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Best Poems Written by Eva Christodoulou

Below are the all-time best Eva Christodoulou poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Eva Christodoulou Poem

I Know a Joke About Hansel and Gretel But I Can'T Remember the Punch Line

I want to make a joke about it, tell you that
your body has become a shelter for broken hearts, a
sanctuary for atheist gypsies,
you are a whole new definition of home.

Your body has become a shelter for broken hears, a 
hiding place of a deserted alley on an August afternoon; I like oxygen more than I like heat.
You are a whole new definition of home and
this is the first time I'm not gasping for air, you're a

Hiding place of a deserted alley on an August afternoon; I like oxygen more than I like heat.
I want to make a joke out of this but
this is the first time I'm not gasping for air, you're a
good witch's candy house in the middle of the woods.

I want to make a joke out of this but
my sweet tooth is coming in. You happen to be a
good witch's candy house in the middle of the woods
and I haven't got any pebbles or slices of bread with me.

Details | Eva Christodoulou Poem

2,5

I never know what to say when he calls me 
beautiful. There is nothing pretty about
counting calories or thinking about
my bathroom floor every time I
get stressed and anyway it's
never enough.

I went through hell and back and
all I got was a few extra pounds.

I've been through hell and back and
now it's like I'm stuck with a 
snowstorm - the ghosts of
boyfriends past haunting the
back of my neck - sometimes I
get goosebumps without
knowing why.

He tells me I'm
beautiful and it happens very
rarely. I say I will only live 
up to it if I lose all the weight; bones
sticking out begging for attention; 
sometimes my
forefingers dig the side of my thumbs: a
desperate hunger for showing.

He barely questions it or cares
about my poetry and it's turned into a 
sad joke. The cliche of a
girl that once was; the
reflection staring back
at me and I don't
know what to say.

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25

Sometimes I think I get so
sad I can only write bad poetry: a
prime example of a good student who
only knows how to mess up. It's like

we can't escape what could have been: a prime
example of forbidden romance and
New York and jazz playing in the background. You

used to say you always pictured us in France, but I'd
never let go of Wales and the white house and the
fresh daffodils. The smell of clean cotton and 
fish stew and
empty bottles of beer making a home out of the
coffee table. A prime example of a 
professor and his student who finally realised what she did
wrong. I think 

I would have  finally been better at housework, but all
this anxiety has now left me tired and
wondering.

Details | Eva Christodoulou Poem

Bitter

I still think about you. The
scent of lavender and failure and
heartbreak travel down my
tongue like the taste of unripened
oranges.

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Things Happen To Women Like Sleeping Beauty That No One Really Speaks Of

I want to lie to you tell you that

I had been asleep the whole time
things happen to women like us and they think
talking about them scares the memories away
my fingertips are still burning they are toxic enough to destroy butterfly wings
things happen to women like us
some people gradually changed our nightmares to porn as if they can't see
my fingertips are still burning they are toxic enough to destroy butterfly wings
we learn to master stealth over time it always comes at a price
some people gradually changed our nightmares to porn as if they can't see
bringing something like this to the surface won't make us drown
I had been asleep the whole time
they asked me for my name and I didn't know what to say
talking about them scares the memories away

Details | Eva Christodoulou Poem

A Bottle, a Ship, An Ocean

I feel it in the pit of my stomach and
in the stinging of my eyes. I try
to blink it away to
turn my back to the mirror to
avoid my reflection.

My childhood is dragging behind me like
a shadow I sewed to the soft of my sole and
I want to peel a tangerine maybe
give her half. I still avoid
my reflection.

I have buried the boys like 
seeds. There are so many flowers 
blooming in my lungs
there’s barely any oxygen
left 
behind.

These are tumultuous times I 
tell the ghosts and like
ships they heave up and down the
coving and they nod and
disappear.

I carry my dad’s rage like a
talisman I was forced to hang 
around my neck like a
ring that needs to be destroyed. 

And the boys and the ghosts and 
the little girl with the tangerine they
all look up at me and I’m 
only getting older; I still
don’t know what to say.