hall

Q: What size LCD TV do I need?

A: First, the good news: prices for liquid crystal display (LCD) televisions have dropped dramatically. That means that the huge wall-sized screen your neighbor spent several thousand dollars on a few years ago can be had for half or even one-third the price, and might well boast a better picture quality and have more features (and won't he be jealous!). If you don't need a large screen, or your budget is more modest, you can easily pick up an excellent quality 22" or 26" set for a few hundred dollars, which was unthinkable until recently.

The bad news is that there are now so many different sizes and options, at so many price points, that consumers can easily become confused. If you're the kind of consumer who feels overwhelmed by the many different types of LCD televisions currently on the market, don't be discouraged; knowing a little bit about the features in advance can help you narrow down your choices and make the best decision for your needs and your budget.

Size Matters: While there are some rough rules of thumb for what size works best in a particular room, the size of the screen is ultimately a personal decision. For example, 32" will be plenty for most average-sized American living rooms. If you're planning on putting your TV in a large family room, great room, or over a mantle, then you might consider moving up to 40" or larger. In smaller rooms and bedrooms a 22" or 26" screen should suffice. One easy way to tell what size screen you need is to go to a showroom where you can stand approximately the same distance away from the sets that you will be viewing them at home.

If you're planning on mounting your LCD TV on the wall then you might want to take into consideration the weight of the set and the amount of hardware you will need, and make sure your wall can accommodate the mounting brackets. Most larger chains offer installation options; speak to your sales representative for details.

HD or not HD? Virtually all modern LCD televisions are ready for HD (high definition) viewing; confusion generally occurs over which kind of HD your TV supports. While they will all offer superior image quality, if you're concerned about having enough features so your set will not be obsolete in a couple of years then you will want a set that features true 1080p or 1080i resolution (purists will argue that only 1080p is worth getting, but never listen to purists. They are an unhappy lot as a general rule). Some televisions still feature 720 HD resolution, which also looks fantastic, whether you're watching the news, DVD, or a HD broadcast of your favorite team. If you have a Blu-Ray player, however, or plan on getting one in the near future, then you will probably want to listen to the purists and get a 1080p set.

Inputs: Modern LCD screens are capable of much more than just movies or broadcasts; they are increasingly becoming the center of a "digital hub" for your home, good for viewing home videos, digital photos, or hooking up PCs, laptops, game consoles, iPods and the like. Some televisions even feature built-in digital card readers, or USB ports for flash drives. At the very least you'll want a set that comes with at least two HDMI inputs, as well as separate component and composite video inputs. A VGA monitor connector for hooking up a laptop or PC can come in handy too.

This is by no means a comprehensive guide to what LCD TVs can do, or everything you should consider, but it should provide you with a solid basis on which to make your purchasing decision. Whichever LCD TV you decide is right for you, by using this guide then you're more likely to enjoy many years of high-quality entertainment. Happy viewing.

Tim Hall : Author of screwball tragedies, mem-noir, true fiction and non-fiction novels. Micro publisher, freelance writer. Hometown : Gramercy Park, New York, USA. This piece is part of a series of experimental pieces Tim Hall is doing called "Q&A," based on "literal writing." It follows the "Advice: iPods (2007)" piece he did for Salit Magazine

2 Poems Of Aloke Biswas

The Heliotrope / The Photogem

They are not words, just jingling hemoglobin – turbulent in veins at the end of a different day. I saw a sounds cape in my travellogrammer at the edge of words. They have been roaming for ages on the music-misted peaks. The ancient periods of words were pouring slew of fogs close to the cardiac atrium as sound vocabs. Why I opened the pages of chirping dawn, why the great rhythm transformed into a drug-store rather than bursting into a symphony? Why I interpreted that the liquid Bohemian was sniffing a yes-walled mountain path camouflaged within the minus sign? The edge of the season that developed art of watching was getting widened gradually while the steely school syllabus narrower. The creeper of light thriving around the love-ladder held tight the ion-domed gene. The picnic of pico-inches, intoxicated tantrums filled up the lovelorn lover. The gun powdered erection, green hullabaloos at the windows….. the silent chorus of colour forced the idiot to come out in the mobbed exterior following retrospection. Who cares about the whistling champagne-penis? The decibel trees dance within thousands of crimson syllabi. The meritorious sun slaved hard to rid off wintry chill. Deconstructing the sunrays I would kiss the untouchable girl on my fantasy bed, I would kiss the tinkling of light in a disheveled farmer’s dress.

The Study

The door of sunrays expanded –
The storm and lashing rain entered haphazardly through
the gaping thirst!
There the wounded sunshine lies with requests and footnotes
and the autumn comfortable in the diction of ascent….
they are all very familiar, yet perpetually strange!
How the christening of the Dawn is yet unknown?
How the silvery scale of sun spurts open the sight?
Whose notes of Re Gaa Re! decoded in the symphony of dawn?
The whooshing love screeches to dead stop on my command to start
The vitamins stay unchanged even when the monitors crumble down!
Who said the wafting aroma of sandalwood-sound died
and the knickknacks got rusted?
Who predicted that the embittered gamebroidery of the sun
would be abandoned?
Who said that the vacuum cleaner swished down
the cascade of intellect with static fiery droplets?
And then who prompted that some areas got blessed with sunshine, but not all!

Aloke Biswas : These poems are translated from Bangla by the poet. Aloke writes in Bangla . Editor of Poetry Campus, a Bangla Lit Zine since 1991. He has 10 published books of poems.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Poem And Photo By Maria Grazia Galata'

Maria's Home Town is Palermo in Italy.She believes in Experimental Poems.In her words 'Experimental Linguistic Research'.When I asked her to translate the poem in English she said it will not have any meaning if it is translated.