L Argas verse runs, looking for ways to Pound River or Ginsberg. A young man at war against the modern world, and met the howl of the beat generation . A young man who looked at reality with blind eyes, feeling intensely beyond. The proximity to the madness, the drunkenness of extreme experiences for some time courted testify in his verses, of the dangerous path to salvation taken by an inward-looking man, caver and adventurer from the depths of the self, from which emerge the prophetic word, abundant, overflowing, in the state of delusion which sought to find salvation and believed (in collections such as Song, naked He , School allegorical).
Over time, as will become more concise, to the latest works almost epigrammatic, thinned verbal material according to the internal logic that presides over all mystical quest ( last words, Theorem , Secret Collection ). So things are and do not support mystification. To Poulias, poetry writing at the expense of the poet's death is like a grown mound in place at the expense of their own demise. What is next?, You can argue. The author himself refers to it, describing himself as a possible clue: "I find something of darkness where I can / picked on me and cry / write only for a few (" Βρίσκω λίγο σκοτάδι όπου μπορώ / σκυμμένος να Κλάψω και / γράφω μονάχα για λίγους "), and joining the long list of those who, in the East and West and from time immemorial, have contemplated the reality in the protective covering of sleep. "My eyes have seen / y mis o í dos han o í do / Que sean estas mis ú ltimas palabras "( "My eyes are shall see and / or my ears have heard / They let my last λόγια " ) .
But before getting to the point of silence toward which the poem, each poem, Poulias passes over the pain and seeks its mark on the tongue, a language before the same Being ( Σε μια γλώσσα προγενέστερη του ίδιου του Είναι " Γιώργος Βέλτσος ). Prophet, seer, started, martyr or witness to unbelieving times since his first poems to the current Η κρυφή συλλογἠ opens the road traveled over a territory, on a nameless space, perhaps inconceivable to our contemporaries, the Mahmoud referred Shabestari when questioned "Quelle est cette mer dont you rivage est le silence? ( What sea is this whose bank is silence? ).
Poulias Terrible company committed so huge!
SOURCES BARTHOLOMEW, December 2010.
Ο ΣΩΤΗΡΑΣ
( EL SALVADOR )
M etro in fingers cut my Xeria
The time to wander in these chambers t'anemou
other hand I do not love me and the doors
not want to close and the dogs are adamant
With bare feet dipped them in dirty water
By looking bare my heart (not me)
A blue box
How many rooms they built tosa tragic books
Without a light crack
Without a breath
After each room and an open wound
How to go down stairs again crumbling
Among mire again, and disappeared from the wild dogs
bring medicines and pink gauze
And if I find the pharmacy closed
And if you find pezameno pharmacist
And if you find a bare my heart in the window of the pharmacy
not not finished there salvation
will stay as the rooms are
With the wind and the lalamia
With the debris of glass persons groans
Without clear the bleeding
With hands-pattern lie to me
By asychoreti oblivion
forgot their own My fleshly minted Xeria
While measuring distress
EL SALVADOR
( The SOTIRAS )
C ount with severed fingers of my hands
the hours spent wandering in the wind terraces
I have no other hands my love and doors
not want to close and dogs are stubborn
Barefoot sunk in these waters dirty
With heart look naked (not me)
A blue window
How many rooms built many books tragic
Without a thread of light
Without a breath of fresh air
For the patient reader
Since each room is an open wound
How to lose again stairs crumble
Between mud and wild dogs again
medicines and bandages to bring roses
And if the pharmacy was closed
And the pharmacist died
and if my heart found naked in the window of the pharmacy
enough No no no salvation
That rooms remain as they are
With the wind and the babbling
With their faces crushed glass regime
With bleeding colorless
Porcelain Hands who lie to me
With its inexcusable neglect
forgot my hands were cut meat
she told her agony
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