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Newsletter Dated: 7/11/2006 8:25:43 AM

Subject: June July Contest winners and more wonderful poetry by bilingual authors

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by Ada Aharoni

I was a pale
ivory tower, surrounded
by white marble slabs
until you came
into my house

You deftly climbed my hidden stairs
gently pushed open by secret windows,
alighting upon vaulted mosaic
my curves smoothly answered
your precise angles.

I offered you my heart as fireplace,
my hands as gloves
to keep you warm,
my ears as vessels
for your words

Laying the lozenges of your life
on my hearth
you lit my fireplace
filled me with warmth,
lonely tower became cosy home.

I am glad you came to inhabit me
before our summer is spent,
before we tumble down
in the mighty tornado
of a nuclear winter.


by Albert Russo

Mon nom est Gianni
Mon nom est Jim
Mais aussi Dominique
Dans les deux sens
Et donc dans tous les sens

Que se soit Gianni, Jim ou Dominique
Au present comme au passé
A la première personne ou à la troisième
Il s'agit de la même personne
A ceci près que chacune d'entre elles
Est marquée par le sceau d'une langue
L'assaut, diront les esprits chagrins

Tantôt Gianni et Jim se confondront
Tantôt ils s'opposeront
Tantôt ils ne se reconnaîtront plus
Et il en sera de même avec les deux Dominique

Parfois l’écart entre eux sera infime
Ou alors aussi vaste qu'un océan
Celui qui sépare les idiomes
Ou se mesure à la mixité du Sang


Vision at Viña del Mar, Chile, July, 1991

By George Bradford Patterson II

At last, my deluxe tourist bus reached Viña del Mar at about 1pm after I had been enchanted by the quaint, enchanting seaside towns, nestled in the spiraling hills, overlooking the queenly blue-silvery radiance of the Pacific Ocean. I was still in a blissful trance in which I was half-awake and these towns were so picturesque since they had a pristine splendor that was idyllic. It was something that I thought could only exist in fairy tales, legendary romantic stories, or children’s books that I had been reflecting on, concerning the perfumed pink, crimson, and violet bougainvilleas and pink and red roses that spattered the whole areas of these towns, including the silvery-whitish green eucalyptus, evergreen, and pine trees in their princely charm, particularly in the main plazas. I was so happy that I had finally reached this legendary, magnificent tourist resort. But I felt deeply dismayed over the fact that it had begun to rain very heavily with thick gelatinous raindrops that reminded me of marmalade; except the color was dark silvery-gray. The coal-gray clouds were mushrooming and they were portraying an ominous aura by their increasing darkness that was very melancholy. It was making me feel lethargic, even giving me a sense of inertia, to the point that I did not want to get out of the bus. I just felt like sleeping and going home to my hotel, Hotel España, in Santiago. This was so ironic since I saw a group of gypsy women with their checkered violet, purple, blue, and crimson baggy dresses, milling around one of the main plazas, trying to sell their metal and leather crafts. They looked so forlorn like scattered petals of bougainvilleas along the beach; they seemed so lost and lonely; and they definitely did not fit here because they stuck out like crowns of thorns that were reminiscent of the crown of thorns that Jesus Christ of Nazareth wore before his crucifixion. I could see the desolation in their mysterious dark brown eyes. They wander from place to place without any place to claim as their real, permanent home; and they face ostracism, suspicion, aversion, and even outright hostility and contempt because I could sense this even among the Chileans here in Viña del Mar in a very subtle way. They just avoided them as if they were weeds among grass or a flower garden. I felt so sad for them. They set up camp with their tents of metal , wooden , and woven crafts that illustrate the enigmatic splendor of their unique culture. Then they suddenly left and disappeared, wandering endlessly to all corners of the world. One would think that they would finally find a home in Chile since its meaning in English is “The Last Corner of the World”. And all that is left of their labyrinthine mysterious existence are the imprints of their wooden stakes. This was made worse by the mournful dark gray clouds and their huge thick purple raindrops which were streaming from them in which they were weeping intermittently and steadily everywhere not just for the gypsies but also as a reminder of the terrible military coup in 1973 in which the Chilean navy made a lightning attack upon Vina del Mar and especially Valparaiso which was the home town of Salvador Allende where he enjoyed immense support. I was also feeling melancholy and I started to weep like the weeping blue-green pine trees of Isla Negra that spray their purple tears everywhere for Pablo Neruda . Tears trickled down my face, and then they streamed down it, drenching my whole body along with the tears from the Chilean spirits somewhere up there in the clouds. I really wanted to return to Santiago because I was starting to become overwhelmed by this pouring sadness and desolation that was engulfing me. But I had to face the situation. There was no going back.

