UNDER THE INK JANUARY. BONDS.

BONDS

I feel starved in foreign arms. There is no solace, no conso-lation in the unknown shapes and alien freckles I pass my fingers over. The bumps of his skin aren’t anomalies like these. I look up to see to shallowly warm eyes tracing the waves in my hair as I graze blue wrist veins with my finger. I tilt my head and stare into large, black pupils and I try to build something concrete out of them, but the abyss holds no bricks. I hear them fall and clink on the sides, chipping their sharp ends. It’s a sad thing to watch. A half built bridge or a crumbling wall. There’s a superficially per-fect fit in the arms around me and it’s disgusting. My mouth dries up in my craving of the familiar, my belly swells with the empty void left behind. Every new set of teeth that smile or fingers that meet mine in a, sometimes, brief handshake feel like a betrayal, a traversing of the past and a rewrite of the layer on my palm. It was easier getting here and it still seems easy staying in this cur-tain dressed room but it’s difficult to detect the underlying rea-sons behind it.

The clouds dance outside spilling their rain in intervals and I shut my eyes and try to imagine what the person next to me looks like. I manage to recall the outline of his face, his blue veins travelling

EDITORIAL MICHELLE NICOLAOU

2

up his wrists, two or three freckles and the shape of his shoulders. Anything else that I add on seems to be a uniform addition of what most men look like. His eyes remain plain black pupils, their colour escapes me, only their withdrawn look remains, that half tried to memorise what I look like if he were to close his eyes. A year ago, I was able to reproduce frightening detail when I closed my eyes, the folding corners of the wallpa-per, the smudge on the edge of the glass, an ink stain on the bed sheets, his small birthmark by his collar bone, the length of his arms, his cheek-bones and mouth, his grey intrusive eyes that ex-posed me. I sometimes blame myself for cram-ming my mind with someone else that it leaves no space for others. I don’t like throwing things away, I keep them, I polish them and I store them even if they only get their heads dipped in sun-light every second century.

I rest my head on my hand and turn to look at this person beside me. I look for concrete and gravel, maybe some tiles for a roof but I only find a whimpering tent that can only last a few days. It seems futile lying here. What is fun may not be fulfilling. Human entanglements often end up in knots just like this one. They link and they braid becoming bulky lumps that either sit in our hearts or sit in our throats. I have a Gordian knot dwelling between the two, sometimes straining my chest and sometimes choking me. It doesn’t become smaller, only heavier and it feels so odd having to cradle a weight so powerfully invisible. I occasionally pull strings and frayed ends, but it refuses to unlace and it starts to grow ever more rapidly past the walls of my internal world. It stops being an internal tumor and fills up the cor-ners of the room. I feel the back of a hand on my cheek moving sideways and back again but there’s a mechanical pattern to it so I turn and sit

on the side of the bed. He’s saying something but I can’t understand. This room is hostile and dictating. I dress while mumbles and questions become like the sand between the rocks that fill this room. I swallow some water from the glass on the bedside table and leave a smudge. One day it will be noticed by someone else. The edges of the room cave in from the weight and trample the door so it becomes crooked. I turn the cold door knob and crouch under the head-way.

What cannot be solved, must be cut.

Once the tangles become knots, there is a cer-tain inevitability of creating a space that does not fit excessiveness; a greenhouse where the roots of a relationship will interlink with its foundations. Bonds weave in and through empty spaces, sew-ing them shut, and closing up the air holes with someone else’s thread. If the thread is spaced correctly, it remains inside you allowing absorp-tion and embroidering detail. The world is big and full of strange patterns and the only thing that can possibly rend their exploration is that space. Faulty bonds flourish in microcosmic insu-lation where there’s space for nothing beyond the depthless. A cocoon of perfection is seem-ingly arranged to look accommodating, a tight space for two people to crouch in and grow a wing each. If I can’t see colour in someone’s eyes, I prefer to slice my own back and leave way for the sprout of a second wing.

