The Turks haven’t changed; brutal like animals.
Our daughters go to Anatolia to shop,
then marry those murderers. Nothing has changed
in all my eighty years, son of the Greek struggle
of 1922; those bastard British and French, they said
they would support us. No one supports us.

I’ve worked hard all my life. I have two homes,
one in the States and the other here in Rhodes.
I sit on my verandah, in my old family village,
like a king. I have a big Greek flag hanging
over the balcony, like a gun for all that pass,
forget where they are. I overlook the water.

It is quiet water. Except in winter.
 
I drink ouzo, eat fish off small plates
in a local taverna, befriend the old fishermen.
They like me. I am a big man.
I eat too much, I know. But those Turks.
Don’t go there, just because it’s cheap.
Nothing has changed. Cyprus is still occupied.

So what if our priests stuff money in their pockets?

The troika is finished, but I still want the euro.
And I want the Albanians out. All immigrants.
Five years ago my country was in massive debt;
now it’s even worse. We can’t afford to help;
prices have gone up. We are all suffering.
Greece is in a big mess.

Why are we making love to the Turks?
Are we scared of them?

Their land is a map of ruins, of old Greek towns
with old Greek graves. It’s our land;
all the Anatolian coast. But they took it.
Anatolia is a Greek word. It’s our land.
Those bastard British and French.
But the Germans. That Angela Merkel. Worse.

Ion Corcos has been published in Grey Sparrow Journal, Clear Poetry, Communion, The High Window and other journals. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Ion is a nature lover and a supporter of animal rights. He is currently travelling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. Ion’s website is www.ioncorcos.wordpress.com.