So I got off the bus stop. But it was raining so hard and it was so damp, dim, and chilly that I just did not feel like walking around the city so much. Therefore, I decided to walk down the sidewalk by the street in front of the ocean. I did some window shopping/sightseeing in which I noticed some clothing, music, and electronic shops with the newest fashions and items. But I felt utterly bored although the Chilean proprietors were so warm and friendly, even endearing. It really offset the gloom that was wrapping around me, squeezing me, and almost suffocating me. But it did not eliminate it. since I was still feeling very melancholy over the plight of the gypsies in Vina del Mar and throughout Chile; the marginalized Chileans who live in the poblaciones of the major cities and also the towns and villages in the rural hinterlands, including the mapuches and all other indigenous people. I dreamed and dreamed and dreamed that some day that the Promised Land would come to these people and everybody in Chile and throughout Latin America Latin and throughout the world. Suddenly, a magnificent apparition of the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared to me, looking at me tenderly with a radiant golden-bluish glow from from her golden-brownish long hair, golden-pearly bronze face with silvery-purple tears streaming down it like waterfalls, and glistening sky-blue eyes. She was wearing a brilliant golden-bluish crown that shined like the brightest stars and a dazzling golden-brownish robe, a glittering beige blouse, and a gleaming golden-brownish dress as she continued to glow at me compassionately with her golden-bluish aura that was interspersed with rosy-pink bougainvilleas on intertwined emerald vines, spiraling to the heavens. Then, this Queen of Peace said to me so gently as she looked at me so kindly, weeping waterfalls as the gelatinous raindrops fell on us, “George, why are you so sad? I was so overwhelmed by her presence that I could not answer. She asked me again, “George, why are you so sad?” I was still so overwhelmed by her glorious beauty that I just could not answer her. But my melancholy facial gesture and bowed head seemed to answer her question. So she replied with a heavenly starry orange-golden bluish splendor, engulfing her, “Have faith and grow with grace and go with our Lord Jesus Christ. You will prevail and find the Promised Land. Do not despair.” All of a sudden, she just disappeared. I was so stunned and exhausted that I almost collapsed on the sidewalk. But I managed to keep my bearings although I was quivering like a leaf and drooping like a crimson bougainvillea. I asked myself if this was just a figment of my imagination. Did this really happen? I realized that it did happen. I was not going mad; I had really experienced this apparition.

Finally I found a lovely sandwich restaurant. where all of the waiters and management smiled at me spontaneously. They were so endearing which is typically Chilean because they radiated a kind and gentle simplicity and an august charisma; vibrating around me and everywhere with vibrations that penetrated my entire body. This was contrasted by the golden mist and dark clouds; along with the thick tears of rain falling upon the ocean with its sweeping caressing waves that I could see through the front windows so vividly and that almost mesmerized me into falling asleep with the lilt of their lullabies. Yet the cadences of their swishing sounds caused me to sink into a semi-trance. But one of the male waiters, who was dressed impeccably with a white long sleeve dress shirt, a black bow tie, a black vest, and black pair of pants, tapped me gently on my right shoulder, waking me up, and said to me softly with the utmost politeness that so typically Chilean as he looked at me with his bright dark brown eyes, bronze-brown facial features and jet black hair, ‘”Señor, excuse me. Would you like to order something to eat?”

“Oh, yes! I would like very much to eat something for lunch. Could you give me a large cheeseburger, french fries, and a large glass of ice tea with lemon.”

“Of course, Señor.”

“Thank you so much,” I said emphatically, admiring his blessed graciousness that was flowing like the dark blue waves of the ocean outside the front window. A few minutes later, the waiter delivered a huge cheeseburger, giant French fries, and a sparkling brownish-reddish iced tea with a huge lemon dancing around and around on top of the tea like a youthful ballerina. It made me so blissful like going around and around in a merry-go-round seemingly forever.

