Tears in the desert

Tears in the desert, oil on canvas painting

Tears in desert

Like water thrown in the desert

 Tears of sadness and despair,

When nothing is fair

Wasted on a soil already dead, 

Where even the nature is bad

The tears of pain

Fall down like rain 

For the lives we've lost,

For all that remained in the past

I cannot stop crying

When I see the world dieing 

In a no happy ending story

 When I see the evil's victory

And the world is dominated by hate

Then I know it's to late

Mnasidica missing Atthis and Sappho

This is my painting of Mnasidica, one of the followers of Sappho.

I've made this painting being inspired by the poem Sappho has written about her being far away in Lydia(a place that belongs to Turkey today), still missing Atthis who was like a goddess to her and the life they shared in Sappho's thaissos,she can almost see the shadow of Atthis singing and dancing in her mind, she can almost hear the echo of her lyre and divine voce from the past.

Like many other young girls Mnasidica had to leave Sappho's feminity school  to get married and she got married to a rich man who had an important role in that society but even is she was shining like a diva among the lydian women, she was not happy and watching the sea with her sad eyes all she wanted was her desperate scream to be heard but Sappho And Atthis to were far, over the sea.

You can read Sappho's poem below

Atthis, our loved Mnasidica dweels at far-
off Sardis, but she often sends her thoughts
hither, thinking how once we used to love
in the days when she thought thee like a
glorious goddess, and loved thy song the
best. And now she shines among the dames
of Lydia as after sunset the rosy-fingered
moon beside the stars that are about her,
when she spreads her light o'er briny sea
and eke o'er flowery field, while the good
dew lies on the ground and the roses revive
and the dainty anthrysc and the honey-lotus
with all its blooms. And oftentime when
our beloved, wandering abroad, calls to mind
her gentle Atthis, the heart devours her
tender breast with the pain of longing; and
she cries aloud to us to come thither; and
what she says we know full well, thou and I,
for Night, the many-eared, calls it to us
across the dividing sea.

The memory of her

The memory of her, painting and poem

02.06.2016
20:28


She was holding me so tight
Loving me all night
She has touched me deep within
Where no man has ever been

I miss her even today
Even if there in no way
To bring her back to me
And we were not meant to be

Sappho's girl-garden

This is my painting of Eranna Gyrinna Gyara and Gorgo, the young girls Sappho has written the poem below for.

This is my song of maidens dear to me.
Eranna, a slight girl I counted thee,
When first I looked upon thy form and face,
Slim as a reed, and all devoid of grace.
But stately stature, grace and beauty came
Unto thee with the years — O, dost not shame
For this, Eranna, that thy pride hath grown
Therewith? Alas for thee ! I have not known
One beauty ever of more scornful mien,
As though thou wert of all earth's daughters queen!
Mnasidica is comelier, perchance,
Than my Gyrinna — ah, but sweetly rings
Gyrinna's matchless voice ! In rapture-trance
I listen, listen, while Gyrinna sings.
Hero of Gyara is fleet of foot
As fawns, and as light-footed in the dance,
The dance taught by the measures of my lute.
Ever-impassioned Gorgo! — is it strange
That I grow weary of the change on change
Of thine adored ones? — of thy rhapsodies
O'er each new girlfriend, while the old love dies?
Joy to thee, daughter of a princely race,
For thy last dear one! Lie in her embrace —
Till shines a new star on thy raptured eyes!
Fonder of maids thou art, I trow, than she.
The ghost who nightly steal young girls, to be
In Hades of her woeful company.
This is my fair girl-garden: sweet they grow —
Rose, violet, asphodel and lily's snow;
And which the sweetest is, I do not know;
For rosy arms and starry eyes are there.
Honey-sweet voices and cheeks passing fair.
And these shall men, I ween, remember long;
For these shall bloom for ever in my song. 

Sappho's rose

One of Sappho's poems has inspired me to make this drawing of a beautiful woman with a rose that makes her look more feminine a and beautiful. Looking at this drawing I can almost feel the perfume of the rose, her perfume and I wish I could touch and kiss her red rose lips and hersmooth white skin.
This is the poem.

If it pleased the whim of Zeus in an idle
Hour to choose a king for the flowers, he surely
Would have crowned the rose for its regal beauty,
                        Deeming it peerless;

By its grace is valley and hill embellished,
Earth is made a shrine for the lover's ardor;
Dear it is to flowers as the charm of lovely
                        Eyes are to mortals;

Joy and pride of plants, and the garden's glory,
Beauty's blush it brings to the cheek of meadows;
Draining fire and dew from the dawn for rarest
                        Color and odor;

Softly breathed, its scent is a plea for passion,
When it blooms to welcome the kiss of Kypris;
Sheathed in fragrant leaves its tremulous petals
                        Laugh in the zephyr.

Corinna from Ovid's Amores

Corinna, oil on canvas painting

This is my oil on canvas painting of Corinna, Ovid's muse, the woman who has inspired him to write Amores. I am proud to bear her name. The roman poet Ovid described her as a very beautiful and sexy woman.
This is Ovid's poem.

        Book I Elegy V: Corinna in an Afternoon

It was hot, and the noon hour had gone by:

I was relaxed, limbs spread in the midst of the bed.

One half of the window was open, the other closed:

the light was just as it often is in the woods,

it glimmered like Phoebus dying at twilight,

or when night goes, but day has still not risen.

Such a light as is offered to modest girls,

whose timid shyness hopes for a refuge.

Behold Corinna comes, hidden by her loose slip,

scattered hair covering her white throat –

like the famous Semiramis going to her bed,

one might say, or Lais loved by many men.

I pulled her slip away –not harming its thinness much;

yet she still struggled to be covered by that slip.

While she would struggle so, it was as if she could not win,

yielding, she was effortlessly conquered.

When she stood before my eyes, the clothing set aside,

there was never a flaw in all her body.

What shoulders, what arms, I saw and touched!

Breasts formed as if they were made for pressing!

How flat the belly beneath the slender waist!

What flanks, what form! What young thighs!

Why recall each aspect? I saw nothing lacking praise

and I hugged her naked body against mine.

Who doesn’t know the story? Weary we both rested.

May such afternoons often come for me!