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"MY WORK"

GEORGE RALLIS

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bond/bɒnd/noun

plural noun: bonds

a thing used to tie something or to fasten things together.

For me at least, a bond doesn’t refer to exclu-sively human connection or relationships. As Wikipedia phrased it; a bond is a thing tying, con-necting two different things together. If one starts numbering and categorising what qualifies as a bond, the possibilities are as vast as the periods and experiences of one’s life. A bond is combin-ing different aspects or matters in order to merge the differences and elucidate to a corollary. A proposition that is incidentally proved through proving another proposition. The physical reac-tion caused by unity and oneness. The urge to identify and bond with nature or a certain life-style, hairstyle, aesthetic which causes this vast synthesis that we call characters, personalities, life, art, society.I had the chance to travel to Greece for a short period of time. The fusion between my cultural background and the beautiful particularity and uniqueness of Giannena and Athens have uni-fied as a reaction through my lens. I tried to cap-ture the true essence of the people and buildings around me, by subjecting myself to the vulnerabil-ity of discovering a completely unknown city or area and trying to understand what it stands for through the different pictures around you. Greece in general, even now with all its eco-nomic exhaustion, has always proved to be a place of great inspiration and creation. From the great ancient philosophers, up until the greatly

talented new artists and photographers. How-ever in sight, especially Athens exuberates this urban fatigue and spiritual weariness, but also has different beautiful notes of nonchalantness fogged by a cloud of car fumes. I hope you can see Greece through my photos, just as how I have.

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Τα όνειρα μου από παιδί μου τα πήραν

Μου τα ‘κλεψαν με στην νύχτα

Λογαριασμούς είχανε αλλά δεν ρώτησαν

Μεγάλωσα σε ένα κουτί που παράθυρο δεν είχε

Μια τρυπούλα ήτανε και το οξυγόνο μια σταλίτσα

Έβλεπα αυτά που ‘δειχναν και πίστευα σε αυτά που είχα

Αργότερα είπαν να με βγάλουν απ’ εκεί

Και μου ‘δωσαν ουσία

Ταξίδευα σε τόπους που κανένας δεν υπήρχε

Του ‘δωσα όνομα, ζωή κάτι που για μένα ήταν ελλιπή

Ήταν όνειρο ζωής αλλά ΟΧΙ για την ψυχή της δικής μου ζωής

Με δίδαξαν εθνικές γιορτές που δίχασαν την κοινωνία

Μου παν πως Τούρκος είναι κακός και πως ο πόλεμος είναι διαβολικός

Μου παν η ευτυχία είναι στο αίμα και με προώθησαν στο να κόψω φλέβα

Πήγα νοσοκομείο και με βαλαν σε ίδρυμα

Εκεί δεν είχε ουσία ήταν πόνος ήταν βάσανο

Αλλά το πέρασα και αυτό σαν ρουτίνα

Την μέρα που βγήκα ήταν η μόνη που θυμάμαι από τότε

Ήταν ο κόσμος αλλιώς μια αγκαλιά μεγάλη, κουτιά δεν υπήρχαν

Αλλά ένα φως, έντονο και δυνατό στο τέλος με περίμενε

Όταν πήγα εκεί με αέρα δυνατό με ρούφηξε…

“Η ΖΩΗ ΕΝΟΣ ΠΑΙΔΙΟΥ” ΝΙΚΗ ΚΟΥΤΣΟΦΙΔΗ

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“Αυτό το ποίημα είναι δυσνόητο όταν το διαβάζεις πρώτη φορά. Η κεντρική ιδέα είναι η περιγραφή της ζωής που ζουν οι ναρκομανείς. Περιγράφω διάφορα στάδια της ζωής που μπορεί να περάσει ένας ναρκομανείς*

