A Greek Australian poet

Thus perched on a pillar of darkness
I rehearsed Byzantine devotions
under the Southern Cross
(from Three Night pieces by Dimitris Tsaloumas, published in Falcon Drinking, UQP Poetry)

From my first day in Greece I make it a habit to go swimming each morning in the tranquil bay of Alinda, a curve of a beach a mile or so long. Behind it, up the mountainside, climb a few streets of cottages. Goats, their bells tinkling in the heavy air, claim the rest of the hillside as their own. A narrow road runs the length of the bay, home only to a few sleepy cafes and a small supermarket.

It’s here that I first notice Dimitris.

Brown as a walnut and deceptively frail, he arrives at the beach at around 11am. He hangs his towel on a tree and stands, stretching for a moment or two. I watch him surreptitiously from under my sunglasses. He has the fragility of very old age, (I find out later that he celebrates his 90th birthday next year) yet there’s a grace and flexibility about him that’s compelling.

After a moment he walks into the water and begins to swim; not the gentle, head out of the water breast stroke favoured by Europeans but an Australian style front crawl, pushing through the water, head down, arm over arm against the gentle waves. He swims for 15 minutes and then clambers out, the land rendering him immediately more insubstantial. After a moment drying in the sun, he’s gone.

The next day I’m wavering at the water’s edge. The water isn’t cold but I always prolong the transition from land to sea, from air to water. I hear a shout behind me. It’s him. ‘Go on,’ he cries, ‘get in, it’s lovely.’ I smile and nod then, prompted by his instruction, dive in, as always enjoying the liberation of the water the second I’m in. I swim out as far as I dare, stretching my arms, kicking up a spray behind me, then turn and, with tired arms, swim back to the shore.

Dimitris has waited for me and we start to chat about our love of the sea, of swimming. He asks me where I’m from and I hesitate as usual. The scent of Eucalyptus on the air sways me and I say, ‘Melbourne, Australia’. It’s partly true. Even though I’ve never lived there it’s my mother’s home, it’s where my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins live. It’s where I’ll go if I go back to Australia.

Dimitris laughs, delighted. ‘That’s where I’m from,’ he says. ‘You must come for coffee, we’ll chat some more. Come this afternoon, anytime after three. It’s the house opposite the church, you can’t miss it.’


And so it comes that I’m sitting on his terrace later that day and discover that he is Dimitris Tsaloumas, Australia’s pre-eminent poet, winner of The Patrick White Award among many others. We sit on the terrace and we chat about swimming, about writing, about the Greek classics and about home.

Born on Leros in 1921, Dimitris studied the violin in Rhodes, along with the classics. During the war, the island came under German occupation and his studies were halted. Things didn’t improve post war, when the Greek civil war took its toll. ‘It was terrible, terrible,’ he says. ‘In Athens people were starving, there were bodies in the street. No one starved on Leros but it was terrible.’ Persecuted for his political beliefs, he left Leros in 1952, making his way to Australia. ‘It was a shock arriving there in the 50s. I wanted to buy olive oil and they sent me to the chemist. He brought me a vial of olive oil no bigger than my middle finger. When I asked for more, he wanted to know why. When I told him it was for salads, for eating, he couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d said I was a cannibal.’

Telling this story he laughs, long and loud. He loves to laugh, especially at his own jokes, giggling mightily. He has a zest for life, a twinkle in his eye and I’m sure he’s a terrible rogue for the women.

For the last 25 years he’s spent six month in Melbourne, six months in Leros, a life of perpetual summers. He writes in Greek when he’s in Australia, in English on Leros.

So where does he consider home? Leros is number one in his heart but ‘Australia’s been good to me,’ he says. The long flight twice a year is taking it out of him and he thinks this will be one of his last trips to the island. His brother has recently died. He doesn’t have family on Leros anymore and, though he knows many people here, in the end he’s chosen Melbourne. ‘I love Leros but my friends are in Melbourne, my sons too,’ he says.

At the end of the day, it seems, home comes down to people.