Karine Leno Ancellin was born and grew up in New York until she moved to very different countries altogether. She worked on ‘Hybrid identities’ for her Phd at the Vrije Universiteit of Brussels. She earned an MA, with Honours, in Literature at the Charles V Institute of Paris VII-JUSSIEU. She is now a professor, writer and translator (English/French) living in Athens, Greece. She has published articles and interviews for the WIP, Kulturissimo, and other media. She is now involved in the promotion of pan-Hellenic Literature. She co-founded a poetry society with Angela Lyras (www.apoetsagora.com). Her poems have been put into music by the Jazz composer Leila Olivesi.
Skype TearREAD ON silverstorkmagazine
Like the Matisse cut outs at the MoMa,
your immaterial face, an interface, as pieces of a puzzle,
Your dried lips blowing a chapped kiss,
Your black curls waving the impossibility to nest in your supple white.
My heart stoops to the moment-
the beats throbbing too loud for this pixelated slowness.
The virtual frame has caught your eye,
the gold hues of your iris shimmer
shaded by your palm like lashes…
In a flash, the dark iris magnified
by a tear,
A perfect human tear.…
A tear enlarged so real it liquefies me,
as I sit,
Racked RefugeesREAD ON ACTIVEMOUSE
Dedicated to ChemseddineMarzoug
Like the winged Victory of Samothrace
standingheadless uprooted in the Louvre today,
Like the ruins of Athens’ statues
It is the head that goes first,
the head that breaks away from the body
the head, that the erosion, of water currents cuts off.
Drowned refugee bodies land awash
on the beach of Tunisia, in Zarzis
a cherub body without a head, an ancient Athenian ruin, still wet.
In the Acropolis museum
statues have lived through centuries
without their extremities, and retained their exquisite misery
In the cemetery of unknown
ChemseddineMarzoug has buried
dismembered parts of subhuman hope,
Racked in the milk of human cruelty
The algorithms are filling up the space
Where is the place where I can forget you?
Chem or con, you trail me…unsuspected
between the clouds, icloud, meanders with the thought of you
Psychology and philosophy
To fly to you
a heart on cloud 9
no hertz to flee
Interview with the Moon
Yes! I have, more than once in my life
suffered the pangs of lack of light,
my albedo not quite right
dark thoughts lurking
though I’m not good at emoting
my childhood was seldom joy filled
as my father’s rays came to me befuddled
my mother, the earth, had so much on her own
that she could not have my needs be known
So I pouted and looked the other way
Not at all, I don’t do it on purpose
the tides follow my trajectory, I don’t impose,
it’s just gravity, I’m only Selene, the sun is my master
his influence is twice greater
than my inordinate responsibility
Not to this day, but I see the useless satellites
every day, whether I’m there or out of sight,
piles of junk orbit around me.
What is to happen to all these debris?
When my proxy life ends,
yours will dim, dark.
Athena’s BlazeREAD ON MOONMAGAZINE
Dedicated to Panos Kokkinidis and family
Amongst Athens’ top pastry chefs
was spending a warm summer day near Mati,
a picturesque beach town, suave and lovely
on the Aegean shore of Greece.
He had mastered the art of fire
crafting innovational delicacies,
well-known with the Athenian literati.
So when the grey flames came blazing towards him
his wife, his children and his mother
he took his phone out and began filming
not knowing what he could be expecting,
he posted the agonizing video,
struck by this monumental inferno
a slithering colossal amber moving
like an incandescent dragon approaching
denser and closer
scorching the children and elderly first
threatened and afraid,
all scampered, fast
the somber smoke asphyxiating first
as the diabolical flares
crawled black into their flesh.
a burning man,
the flames had devoured their master.
A plastic dumpster melted in its own carcass
the fire had gone a Daliesque rage.
Scattered burnt doors still in fumes,
carbonized peeled cables
much like macabre carnations,
sardonic skeletons of electric metal boxes
dangled on worn-out weeping walls
their imperial power annihilated,
a waste of human sacrifice.
The tranquil blue now nags at the blanket of silver ash-dust,
why is its turquoise so arrogant, so indifferent?
Is there no suffering in this crystal sea?
The fire had devastated the lands
leaving nothing to soothe the empty hands
Death was irrevocable,
nothing to hang on to for rebirth,
not a thing not turned to ashes.