[Μεγάλωσα σε ένα κουτί που παράθυρο δεν είχε = το κουτί ταυτίζεται με την μοναξιά, το παράθυρο συμβολίζει την ευτυχία και γενικά αυτή η φράση αναφέρεται στις παιδικές αναμνήσεις ενός παιδιού που πέρασε άσχημα τα παιδικά του χρόνια / Και μου ‘δωσαν ουσία = ουσία: χόρτο, ναρκωτικό / Με δίδαξαν εθνικές γιορτές …. στο να κόψω φλέβα = οι ψευδαισθήσεις που αποκτούν μερικές φορές οι ναρκομανείς τους οδηγούν σε ‘’κακές’’ πράξεις / Την μέρα που βγήκα ήταν η μόνη που θυμάμαι από τότε = βασικά δεν βγήκε από το ίδρυμα αποτοξινώσεις αλλά βρισκόταν σε κόμμα]

* συνέχεια: και σιγά-σιγά οδηγούμαστε (στην κάθαρση) στο αιφνίδιο τέλος που είναι ο θάνατος.”

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Ταξίδι = ΓνώσηΓνώση = ΕλευθερίαΕλευθερία = Ζωή

Δεν είμαι τουρίστας. Είμαι ταξιδιώτης. Γιατί στην τελική "ταξίδι" δεν είναι το ξενοδοχείο όπου θα διανυχτερεύσεις, ούτε τα αξιοθέατα που θα δεις. "Ταξίδι" είναι οι άνθρωποι που θα γνωρίσεις, οι εμπειρίες που θα ζήσεις. Όπως σπίτι δεν είναι ενα κτιρίο με τεσσερείς τοίχους και μια στέγη. Σπίτι είναι οι άνθρωποι που αγαπάς. Σπίτι είναι η αγαπημένη σου τενία, το αγαπημένο σου τραγούδι, τα πιο αγαπημένα σου καφέ μάτια. Που βλέπεις μέσα τους τον ωκαιανό και λες: "Θα τον ανακαλύψω γιατί είναι μπλε και υπέροχος"    

  'Οταν η περιπέτεια σου κτηπήσει την πόρτα, άνοιξε και κέρασε καφέ. Βαρύ, γλυκό. Όπως ακριβώς και η ίδια η ζωή. Σπάσε τα δεσμά που σε κρατάνε πίσω, σπάσε τα δεσμά της πραγματικότητας σου. 

  Κι αν φοβάσε τα αεροπλάνα, ταξίδεψε με το μυαλό. Γιατί τα ταξίδια του μυαλού είναι πριβέ και δωρεάν. Χωρίς εισητήρια, φόρους και αποσκευές. Μονάχα εσύ και τα πιο αγαπημένα σου καφέ μάτια. 

ΤΑΞΙΔΙ ΕΛΕΝΗ ΑΝΑΣΤΑΣΙΟΥ

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! ! ΤΟ ΠΙΟ ΛΙΓΟ ΠΟΥ ΜΠΟΡΩ ΝΑ ΠΩ

Το πιό λίγο που μπορώ να πώ

Είναι ασηκωτη η λέξη,

Γιατί το στόμα να μην γεμίζει οταν το ανοίξω;

Τίποτα, πουθενά, κανείς,

Δεν με έβαλε σε τόσο δυσκολη θέση όσο εσύ,

Στην σκέψη τρέμω ,

Μόνο σαν μια ανάμνηση εσυ να υπαρχεις στην ζωή μου.

Όταν ο πόθος μου καιει την ψυχή,

Αλλά ο πόνος δεν βρίσκει τοπο διαφυγής,

Δεν θέλω, δεν μπορώ,

Αλλά είμαι αδύναμος, δεν μπορω να εκφράσω

Ακόμα και την, ασήκωτη λέξη,

Σε Αγαπώ....

Δεύτερη Φυση

Δεν είναι κάτι που μπορώ να ξεχάσω

Σαν παλιό, βασικό ένστικτο μου μοιάζει,

Τίποτα το μη φυσιολογικό

Μια καρδιά με κάθε χτύπο της θυμάται,

Την ζεστασιά, την καλοσύνη Σου,

Όλος ο κόσμος, Αυτός τον δένει.

