Why did you choose the title Silence Will Remain Unscathed? What does it mean for silence to remain “unscathed”?
I chose the title Silence Will Remain Unscathed because, to me, silence is one of the few things that life cannot truly wound.
Words can be misunderstood. People can betray us. Dreams can change, and memories may fade. But silence has a remarkable resilience. It survives every disappointment, every loss, every transformation. It remains untouched because it doesn’t need to defend itself or explain its existence. As a poet, I have always believed that silence is not the absence of words. It is a language of its own. It is where emotions mature before they become poems. It is where truth often speaks more honestly than noise ever can.
The title reflects a deeply personal realization: no matter what happens around us, there is an inner place within every human being that can remain intact. For me, silence is that place. It is not emptiness, it is strength, reflection, and sometimes even hope. This book was born from that space.
Is silence in your poems a refuge, a wound, a form of resistance, or something else entirely?
I don’t believe silence can be defined by just one word. In my poetry, silence is sometimes a refuge, a place where the soul can breathe without being judged. At other times, it becomes a wound, carrying the weight of words that were never spoken or feelings that could never find a voice. But silence is also a quiet form of resistance. In a world that constantly demands explanations, opinions, and noise, choosing silence can be an act of strength. It allows us to listen more deeply to ourselves, to others, and to life itself.
For me, silence is not passive. It is alive. It transforms, heals, questions, and reveals. Every poem in this collection explores a different face of silence, because human emotions are never one-dimensional. Perhaps that is why silence remains unscathed. It has the remarkable ability to contain everything without ever losing its essence.
The blurb says that “silence becomes its own language.” Can poetry express silence, or does every poem inevitably break it?
I believe poetry doesn’t break silence. It translates it. A poem is not an interruption of silence; it is what silence chooses to become when it is ready to be heard. Before every poem, there is a moment of stillness where emotions exist without words. Writing begins there. Not everything can or should be explained. Some experiences are too profound, too fragile, or too sacred for ordinary language. Poetry gives them a voice without taking away their mystery.
To me, the most powerful poems are not those that say everything, but those that leave space for the reader’s own silence. I hope my poems invite readers to pause, to reflect, and to discover meanings that belong uniquely to them. In that sense, poetry and silence are not opposites. They complete each other. One gives birth to the other, and together they create a deeper way of communicating one that goes beyond words.
Do you see silence and language as opposites, or as partners in the creative process?
I see silence and language as partners, not opposites. Silence is where a poem begins. It is the space where thoughts, emotions, and memories gather before they are ready to take the form of words. Language comes later not to replace silence, but to give it shape. For me, writing is a dialogue between the two. Silence teaches me to listen, while language allows me to share what I have discovered. If either one is missing, the poem loses its balance. Words without silence can become noise, while silence without expression may remain a feeling that never reaches another soul.
As a poet, I don’t try to conquer silence. I try to honor it. Every poem is an attempt to preserve its depth while making it accessible to others. Perhaps that is the greatest challenge of poetry: to use words in such a way that the reader can still hear the silence behind them.
The description mentions “memories wrapped in a certain light.” What role does memory play in your work: preservation, reconstruction, or transformation?
For me, memory is all three: preservation, reconstruction, and transformation. But if I had to choose one, I would say transformation. We never remember the past exactly as it was. Time, experience, love, loss, and hope gently reshape our memories. They remain true, but they are illuminated by a different light each time we revisit them. That is why I wrote about “memories wrapped in a certain light.” Light changes what we see without changing what exists. It reveals details we had forgotten, softens what once hurt us, and sometimes allows us to discover beauty where we once saw only pain.
In my poetry, memory is not about looking backward with nostalgia. It is about understanding who we are today through the echoes of yesterday. Every memory carries the possibility of becoming something new, a source of wisdom, compassion, or even quiet healing. I believe poetry has the power to transform memory into meaning. And perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts of art: not to erase the past, but to help us see it with new eyes.
Do you trust memory as a source for poetry, or are you more interested in how memory distorts experience?
I trust memory, but not because it is perfectly accurate. Memory is deeply human. It doesn’t preserve events like a camera; it preserves their emotional truth. As we grow, our understanding of the past changes, and our memories change with it. I don’t see that as a weakness but as part of being alive.
As a poet, I am less interested in factual precision than in emotional authenticity. A memory may shift in detail, but the feeling it carries can become even clearer over time. Sometimes distance allows us to understand an experience more deeply than we could while living it. Poetry doesn’t ask memory to testify like a witness. It invites memory to reveal what lies beneath the surface, what remained unspoken, unnoticed, or unresolved.
For me, memory is not a record of the past. It is an ongoing conversation between who we were, who we are, and who we are still becoming. That conversation is where many of my poems are born.
You describe love as “the strongest force that sets the world in motion.” How is love explored in the collection: as connection, loss, longing, healing, or all of these?
Love, to me, cannot be confined to a single emotion or experience. It is connection, loss, longing, healing and so much more. It is the invisible force that shapes our lives, even when we are not aware of it. In this collection, love is not portrayed as perfect or effortless. It is vulnerable. It asks us to open our hearts, to accept change, and sometimes to embrace pain as part of growth. Love can break us, but it can also reveal strengths we never knew we possessed.
I believe love is the strongest force that sets the world in motion because it is the source of empathy, compassion, creativity, and hope. Every meaningful human experience begins with some form of love whether it is for another person, for nature, for truth, for beauty, or for life itself. My poems explore love in all its expressions because I don’t see it as a destination. I see it as a journey of becoming. Even in moments of silence, loss, or uncertainty, love continues to exist. Sometimes it speaks through words, and sometimes through what remains unspoken.
