Ioulia Lymperopoulou is a published and awarded Greek-Italian writer, filmmaker, art performer and illustrator born in Athens in 1978. She graduated from the Historical-Archaeological Faculty, Majored in History, and has a master’s degree in “Modern and Contemporary Greek and European History” with a thesis on German-language interwar literature (UOI). Work Experience: research projects, historical archives, magazines (online, printed), theatre, television, short film productions. Writing: Prose & Poetry. Publications (printed magazines): The Books’ Journal, Farfoulas, Mandragoras, Klepsydra. Publications (online magazines): CityMag-online magazine (CMOM), MusicHeaven, Eupolis. Projects: 5 books (novel & collective works where her short stories have won Awards and distinctions in Writing Contests), 2 multi-awarded art experimental shorts: “F r a g m e n t e d” and “13 Strokes…”, Photoproject FireFly (in progress). She loves any form of art, travelling and cats.
Site: https://ioulia.gr/
If there’s
No mum.
No dad.
No siblings.
No cat;
She’s now “curled up”
In a small locket-urn
Around my neck,
Like a talisman
Her ashes I wear.
A few couples of married best friends,
No time to meet or talk.
No companion,
Better to be alone than in bad company;
My life’s strongest creed and favorite song.
Then what is home?
Home is…
A hot cup of tea
In a winter evening
Reading a book or
Watching a movie
Wrapped in my check blanket
Keeping warm in red socks my feet.
Home is…
A cup of coffee black and strong
While sitting
Every morning
In front of my screen
Trying to put some sense on a blank page
With symbols made of digital ink.
Home is…
A nice meal
Prepared with love and care
By me
For me.
Home is…
Looking out of my window
The Gulf of Naples
The Castle of Saint Elmo
And in full bloom a loquat tree.
Home is…
The smell of Christmas
And its joyful atmosphere,
Under a mistletoe branch
A sweet kiss.
Home is…
Memories
From past celebrations
In every holiday
That form around me
A dancing cycle of weird phantoms,
Long-lost shadows,
Since traditional holidays
Have utterly changed meaning for me.
Home is…
In summer
My being submerged
In the sea.
Watching old classic films
In open-air cinemas.
Eating watermelon, grapes and figs.
Home is…
My childhood’s small treasures:
Fireworks on August 15
At Arpino’s Castle, perched on the hill
Enjoying a great view from the top.
Walking around cobblestones
In my grandpa’s medieval hometown
And inhaling the smell of
Damp imprinted year after year on the walls
Coming from behind courtyards and heavy closed doors.
To savor
Green olives, red wine, lupines and nuts
Fresh bread straight out from the wood-fired oven
Sweet taralli biscuits and sugar cubes stored in jars.
To collect berries in baskets under the pouring rain
And take them running home
Out of breath and blushed.
Waiting with my mum
For the sun to rise
By the seashore
Eating a pear
Taking a few shots
And then jogging back
To draw the left impression on my sketchbook
Before it was gone.
Visiting museums, ancient ruins and sites.
Thinking big and making projects
That had already started to come to life
In my writings, art crafts and designs;
Like small runaways were breaking out of my mind.
Home is…
Loving every moment
From the bottom
Of my heart.
Meaning every word.
To Feel
From the beginning
To the end
With no remorse
No regret;
There is nothing to be scared of.
Home is…
The small things
Which connect me with me
With the world
And remind me that
Nothing important
Is a thing or only a thing
And needs to be taken care of.
Home is…
Not waiting for life to happen.
Being concentrated
In every here and now
Anywhere on the globe.
Being consciously
Serene and calm in my center
And not getting disoriented
Out of fear of being wrong.
Home is…
Music
Poetry
Theater.
Home is…
Dancing Butoh.
The dance of the soul.
Expressing present and past
Through my body
Discovering new ways
To elaborate traumas
To expand in time and space
To reach others and inner self
Without worrying about the result.
Accepting my just being.
Making part of the universe
By doing my part.
Home is…
Having a good time
With myself
In silence
Without seeking
The attention or the company of others.
Home is…
My loud laughs
My spontaneity
My innocence in accepting life
As it comes.
Home is…
Being a creator of worlds
In my prolific solitude
Where I lay my books
And my artworks.
Feeling at home
Same as
A casa (a càsa) in Italian and
Στο σπίτι (sto spìti) in Greek
Is being alive and kicking
Is feeling comfy in your own skin
Is feeling connected
Is being me
In eternal transformation mode.
Naples (Italy), 6-8/05/2024.
Poetry in this post: © Ioulia Lymperopoulou
Published with the permission of Ioulia Lymperopoulou