Εσένα, άθελά τους, όλοι υμνούν.

Brothers in Arms

The sky was painted red and yellow and purple and orange, the flowerbeds of a different meadow, a divine meadow. His hands were bleeding. But in he carried, through the forest, his brother on his back.

’’ We’ll be back before you know it’’, he said to no answer.

It wasn’t easy, this long road. Heat and wolves and bandits, he slew them all on his way home. His brother had to return, they’d both be back. They were born on the same day. He was always adventurous, his brother though, a stoic young man of virtue and self-sacrifice, always followed him along.

. “Possibly for my own good’’ he thought ‘’ I’d be dead a hundred times if it weren’t for him’’. This adventure had brought them to Marathon to de-fend their homeland, and they’d been separated from their comrades. But they’d see the city again, he knew it.

. Then a man speaking a queer tongue attacked them. A Persian, lost in the slaughter.

ΧΡΙΣΤΟΣ ΝΙΚΟΛΑΟΥ

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“YOU WILL NOT HAVE HIM!!!’’ He screamed and swung his sword, disposing of him.

Their home awaited them on the horizon. Unlike any city in Hellas, Athens gave you a feeling fresh and new to this world. Her people were her strength, not aristocrats or kings. The sea was her blood

‘’The smell of salt, brother’’ he said as the sun bloomed over them in his own sea. “Do not think you will not smell it again’’.

The proud little town they called home was near. He did not just love it for its soil, nor his brother for their common blood. Both let him be himself, a free man expressing his soul to the world. Then he saw his father.

‘AESCHYLUS!’ he said ‘ What happened, where’s your..’ His eyes froze in terror as Aeschy-lus laid down his brother’s corpse and a gore bag containing his arms and head

‘The Persians, father. Poor fool tried to stop a ship and they cut his hands. But on he held with his teeth, and they cut it too. I couldn’t bury him away from the tomb of our family, father. He died for this land, for this democracy, for me and for you. He had to rest on the light brown soil that so nourished him, breathing the salty air that gave him life. But fear not father, for I too share his pas-sion and will pass it on.’’

(Aeschylus went on to fight in Salamis and be-come a major play writer, whose tragedies in-spire us to this day. On his tomb, however only the word ‘Μαραθωνομάχος’ was written. His love for his father, his brother, his homeland and his democratic passion were the only things he thought that needed to be passed on in his mem-ory.)

Brothers in Death

“Why him’’, he thought.

. He had done anything to please Father, yet nothing seemed right. His offerings seemed ina-musing. Why didn’t he like it? His brother though, gave flesh instead of crops, andFather was most pleased. Always the brother stole his spotlight, It drove him mad with rage. Nothing seemed to work. What if..the competition disappeared? Yes, that would be it. If none were there to compare to him, to offer something of his to Him, surely none would have Father’s attention. That obnoxious lit-tle brat he called a brother was parasite. He drew what was rightfully his.

Ηe marched certain of his victory. He was consid-ering what he was about to do. Whether it was right or wrong. This hadn’t been done before, frankly, he didn’t even know WHAT he was about to do.He waved the thought aside, as his brother waved at him. He was smiling. As a boy, he had loved that smile. Now, he thought it was disgust-ing.

“Cain, how are..?’’ The stone smashed at his face. He beat him mercilessly. His brother was crying. Red liquid that looked like animal blood flowed of him. When he stopped he was breath-ing heavily. Abel wasn’t. And so, the first murder had happened.

. A voice echoed. “Where is your brother, Cain?’’ He came back to his senses. What to do, What had he done? “I’m not my brother’s keeper to know this.’’ The world seemed colder, sadder, polluted. “What have you done Cain? He was your brother, both of you my children.’’ ‘Why did you like him and not me, then? Answer me.’’ ‘His heart was pure, yours was not. That was only

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proven from what you did. I love you, though you may not think so, but the good are rewarded and the wicked are punished. Now go away. And with this mark, all will now who you are and what you did.’’