“You are welcome, Senor,” he said, still smiling so warmly at me. The other waiters, waitresses, and manager smiled at me, making me feel so blissfully relaxed. Chileans possess this uncanny effortless capacity to make foreigners feel at ease and happy, including their own people. They do it so naturally like the caressing ocean breezes outside this restaurant. As they continued to smile at me like pink and violet bougainvilleas, I started eating this kingly cheeseburger which was so juicy and tender. The cheese and the beef melted into my mouth. The french fries had such a fresh invigorating taste. This must have been due to the rich Chilean soil in which farmers have produced some of the best wines, fruits like oranges, grapes, apples, and so forth, and vegetables like tomatoes, lettuce, and corn. The cool refreshing was intoxicating me
with an eternal serenity like the rolling, rhythmical shimmering blue waves in the ocean outside the restaurant that were dancing a phantasmagoric dance with the most colorful rhapsody of hues of silvery-blue lights. I started drifting off into a semi-sleep and semi-trance because of these smiling blue waves and the delicious meal. I began to dream about Chile and its tragic past like the tragic bloody military coup of 1973 and a brief revolutionary government of the 1930s which empowered the peasants through radical land reform but which was toppled by the military and the land owning oligarchy. I also reminisced about my meeting with President Salvadore Allende’s widow, Hortensia Bussi Allende in Joseph Miller’s house on Delancy Street in Center City, Philadelphia in February of 1977. I will never forget her glowing kind and compassionate smiling face. She had a quiet gentle charismatic aura as she was being assisted by an elegant, aristocratic young blonde Chilean woman who was a cousin of hers and who must have been in her early thirties. She had so much poise, dignity, self-confidence, and charisma with her statuesque beauty and glittering cropped hair; she looked very Italian with her spiraling curves like a Korean ceramic vase and bright blue eyes;and She spoke excellent English without a trace of an accent in a slow deliberate manner. In fact, She spoke as well as I did if not better, and I was starting to fall in love with her. It was no wonder why my best Chilean friend, Osvaldo Silva Galdames, whom I was inquiring about to Señora Allende, was so romantic with Chilean women who are so beautiful like Señora Allende’s cousin. I really dreamed of visiting Chile some day.

Suddenly, I woke up from my trance, noticing that the waiters and waitresses were still smiling at me so innocently and so kindly. My golden french fries, cheeseburger, and ice tea were still somewhat unfinished. Thus, I finished the meal very quickly and thanked my gracious hosts as I paid the cashier the bill, “Señores and Señoritas, thank you so much for every thing.”

“Don’t mention it Senor. Please come again,” they said smiling at me, particularly the stunning beautiful mestiza waitresses. They had long jet-black hair, sparkling dark brown eyes, and copper brown faces that were so mesmerizing to me.

“I promise to return.”

After I left the restaurant, I wandered along the sidewalk by the shore front road as the cool melancholy fog enveloped me; doing some window shopping, particularly looking at the elegant clothing in the clothing stores. The mist caressed me and kissed me, and it was starting to rain somewhat. I looked at the endless pulsating dark gray bluish waves of the ocean; and I felt so overwhelmed by this pervasive bleakness even though I was surrounded by emerald green vines and pink, violet, crimson, and burgundy bougainvilleas. I felt totally lost wandering hither and thither like a sailboat without a steering wheel, a rudder, and a compass. Finally, I decided to go back to the bus stop around the corner and take the next Pullman bus back to Santiago. Shortly thereafter, an air conditioned Pullman bus came to the bus stop and the bus driver opened its doors. I got in immediately, followed by a few Chileans. I took a seat by the window on the left side towards the front of the bus, and I looked outside my side window at the endless rain of pale pink-purple tearful raindrops pouring everywhere. Then the bus drove away and this city faded into the dark gray foggy background. But I remembered the advice of the
Queen of Peace to have faith and grow with grace which would ultimately lead to the Promised Land.


---A POEM by Ram Mehta

Staring for a while at a handkerchief,
Buddha started making small knots on it.
He asked his disciples the difference
Between the plain one and with knots.
It is the same but not the look of it.
Mind of a person is just like that.
We must know how the knots took place
Then only we know how to untie them.

