- John Ttikkes, one of the last of the Mohicans

"With the blood of my heart": If the songs and his poems put on paper and sell them even five cents each, would be rich such stresses. Only part of all this is recorded in his book!

The title of the net says. "With my heart's blood." Thus the book entitled the folk poet John Ttikki and indeed, through the ranks, the fifteen verses, John Ttikkis turns on the paper a while crying and pain. Pain in his village, named Tripimeni, crying for the refugees, remember the people of the village, those poor of goods, but rich in heart and compassion to farmers and shepherds. It can even digest the death of his father who is missing, and proclaims unhealable evasion of pain even in the poems. That's why when the folk poet Vassilis Chapesiis the observed years ago that he is not listening lately (after appeal) to sing the Ttikkis spontaneously gave the explanation:

"Since Cyprus is in bondage and I threw in foreign

A thousand knives fastened on me

Neither pleasure, nor sing, nor close eye

Because I have a missing person who is part of my heart "

You admire him

For all Ttikkis writes, one of the last of the Mohicans in the field of folk poetry. He writes about love, emigrants, marriage, the roving and quirks, the dishonest money, the unjust society. For all these things to see and disturbed, because it finds the lost old values, the assessment of human authenticity in life and in the fersimata. But where the Ttikkis off wins and your interest is when he talks about his village, the place where he grew for the refugees. And the pain is so large, and fills in as you sit and listen. In the barbershop, where the Constantine Paleologos street, in Nicosia, Ttikkis share them with all these customers. Works with the scissors and combs the heads of people, but at the same time inspired through conversation and he comes in half a shake of the tsiattista. Listen and admire. How to find, puts them in a row and come out the same time, breaking your head. When talked by phone to arrange the meeting, asked him to take me the next day on the phone lest I forget. Indeed, the next morning, and approached the shop to discuss, the phone rings, and pressing the button on the phone, listened to Ttikki:

"I am doing you a flasher and you have to give me answer

for work who gonna take place here, my friend Anthony, come and I'm waiting"

5 cents only

I went for half an hour in the barber shop, but we sat and chatted close to two hours. God is a pleasure to chat with such people. From simple as they are, leaving from them realize that grabbed them, you won things you had not even imagined. This is the Ttikki. Initially, I asked him if remembers how many songs he wrote, how many poems he said. And here is the spontaneous response: Hey buddy Anthony, if I was printing all that poems which I said and I sell it for five cents each, I'd be even richer by Shacolas. "

She was barefoot ...

The talent of getting verses in his mind, working them, knit them together and then removes them from the mouth as poems either as complete songs,  Ttikkis had rolled out very early. He was only 9 years old when a wedding in his village, Tripimeni, two old villagers was saying poems. He remembers that one of them was Havas's Lucas. Came close, then, Ttikkis and "at some point, I found the opportunity, jumped to his waist, and told him my poem. Went, and I liked it and others in the world." Well, ever since he joined the folk poetry. As he says, was 9 years old to get his first shoes. Just then he sent his father to learn about barbering on Lefkoniko. Then he went and studied in barbershop in Famagusta in 1966, at age 21, arrived in Nicosia, where he opened his own barbershop. The Ttikkis continued, however, and the other's art. He participated in dozens of events, contestant in song and poetry. Numerous are the prizes won. The walls of the barber shops are full of diplomas were awarded to the first position to win such competitions.

He will shout from the grave

More writes about his village, the sites, farm fields, where they grew up. So every night, where they lie to sleep ... goes, as he says, in his village. "I remember in my village, when I walk the streets, go to the plants and meet the people of the village. I was making conversations with them ...", and this story goes on for years now. That, however, burns my heart the thought that as I will die in foreign place. Expresses and says evasion of pain in one of his poems entitled "I don't want to be away from you, not even died."

If this meant that God I will be buried in the foreign, in the soil of refugees who is heavy like a hudge rock, from this closed grave who is darker than monnless night, I will shouting and saying your name...

And my only consolation in the depth Joined land, waiting to be from the north wind to give me the coolness of your plants to come to a cool, give me the smell, and makes the grave lighter.

The book of John Ttikki is a treasure for those who know how to love the original soul of a man. Sold for 15 euros each, but the goal, as he emphasizes, is not to make money. "I want to read people. This is what interests me. I want people to read all that you need to stay. Do not forget."

With sore words

The refugees influenced him greatly. It hurt his soul. And the wounds of the spring is still alive. His father is missing. Paskise long to learn what happened, who was transferred Anyway buried. Nothing but. Each listening excavations for the Committee on Missing Persons, hopes to find the bones of his father gets wings. Unfortunately, new pain adds to the existing. All of these factors have influenced John Ttikki. And writes poems with words sore.

"With my heart's blood

Most of them is written

with my running eyes

making rivers

Most of all, my sweet Cyprus

when I think of for you

so that you are making silence for a lot of years

Your's slavery wounds "

Article by Anthony Makrides. Reprinted from the newspaper "Politis" issue Tuesday, June 9, 2009.