This poetry collection is a lyrical record of life in the small village of Sklithron (Zeleniche) in Western Macedonia (Greece), and of the journey of emigration to an adopted homeland, Canada. Through memory, place, and longing, these poems honour the people and everyday moments that shaped a generation.
Written by Kosmas Yotis, this collection preserves the voice of village life and the experience of leaving home—carrying the past forward while building a new life abroad.
PROLOGUE
The poems within this website
Aim to capture memories
They create a moment in time
And instill a sense of nostalgia
Those written to remind us
Of other eras
Old friends, old neighbourhoods
And forgotten feelings
To make us laugh and to make us cry
And to shout with joy
This book is also
A reminder of the fact
That when we were growing up
Many of the stories we heard
Were something more than stories
They were lived experiences
From our families
Experiences that shaped
Not only their values
But also their character
As well as
These poems will be
Stories and experiences
That will pass on to the next generation
And help strengthen
The enduring bond Between grandparent and grandchild
“Wife, they called on the telephone— the little ones are coming. Prepare the minced meat, we’ll make some meatballs.” One wants leek pie, another spinach pie. Beautiful red peppers— those will be stuffed. We cleared some space then so no one would get hurt. Grandmother flies with joy and grandfather follows behind. “Leave the kitchen now, go bring the wine and the big baking pan for the cheese ...
In a little donut shop , as we call it here, they gather every Saturday to talk about the village dear. One of them can barely hear, another has lost his mind, all with snowy-white hair now, seventy years behind. One of them is diabetic, his hands begin to shake, and the other, big and heavy, keeps needing bathroom breaks. One believes he’s wiser still, he talks about Viagra. “A great thing!” ...
When I was just a little child. One evening I sat by the doorway, the yard with flowers running wild, and green the grasses all around. Voices drifted from afar— they watered their gardens there. It must have been a full moon night; the violets bloomed in the air. The night owl cried out mournfully, as if it had been wounded. The stars shone high above the sky like a diamond veil suspended. From ...
Many years have passed and we have grown white and old. Our beautiful village we have never forgotten it. Green village, my Zeleniche, you are not as you once were. Your face has changed so much while we were far away from you. We remember the evenings when the streets filled with children, and the old women on their stools sat together sharing gossip. Your stone-paved roads have now been covered ...
Two brothers from Canada made up their minds one day to go, for one last time, to see their village far away. They had a few small fields and a little piece of land. “We’ll sell them,” they both said, “and drink some rakia while we can.” They left their suitcases at the hotel and started walking downhill. They called someone on their cell to say they’d reached the village still. They stood before ...
A stone slab appeared below, there in the yard one day. The two looked at each other slyly— and one grabbed the iron bar right away. One lifted it with the crowbar, the other struck with the heavy tool. The Albanians watched and wondered: “What are these two looking for here, fools?” They searched for hidden gold coins to give to their children and grandchildren dear. But instead of gold beneath ...
Where are you going, my sorrowed one, through these narrow alleyways? Why are you a stranger, my exiled one, with tears upon your face? Where have you been so long, that you had forgotten us— to see the green mountain again, to drink water from the spring? To take a walk through the village, to see your kin once more— where have you been so long? What was it that kept you away before? As he ...
Last night I dreamed, and found myself back in the village. All the parents were there, all the ancestors and relatives. And our children were there, together with the grandchildren. We danced at rido hand in hand, like in the olden years. We all embraced each other with tears in our eyes. We remembered everything from before— the passions of the past. And two brothers over there, now turned into ...
The last time I went to the village, to say farewell to those I knew, and from my father’s worn inheritance to sell what little there was to do— Our small ancestral house, a barn now fallen and bare, a lowly yard enclosure too, built once with sweat and care. I walked down into the yard as if my throat had closed tight— it gripped me deep within, like drowning in heavy night. Bushes and thorns ...
Her three sons left for foreign lands. One went off to Canada, another to Australia, and the third, the youngest, went to Germany. The years were difficult in their beautiful homeland. You leave your place behind when you have no hope. The brothers were separated, and the little cousins too. Their mother was left alone, wandering through the fields. With a pair of borrowed oxen she worked the ...