If the knot is that of infatuation,
To untie that knot be steady in desire
If the knot is that of anger,
To untie the knot be in peace.
If the knot is made of enmity,
To untie the knot be compassionate.
If the knot is that of miserliness,
To untie the knot be generous.

At all times, in pain or pleasure,
To prosper is the only measure.


Chrishoula Demetrakakis

Address. 82a Aristidou str.

Athens 17672 ,Greece

Tel. 210-7485560 , 210-9533386
Mobil tel. 0030-697-8484313


Born in Athens

I spend all my life’s summers in Crete, Rethymno ,

my father’s place of birth.

Crete was the essential source of poetry

Studies in Public Relations and human resource

Together with the study of philosophy and phihology .

High school of “Heliniki Pedia”

Member of International Red Cross, member of UNESCO

and other culture and traditional teams.

Married, mother of two children.

Classic Athletic runner in 10.000 m

(2nd in international meeting in Messini 2005).

I write literature articles and poetry in which I has taken award from Union of Greek Literature, the All over the Greece Union of Literature and UNESCO.

Except the poetry anthologies , I have written the novel “Franzeska”.

Articles and poetry are published in newspaper

“Kritiki epitheorisi , newspaper “Xaniotika nea” ,

magazine “Kriti”, literature newspapers and magazines. POEMS Some day

Some day your voice, will cover the earth,

and turn all the people, to line and then,

to look up the sky, to see our world,

the birds and the flowers ,inside their souls.

The hope of sunrise, the piece of the world,

that day , the people believes not alone,

will change, the way to look up the line,

the line of the sky, the end of the life.

And give hand to peace, give reason to love,

together to face, the line of the life.

Chrishoula Demetrakakis

The dream

In darkness quite,

the world seems to be,

the world of my dreaming,

that people can live.

No frontiers, no colures,

not doubts for exist,

the spirit of glory,

in soulpower of will,

the peace to sunrise,

and peace will lead,

not only in our dreaming,

in world, we believe.

Chrishoula Demetrakakis

Oh! Beautiful day

Oh! Beautiful day, from mountain the sun,

Is rising, new day, in mind a new start.

The flowers are turning, the leaves to the light,

the birds sings again! A new life just comes!

The earth, keep running and running around

and hopes and prospectives, keep warming ours hearts.

Oh! Beautiful day!

Let’s see our word, with day’s new eyes,

With peace in our souls

and our blue sky, reach deep and to stay ,

Inside our heart, in mind, in words,

in kindness, in acts, besides to see,

if somebody for us, to touch us, waits!

Let’s enlighten the people!

Let’s lives get back! to life decision!

In peace! And word’s love!

Let’s open horizon, the frontiers to world!

In peace! Find the reason to stay so long!

The world lives “today”, but foresee the “will”,

to live! And “tomorrow”! In world’s soul, in peace!

The peace is decision!

for people to leave! World’s life! To continue!

To world, we believe!

Oh! Beautiful day!

Bring light! And the peace!



Place of routs, RETHTMNO-CRETE

Articls, in newspapers “KRHTIKH EPITHEORISI”.


and “KRHTH” Magazine

Chrishoula Demetrakakis


This moment

When border erective,

was searching to find

the "why"blue sky

extends, so long line.

Your mind ! the power!

to reach up so far,

the earth is just now,

creating the life!

The moment is now!

Your «will», will be done,

your ground life existence

was broken ,to such

lost questions, with «why»
and words crushed in pieces,

when still «why» remains,

the feelings, no need!

Your sun and your life,

some day will come,

some day when mind,

does n’t need any «why»!

Chrishoula Demetrakakis

I am not afraid

I am not afraid, of the fights

and the forfeit of my will,

but I am afraid ,for war to knife ,

that turns the fire, around to me !

I am not afraid of revolution,

that lights! the darkness of my soul,

but I am afraid ,of any violence ,

that ruins the lines, of all and most.

I am not afraid to be alive!

but I am afraid, to be content,

with my self and pass thought hide,

against the rules to life and death.

I am not afraid, the end of walking,

that show me where, I have to stay,

but I am afraid, if on my way ,

forget, my lines and then, I bend!

I am not afraid, if any day,

I ‘ll loose the life and dreams to live,

but I am scared, a thousand times,

till then, to be, a dead ! in need!

Chrishoula Demetrakakis

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