Elan Vital

Vasiliki Poula

I did my best, but it wasn't much – I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch.

I come from the race of potters.
I, their breath, an artisan of the earth.
I gather the smithereens from the soil,
Seeking what awaits there,
Not the past, but life’s revolving sphere.

I see the beauty of the clay when the witnesses are gone,
As it becomes bewildered, and rips the softness of the flesh
As it shrivels, and withers away.
Yet the water heals. The panacea.
The water that boils and throbs, that sears and flows.
I hide it from the light and guard it in times of drought.

Sometimes my laughter can be heard,
Sometimes my tears shine in my eyes,
As the rawness whispers words to my ear
My gods never get too ancient, never enough to be finally forgotten,
never enough to die the death they merit.

There lies the raw truth,
Of men, and shades that drift around.
I’m telling you, I did not come to fool you,
It could be written in the scriptures
Magnified, sanctified, it could be the holy name.

Vasiliki Poula

Vasiliki Poula is interested in human relations, memory and the significance of place. She enjoys reading and writing on these themes, as well as embarking on improvised photography projects.

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