"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


It is publish by BONNIERS's publication, in Swedish
Translated by Ingemar Rhedin

A review:

"There are many good poets in Greece today. One of them is Maria Lampadaridou Pothou, whose collection of poems The Mystic Passage was published in Sweden.
[...] Lampadaridou is an exacting writer of high intellect, at least as seen from the secularized Swedish perspective. Seen from a different angle, Lampadaridou is automatically registered in the Modern Greek tradition - the one that includes Kalvos and Sikelianos as main figures.
[...] Lampadaridou wanted to build a bridge to unite the great Greek past, which has been dominant for thousands of years and includes the Pre-socratic philosophers, and the byzantine visionaries.
[...] The closest figures to whom the poet refers us is Odysseas Elytis.

For himself, Rhedin (the translator) very aptly says that 'Sappho and Heraklitus seem like good neighbors who a little while ago passed by to borrow some oil'. As far as passion and nostalgia are concerned, the poet has common elements with Gabriela Mistral, who wrote for a child that she never had, whereas the Greek poet writes for a child she lost. The poet has an unattainable dream to pass through into the other dimension.
[...] No matter how vehemently the poet identifies herself with Sibyl 'Chewing laurel and wild roots' as well as with Christ's Mother, whose child is 'Evangelizing the world', here not only the Jew not only the Greek but everyone and everything give flesh and bone for a protest against the convention of existence. This protest is voiced through our history and pre-history. Certainly, also, in the future which opens before us.
[...] For me, the poet is more fascinating when she vacillates between archangels and Pythia and with the crystalline waters of her paradises. But for her it is an obvious necessity to explore all perspectives. Only in that way and having those visions can she say: 'Drops of blood my marks'.

Nengt HOMQVIST, newspaper Dagens Nyheter, Stockholm (8 November 1996), for the poetic collection The Mystic Passage.

Poetry in English: 

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 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.

The Agony of Memory

One by one, I loose the bonds
The dream will be the last to be uprooted
The dream the dream torments me -- joints
That groan lost azure in the deepest depths
My body
The odor of sky and of frigid star
Is lost in my millennia of a flowing
Pagan dream.

I have not yet loosed all the bonds
Moonlit nights oaths diaries and farewell
The earth rejects me, a foreign body
I will avenge myself, I say, with lucidity my weapon
I will pass beyond time like the flash of incubated crystal
I will pass like the silver of the desert
That outwits the darkness
Holding in my hands the mark:
Odor of birth-blood.


The dream will be uprooted last or I
Some hand will uproot me from the dream
Like a flower trodden by Time
What did I dream? What did I dream?
I will no longer remember


My house is uninhabited
Only memory remains among the crumbling walls
I hear its heavy footsteps -- something
Like a cry in the dark
I wear it next to my skin with my first abyss
A flower whitened by my tears
And death laden with paradises
A window forgotten in the night
Illuminating the other life.
Death twisting
Climbing up my body
Displaces the boundaries

I am the burning memory that flows toward the Light
I no longer own the matter given me
I turn it into a poem
To pass through.


My soul ever more alien
Embraced by the abyss
I recognize it by the
Odor of night that riddled it like rust
A strip of azure
Pierced through by my sleep
I am left alone
With my soul erect
Bidding farewell to the old mooring

With tears I rinse time off the form of my Soul
With my blood I rinse the abyss off its fissures
To take it with me.

The Agony of Fire

Alone the white full moon like a prow
Illumines the forgotten paradises
O Earth of unexplorable depths
With your fragrant tree and rock of pearl
All captured in the rose of the fissure
Rose of my cosmic night
The stalk arising from many abysses
Dawns and fragrance
Validates my hallucinatory night

To step over the distances