"I write because by writing i find beauty.
To speak about terror or human cruelty is
to seek a way for beauty and justice.
To write is to go against.
All my novels, historical or not, are the way:
From the soul to the soul."

Monday, 14 April 2014


Eleven collections of poetry and biography.
The collection Mystic Passage has been tranlslated into English.
It is also published in Sweden by Bonniers Publications and in French by The Temp qu' il Fait.

The Agony of Matter

Winter will find me naked
In a dilapidated room
With time welling up through the holes of the floors
Winter will find me stirring the ashes of my poetry
A handful of words -- like star or blood
Like I wander or oath -- like
Souls can smell -- I burn them to warm myself.

Winter will find me barefoot wandering
Up and down the one and only abyss
The soil is soft I sink into it
Mud from ancient stars
"I will get through," I say
Branches of the azure in my hands
And the tree officiates over the silver of the desert
Odor of the boundless void
My pained matter that I inhabited.

I raise my poetry before
Garment stained with blood
I burn it to warm myself.

And it rains and rains in my tattered room
Which sways a reward for fire
It rains full moon and ancient blood
Crystals laden with my centuries.

I bend over to look at myself in the most,
In the most deep well of cracked crystal
My face perplexed and mournful
And it rains and rains silver deserts on the sacred icon
My body is an odor of night's shudder
And the archangel standing i
My body is an odor of night's shudder
And the archangel standing in the window
Fashions a sensuous curve from God and Universe

I wrap myself in the boundless azure
To pass through.

Winter will find me dreaming
A rose sprouted on the storm
With paradise shifting like a mirage
and Time still prophetic
liberating the stars from my flesh.

Winter will find me in the desert
Marching like a revelation
And Age, the Exterminator, melts like
A scented candle
With the seven flames kindled in my body
Sites of nascent whiteness
With a frgrance of burnt pine-needle for recognition
A rose that prays forgotten
At the edge of the storm

I walk no longer
I sink down like a prophetic dream.

Poetry: Mystic Passage

Of the Sea

From the Propontis my days have travelled
Full of princely islands and the gold of tombs
From there I come like a white wave
Upright on the winds
With a breath of the deep and silent time
When the sea prophetic in my veins
Dyed my vision sea-blue
That is why the world I see is a
Watery flow
And I roll with it
To reach the first source
To be united with the water-drop
That contains my visage sleeping
Beneath the veins of other times.


Smoothed like an ocean shell
I carry the centuries whose silence lulled me to sleep
When the sea still spanned the world
And the newborn god, coming as Nous, with his finger
Brought order to


That is why I find you beneath my body
When I encompassed you
A word traced by a Mycenaean hand
Upon the rock where I slept


I bend over the pile of unknown nights
That flow into one another
As if from fragments of age-old dreams
And listen to the creakings
My life turning, flowing round
Dreaming of the landscapes where I was
Before. . .
Memory remembers all it has forgotten forever

And I ever digging the frayed borders
So that the dark sea may well up
To bring me from the depths
My truth
So that I may be absorbed by the liquid azure
My final passage.

Of Absence

If you do not exist how can I contain you, said I
When my body strained under your weight
But now that time has emptied my flesh
And distance diminishes
I hear the night stir like a wild animal
A riddled shell and
Your absence flows
Like the whitenesss of the Angel that promises
Whispering paradises

I gather up the things I will take with me
Some birth-blood
Two drops of April from your eyes
And a knapsack of moon for the journey

I gather my belongings -- baggage of “no value”
A naked rose containing the desert
And a fragrance of burning night
In the midst of the sea
And that poem unwritten
Because it is wordless
The ultimate banishment of Absence.

Redolence of Sanctuary

My body ever changing
Full of vigils and old incense
A redolence of sanctuary from a banished time
Like that of the memory I was before
My last Descent
On that divine journey that sleeps
Within my flesh
And opens the way
The One way
To pass through.


My body is transformed into a mystic window
I gaze at the pane
And watch the Saints pass
Astride their mounts
They lean on the worn ledge
Their knapsacks full of God
And fill my night with shuddering.