Poetic Disguises

By Alexnadra Mouratidou


An aquarelle crying,

a warm palm on the day’s warped back,

a stealthy feather lifting the sigh of love,

the image of your own idol when vertigo subsides,

the lie that hides behind the click of a light switch,

the bottom of a mirror reflecting the strident agony,

a self-awareness trip inside the fossilized mouth of a lion:


w         o          r           d         s


In them I crawl

and silently crouch

inside their bodies’ curves;

I look at pOetry’s single eye,

the gate of the abyssal I,

and fear what it hides,

what I might find:



I write incognito.

I am a spy of the soul.

My name starts with Ξ.

Definitely with Ξ.

I run inside the thick vein of gods.

You can see my half figure

behind a cracked cairn in the middle of an agora.

From Athens, I gaze at the polar lights, the year 385 B.C.


I am a terrorist. I have changed my name.

My name starts with Д.

Definitely with Д.

I come down from the deep Steppes.

You can see my squinting eye

peeking into the desert labyrinth of betrayed egos.


I am a lizard.

I am the colour of an emerald.

On a lustrous rock, I shed my skins

in an attempt to uncover my souls.


I am a poet.

My name starts with फ़

Definitely with फ़

I am from India.

I used to burn the dead on the banks of the Ganges

in exchange for an immortal excuse.



I am a cripple.

I hide my past behind a crutch.

I hate it because I need it.

I need it because I love it.

It’s right here. Look!