Biography:
Dimitris P. Kraniotis was born in 1966 in Larissa Prefecture in Greece and grew up in Stomio (Larissa). He studied Medicine at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He lives in Larissa (Greece) and works as a medical doctor (internal medicine specialist). He is the author of 11 poetry books and the Editor-in-chief of an international anthology in English (205 poets from 65 countries). He has won international awards for his poetry which has been translated into 36 languages & published in many countries. He has been invited and participated in many International Poetry Festivalsaround the World. He is Doctor of Literature, Academician in Italy, President of the 22nd World Congress of Poets(UPLI), President of the World Poets Society (WPS), Director of the Mediterranean Poetry Festival (Larissa, Greece) and Chairman of the Writers for Peace Committee of PENGreece. He is a member of World Poetry Movement (WPM), Poets of the Panet (POP), Hellenic Literary Society and National Society of Greek Literary Writers. His official website: https://www.dimitriskraniotis.com/
To the dead poet of obscurity
(In honor of the dead unpublished poet)
Well done!
You have won!
You should not feel sorry
Your unpublished poems
-Always remember-
Have not been buried
Haven’t bent
Under the strength of time
Like gold
Inside the soil
They remain
They never melt
They may be late
But they will be given
To their people
Someday
To offer their sweet
Eternal essence
The red poem
I painted red
The sky
Days that I lost myself
And denied myself
Laughing without reason
I lived those
I painted red
The water
I drowned in tears
And saved me
Forgetting my guilt
I cheated myself
I painted red
This poem
With words I erased myself
And resurrected myself
Writing in blood
I avenged myself
First recitation
I shouted
On and on
Throwing
Euphemistic whispers
On the floor
Hanging verses
On the wall
With syllables like nails
That until now
I was afraid to write
In beds like prisons
That until now
I’ve been burning to enter
To listen at
What I wrote
When I was absent
Stolen receivers
Engraved rocks
With pictures
Of intense feelings
Naked wood-frames
With paintings
Of faceless garments
Delusions in succession
Of inactive volcanoes
Fields under extinction
Of childhood
Furious wounds
In set-up trials
And we, command-givers
Stolen ideas receivers
Sinful corners
“St. Nikon Repent-Υe!”
On the calendar
Of a cloudy morning
With the rain to persist
Determined to wash away
The Erinyes of guilts
Victories and defeats
In sinful corners
Of pavements and rooms
Of minor moments
And of similar, too