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Parkinson’s
"life catches up with you," they say,
and are not wrong. Age blurs his irises,
his movement is slow and unsteady.
When he walks, he takes long pauses
as if pondering his path. Sometimes
he hugs me too hard, his fingers
pushing into my shoulder sharply, straining
for normality. i stay silent when i can,
usually say something to end it sooner,
"Shall we have some ice-cream?"
if he's been thinking and i ask a question,
he blinks repeatedly. he's always
done that. Blinking brings his thoughts
back in order, it seems. When in a
public building, he always looks for
the emergency exits. if weak,
he's learned to google. A brown envelope
on his desk is labeled Parkinson's.
When he reads of medical
research development online, his day is
always happier. Science
gives him hope. he dances, sometimes, too.
Vegetables are his daily
torture, every day at noon
hunched over the table,
struggling his way through.
At night in bed, when he tries to sleep,
he lays seven cushions around him with
the utmost care,
in a way only he can adjust and only he
finds comfortable. he is a fidgeting soul.
When younger, i used to measure my height
against his.
Today, i sit and doodle all over
the underside of the kitchen table, leaning my back
on your knees.
Today, i am taller than the table.
Today, i am up to the pocket of your shirt.
Tonight, i will crawl into
your bedsheets with my brother and
pretend to be a terrorist,
like that man bin Laden we heard of
on the news (9/11 was a game
of four year olds across the world)
You'll be the Americans, chasing me through
the enormity of the bedsheets, unable to find me-
you always let me win.
Today, i am six years old,
returning from my first
day of school to your embrace,
proudly announcing that, as you had asked,
i have informed my teacher i already know how to write
and will not be requiring further assistance.
i lived in our little world. Your office
fascinated me, bewitched me,
the walls asphyxiated with books.
You'd point at countries in Atlases,
speak of Alexander the great,
teach me the shapes you called the alphabet.
i'm taller than the pocket of your shirt now.
Kleopatra Olympiou, 5G
Track of Time
And i can’t help hoping,
Maybe the serene, sovereign stars
Against a cold breath of night sky
can lull us to sleep
The wind cautiously ruffling the leaves on wilting trees
Like you do with my hair,
careful not to disturb me,
But even from the comfort of this rooftop
We’ve both noticed a new seed sprouting with ease
And i lose myself in the eternal shadows of space
Like i do in your eyes,
But you still have that flame
That brings me back home
Where i can marvel at the beauty of this dark –
Safely tangled up in your scent
Because it’s no hard matter finding something enticing;
it’s hard finding something to call home
And home for me is you:
Your lips, the way you play with the buttons on your shirt,
how you look at me
i hear a river.
it’s rushing and ticking and –
Each tick echoing off my hollow insides,
Each tock like a shot to all the places that have yet to bleed
And that’s when you get up.
‘i’ve lost track of time.’
And i can’t help hoping,
Maybe one day instead you’ll say,
‘i’m glad i got to lose track of time
with you.’
Orestis Michaelides 4R
Poetry and Art
Artwork right: Sophia Colokassides
Background:Nicoletta Koliandri
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