Cain was now crying, just like his brother did be-fore he died. He had killed his only brother. Now his Father had forsaken him, and he couldn’t blame him. But he still was bitter at the both of them, bitter at the world. Cain picked up his cane and went away, a mark on him, showing what he did

. As he went away, he thought about his Father and his brother. He realised something. The land was treacherous, but none harmed him. The Mark! Father did love him, even in punishment, even after what he did. He was a murdered, but Father would not let him perish prematurely, like Abel.Tearfully, he walked away from this land. Others would follow his example. Since that day, war and fratricide were everyday routine. But even in punishment, family is divine. Just like the mark that both helped and punished Cain. Hu-manity still remembers occasionally that they are brothers and sisters. But the same crime hap-pens again and again and again.

(Cain left the land. The miasma from Abel’s blood spoiled the Earth and made him unable to farm. So, he founded a city. Raised a family. A man who once murdered his kin, now was able to forge other bonds. Had he learned from his sin? Was that just a flaming rage, or the Devil pos-sessing him? But Father did show him trust enough to bestow this new gift. Cain never forgot either Him or Abel. At nights he would look to the stars and leave a few tears flow. That was the

only offering of repentance he could make to those that loved him. The story tells us that he did feel pain and bitterness for what he had done. When we harm our own brothers and sis-ters, do we feel the same?)

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Baby I’m sorry for the intrusionBut I’ve just found the courage, you see.I’ve got some news and some confusionThat you would like to know, I think.

It’s been five to six years since we broke apartAnd in this time someone else has spoken to my heart.I assure you I am as happy as I can be.He makes me laugh a lot and has helped me to just be meAnd last week he went down on one knee,Asking me to marry him on February fourteenth.

You got that right, if you recall that was our anniversary too,And I know it’s a rush, but I love him so much, yet not as much as I love you.But it’s too late now because I said “Yes”Yet it’s hard not to love you, so hard to suppressThis ocean of emotions I feel about you.I just can’t tie the knot if I am bound to you…

“LETTER TO YOUR FIRST TRUE LOVE” FRANCESCA LAMPIDONITI

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"My grandfather ran off the V-2 rocket film a dozen times and then hoped that someday our cities would open up more and let the green and the land and the wilderness in more, to remind people that we're allotted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so big. When we forget how close the wil-derness is in the night, my grandpa said, some-day it will come in and get us for we will have for-gotten how terrible and real it can be. You see?"

In your life story, you're always the good guy. You tell your self, that It's the world against you, really. At least subconsciously, that's how you feel. You rarely find yourself to be the one who's done something wrong, the case is mostly that you've been wronged.

And when you do things  like piss on the toilet seat, you're not particularly concerned about the person who's going to sit on it later on. This kind of jackassery doesn't go in your life story, you just keep going on feeling like you never harm a fly.

So when you're tossing your cigarette out of the car while your driving, or leaving litter every-where you go, you don't really put much thought into those actions, or what and who they impact.

Yeah, people can be pretty reckless.

So when your screwing the environment every single day of your life, with your litter, huge

amounts of trash that doesn't end up recycled, wasted energy, you don't really think about the long term impact of your actions.

You don't think about how you're biting the hand that's been feeding you your whole life, Earth.

You don't think about how your making Earth a worse place for the generations to come.

People have a life dependant bond with Earth. And from how people are recklessly behaving, it seems that the only thing mankind has in mind is destroying this bond.

A bond as beautiful as a tree's roots intertwined deep in the ground. But this bond is slowly but steadily unravelling and the tree is starting to top-ple over.

YIANNIS XENOPHONTOS

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Don't wake me up in my dreams asking for more.I gave you everything I had. Myself, my dignity, my self respect. 

I have nothing left, and I have nothing more to gain. Stained sheets of crimson, regrets and charcoal tears.

A knife is lurking voluptuously in a corner. Sever the strings; the shackles.

