Attached potential

15 Posted by - August 11, 2014 - Poems

She can tell once or twice; he can read. He can find the pole dance of new; she can dance.

Don’t you know; picking up pieces from glory days is decent and nice. She can burn flowers

again and again; he can watch. He can stride her neck; she can be the fun. Don’t you know;

marking faces in between positions is harm and aches.


She can be Juliet; he can keep the beat. He can step diversely; she can attend in between.

Don’t you know; cleaning crowns from present juries is pain, hurt and not damage. She can

bend over to breakdown; he can trace, run and run. He can roam fine; she will makeup right.

Don’t you know; staying around and about stillness is decent, worthy and dull.


She can hide all actresses; he can celebrate the fun. He can never mind; she can always tour.

Don’t you know; boarding beaches around trees is healthy and well not pure. She and he can

build shields, for solitary is the New. He and she can attend sick less homes. Don’t you know

intentions for self-images are just places and it’s okay this time.


She and He will drain you; like you were playing with curiosities all day. Like all the

might of birds flying above your heads. They will and can repeat the word perhaps five  

times. Don’t you know it’s an alive way of calling names and waking up. For they built

nothing less but fireworks. For they are not material just inferior, lifting parts for one  

attached potential.





Eliza Stefanidi’s debut book 'Sleeping With Plato' is a fraught, powerful and often upliftingly surreal exploration of the idea of Crisis – linguistic, socio-economic, and psychological. Eliza Stefanidi was born in Liverpool in 1980 and currently lives in Athens after studying ballet and art in London. She is British-Greek. She has been published in several anthologies, including Lung Jazz, and online. 'Many poets explore mental health as a concern or theme – Plath and Lowell come to mind – but Stefanidi is not merely a “confessional” poet.I have rarely read such violently pop cultural-surreal poems of pain and ecstasy. If Howl had been written by a young 21st century woman and not Ginsberg, this might be it. The poems veer from shockingly sad, to very funny. They are torn by references to song and the digital moment, the Greek Crisis, and Greek philosophy, but also have an edgy British sense of mad comedy. Both brave, and linguistically innovative, this is a new kind of poetry by a new sort of poet.' — Todd Swift

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