on august seven –

the poet in him said:

‘it’s now 191 months

she had died/ meaning

5841 days since her passing’.

‘who was this person?’ the man

from munich asks

and you may imagine him

quite easily converted by face

and shape of head into a clown

no wig needed

he has the perfect wreath of hair

left naturally for the task

the poet continued: ‘she was a poetess

one of a kind/ part Sappho/ part seferis/

or so she appeared to me with her work/

talented / and a great woman/

caught between her personal poetry/

her teaching/ her feminist calling/

her beauty’. he paused and rasped.

now then – the poet continued

she would have been an equal partner

for life/ and family/ if we’d met in our

late teens/ not only in virtual life.

he paused again.

‘and why ‘s august seven so important?’

the ‘clown’-man wanted to know.

‘ha!’ The poet exclaimed – ‘I had been

accepted again by greek artists

while writing my poetic journal that day’.

‘mh’ his friendly neighbour said


‘well’ the poet replied – ‘I guess she had

sent me friends and a new muse’.


‘yes. I hope to build a new artistic life

In this exciting process’.

‘good luck’ – his friend said – ‘cheers!’




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