I'm killing you in my head; to let you go..Fly away from me, and who knows? Maybe one day I'll bloom

too!Open my wings and get lost to find you.

Until then..Memories hibernate. In dark alleys where the willows weep to the

screaming of the night breeze.Buried in disguise in the small forgotten, yet vividly remembered

things. I drown in this void of lies.

'' Ignorance is bliss''Please do not drown with me.

Severthe

strings.

SEVERSOPHIA CONSTANTINOU

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Flying, falling, floating, sinking.

Galaxy won’t wait for me and you,

Bursting from the darkening prison,

When the world was hazeless and new.

We were kids of gleaming stars,

Bonded from the end of our beginning,

Finding joy in looking from above

At ourselves and our vivid spirits.

Constellations greeted our parade

Through the universe’s purple freedom.

CHILDREN OF THE STARSBASIL PAPCOVSCI

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Hand by hand surrounded by the fate,

We were soaring led by silver beacons.

Never cared of what wold be tomorrow,

Always keen to find our peace in love,

With hearts closed to the corroding sorrow,

We were truly beautiful in minds.

But the destiny was never on our side,

Playing wicked games behind the screen;

Time has crushed our linking flight,

Turning thoughts and deeds into routine.

But the hope and faith have never left,

So has love, although it hides forgotten.

We will search for it till our last breath,

And will find each other, I am certain.

26 April 2013

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Eternity and a half, moments when I’m alone...

Sun sets in broken glass, silence fetters my bones.

Planet of mirrors is lit, shimmers with fair fever.

Soon it will be eclipsed: Moon’s shedding shining silver.

Crimson shades like a belt wrap the edge of the sight,

Darker notes being played upper, in fluidal heights.

Empty streets of my town and wind whistling in void,

Wind just blowing about in circles that I can’t avoid.

Born as the son of the twilight, witnessing flashes of dusk,

Always remembered that charming, addictive blue-purplish dark.

Walking the ways of the madmen, crying for ghosts of the past,

Suffering strokes of thought frenzy, I am the first of the last.

Images, imagination, they form the cosmos for me:

Hammers of elevation, crafters of urge to break free...

And in blue dark they’ll arrive, taking my heart far away,

Bringing blurred visions to life as movies about strangers’ days.

And two as one are walking barefoot bisecting the tide,

Heartbeats are doing the talking, while sinking in debris of light.

His chapped tired lips join vermilion velvet of hers...

Blue hour of the enjoyment, reality’s equal to hope.

When love overwhelms the pride, when touch overpowers ego,

Two galaxies, set to collide, will result in absolute zero.

Perfection is found in balance, when sky is nor black and nor bright...

Affection, however, in silence, but soon takes over the minds.

In springtime when apple trees blossom and rus-tle with emerald leaves,

I will be observing with caution declining dim golden disk.

BLUE DARKBASIL PAPCOVSCI

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And two will be running together, already bound up in my brain,

Flying up high just like feathers, leaving behind all constraints.

She turns to you, as he does to me; eternity isn’t enough now.

And we start to finally hear the music that wan-ders around us,

And Streets are filing with people, and wind is no longer a threat,

‘Cause circle is broken and freedom is crowning my black-haired head.

Sunsets and sunrises elapse, for mankind is rush-ing too fast,

Born not for dying perhaps, but being a part of stardust.

There will no longer be summers, but we will al-ways remain:

Wanderers in the blue darkness. Lovestruck. Hand by hand. Till the end.

19-21 August 2013. Limassol, Cyrpus.

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ILLUSTRATIONSBY GAROSE TEPS

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© UNDER THE INK MAGAZINE

EDITOR IN CHIEF: MICHELLE NICOLAOU

CO EDITOR: CHRISTOS NICOLAOU

LAYOUT/DESIGN: ALEXANDER HANNIDES

COVER: GAROSE TEPS

PHOTOGRAPHY: GEORGE RALLIS

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