That is the kind of love I wanted this book to reflect: not an idealized emotion, but a quiet, enduring presence that gives meaning to our existence.
Can silence strengthen love, or does it sometimes threaten it?
Silence never threatens love by itself. What threatens love is the absence of truth within that silence. When silence is filled with trust, it becomes intimacy. When it is filled with fear, it becomes distance.
Love is shaped not by whether we speak, but by what our silence contains.
What does poetry mean to you personally?
Poetry is the way I make sense of life. It allows me to listen more deeply to my emotions, to silence, to memory, and to the invisible threads that connect us as human beings. I don’t write to provide answers. I write to ask the questions that truly matter.
For me, poetry is an act of presence. It invites us to slow down, to feel, and to recognize the beauty that often hides in ordinary moments. It reminds us that vulnerability is not weakness, but one of the purest forms of courage. Above all, poetry is a bridge. It begins with something deeply personal, yet it reaches toward something universal. If even one reader finds a part of themselves in my words, then the poem has fulfilled its purpose.
What can poetry reveal that other forms of writing cannot?
Poetry has the unique ability to express what cannot be fully explained. Other forms of writing often seek clarity, information, or conclusions. Poetry, on the other hand, embraces mystery. It allows contradictions to coexist, gives voice to silence, and reaches emotions that exist beyond ordinary language. A poem doesn’t simply tell us what to think or feel. It invites us to experience something. Every reader enters the same poem carrying different memories, questions, and hopes, which means the poem becomes a different journey for each person.
That is the quiet power of poetry. It doesn’t offer definitive answers; it awakens recognition. Sometimes a single verse can reveal more about the human heart than pages of explanation ever could.
Do you see poetry as a way of discovering meaning or of creating it?
I believe poetry is both a journey of discovery and an act of creation. When I begin writing, I rarely know exactly where the poem will lead me. It often reveals thoughts and emotions that were already within me, waiting to be recognized. In that sense, poetry helps me discover meaning.
But the moment those feelings become words, something new is born. The poem creates connections, perspectives, and possibilities that did not exist before. It transforms experience into meaning not only for me, but hopefully for the reader as well. Perhaps meaning is not something we simply find or invent. Perhaps it is something we uncover and shape at the same time. For me, that is the quiet miracle of poetry.
Do you feel that your poetic voice changes when you write in English rather than Greek?
I don’t think my poetic voice changes, its essence remains the same. What changes is the way it breathes.
Greek is the language of my roots. It carries the rhythms, memories, and cultural echoes that have shaped me since childhood. English, on the other hand, invites a different kind of clarity and openness. It allows me to reach readers from different cultures while expressing the same emotional truth. I never try to become a different poet when I write in English. I simply allow the language to guide the rhythm and texture of the poem. To me, poetry doesn’t belong to a particular language. It belongs to the human heart. Languages may change, but genuine emotions are universal.
How has Greek culture and literature shaped your work, even when you are writing in English?
Greek culture is not something I consciously add to my writing. It is part of who I am.
Growing up in Greece, I was surrounded by a culture that has always valued beauty, philosophy, storytelling, and the search for deeper meaning. Those influences have shaped the way I see the world, even when I write in English. I think my poems carry a distinctly Greek sensibility: a love of reflection, an awareness of the passage of time, and the belief that even suffering can lead to wisdom and inner transformation.
Writing in English allows me to reach a wider audience, but my roots remain Greek. They are present not only in my themes, but in the way I approach life and poetry: with curiosity, emotional honesty, and a desire to explore what it means to be human. Languages may change, but our roots continue to nourish every word we write.
If your poetry had a homeland, would it be Greece, the English language, or a place somewhere between the two?
If my poetry had a homeland, it would not be defined by a map or a language. Greece is where my roots lie. It shaped my identity, my imagination, and the way I perceive beauty, history, and the human soul. English has given my poetry the opportunity to travel beyond borders and connect with readers from different cultures.
But I believe poetry ultimately belongs wherever a reader recognizes themselves in it. So perhaps its homeland is somewhere between languages, between cultures, and between hearts. A place where emotions speak more powerfully than words, and where our shared humanity becomes the only true home.
Many contemporary poems speak about silence. What distinguishes your silence from the silence we encounter in other poetry?
Every poet experiences silence differently, so I wouldn’t claim that my silence is better or more important than anyone else’s. What makes it distinctive for me is that I don’t see silence as emptiness or absence. I see it as a living presence, a space where memory, love, hope, and self-discovery quietly coexist.
In my poems, silence is not something to escape or overcome. It is something to listen to. It asks us to slow down, to become more attentive, and to discover meanings that cannot be forced into words. If there is something unique about my silence, perhaps it is that it doesn’t seek to hide the truth but it gently invites the reader to find it within themselves.
What do you hope a reader carries away after reading the final poem?
I don’t hope for a single answer or conclusion. If anything, I hope the reader carries a sense of quiet recognition like something within them has been gently touched or remembered. Not something new, but something already known in a deeper, unspoken way. I would like the final poem to leave space rather than closure. A space where silence still breathes, where emotions are not resolved but understood, and where the reader feels a little more present within themselves.
If the book stays with them after the last page, it is not because it explained something, but because it allowed them to feel something more clearly. That, for me, is enough.
