Academici poetry anthology

World’s Strand

An international anthology of poetry

edited by

Joneve McCormick
and

Shimanta Bhattacharyya

Mandelbachtal − Cambridge
2006

World’s Strand. An international anthology of poetry.
Edited by Joneve McCormick and Shimanta Bhattacharyya. —
Mandelbachtal/Cambridge:
edition cicero, 2006
(academici texts and studies, 1)
ISBN 3-934285-55-4

© by edition cicero, Mandelbachtal/Cambridge
Herstellung: Books on Demand GmbH, Norderstedt
Printed in Germany
ISBN 3-934285-55-4
The title is taken from “The Wreck of the Deutschland” (1918)
by Gerard Manley Hopkins: “World’s strand, sway of the sea...”

Table of Contents

Introduction ..............................................................xi

Aainaa-Ridtz A.R.
Love Enraptured.............................................. 3
Words to Live By ............................................. 4

Maolcolum Bascher
A Public Reading, The Crescent Arts Centre,
Belfast............................................................. 9
Bonding ......................................................... 10
Memoriam ..................................................... 11
Thames.......................................................... 13
Olive Trees.................................................... 17
Ottolenghi, Islington ..................................... 18
Brother.......................................................... 19
On such a day as this... ................................ 20
Unfinished ..................................................... 21
Fumiko Abe ................................................... 22

The Poet in Exile........................................... 27
In The Dark.................................................... 28
Rain ............................................................... 29
To The Muse.................................................. 30
A Bunch Of Flowers....................................... 31
The Yellowing Green..................................... 32
The Unfinished Man ...................................... 33
And In The Human Heart............................... 35
Kali................................................................ 36

i

Kashmir ......................................................... 37
A Lament For Their Eyes............................... 38

Michael H. Brill
Tall Fires ....................................................... 43
Patently Obvious ........................................... 44
Last Blue Reflection 2002 ............................. 45
View From Afar ............................................. 46
Luminous Reflection ..................................... 47
Drama Review ............................................... 48
Green Shackles (escheating and other fine
things) ........................................................... 49
Kicking the Ars Poetica ................................. 51
To Emancipated Dogs of The Future............. 52
No Bull .......................................................... 53
Driving North at Low Noon............................ 55

Nigel Burwood
Modern Moment ............................................ 59
Noir ............................................................... 60
Where is Fantomas? ...................................... 61
Wittgenstein’s Jukebox................................. 62
In fern ........................................................... 63
Never Said A Bad Word ................................. 64
Dark Car Theory ............................................ 65
A Lesson with Mr. Menticulture .................... 66
The Way of the Tourist ................................. 67
CEO ............................................................... 68
Blameless ...................................................... 69

Üzeyir Çayci
The Mauve Sea .............................................. 73
They Have Taken Their First Steps in
My Heart........................................................ 74

ii

The Valley of the Culprits............................. 75
Friendship with Photos ................................. 77
The Hunter Has Become a Guide for
the Birds........................................................ 78
The Children of Midnight .............................. 80
The Cul-de-Sac of the Rose........................... 81
Before the Eyes of All ................................... 82
Do not pass by the places which
I frequented .................................................. 83

Fide Erken
flower language ............................................ 87
Autumn ......................................................... 88
Shadows ........................................................ 89
In your heart ................................................. 90
The Love Tree ............................................... 91
Music brings your love................................... 92
They Called Me To The Country Of Poetry ... 93

Ananya S. Guha
The Poet........................................................ 97
Poem ............................................................. 98
Poetry That Speaks ....................................... 99
Memory Takes Wings................................... 100
Forests ........................................................ 101
Tree ............................................................ 102
I See Poetry................................................. 103
Lost ............................................................. 104
When Do We Meet? ..................................... 105
Wound ......................................................... 106
Poem in Prose ............................................. 107

iii

Bob Hart
Greening Down To Red Berries ................... 111
Floating Alone In Worldly Company ............ 112
Damp Similes and Mossy Messages .............. 113
Inspired By A Lord Byron Poem ................... 115
On Reading Harriet Brown’s “A Letter
From The Country” ..................................... 116
Call Me Hypocrite and I Shall Answer ......... 117
Human in a Foreign Country ....................... 118

Kostas Hrisos
I See the Light............................................. 123
The dilapidated pot .................................... 124
My father..................................................... 125
Heron-on-a-paperweight............................. 126
A perfect moment....................................... 127
Hey Dad can I borrow the car?.................... 128
Post-Market................................................. 129
My grandmother’s advice............................ 130
Easter-Sunday Eve....................................... 131
Just like them ............................................. 132

Roger Humes
The kindness of once strangers................... 135
There is no room......................................... 136
I am not....................................................... 137
Who are you ................................................ 138
A Poet of Many Colours ............................... 139
Brutal honesty is the knife.......................... 140
I stand still by the window.......................... 141
Her body moves through the city ............... 142

Aftab Hussain
A Prayer ...................................................... 145

iv

Chiesa Irwin
Restless Gecko ............................................ 149
Riroriro........................................................ 150
Early 1770’s, the Ocean First Seen
by Kedi ........................................................ 151
Riding with the Hammerheads.................... 152
Candle Bark................................................. 153
The Unburdened Hand ................................ 154
Chambered Nautilus.................................... 155

Laurynas Katkus
The Young Address Their Fate .................... 159
Air ............................................................... 160
This morning you will wake ........................ 161
The Go-between ......................................... 162

Patricia Kelly
Blame It On The Moon................................. 165
Song for the Dance...................................... 166
A Lunatic Fire.............................................. 167
Autumn Haiku ............................................. 168
Winter Haiku ............................................... 169
Spring Haiku ................................................ 171
Summer Haiku............................................. 173
Morning Glory Haiku Series ......................... 175

Monica Korycinska
Words .......................................................... 179
Our Kind ...................................................... 180
Bleeding Hearts........................................... 182

Erik Larson
Living Room................................................. 185
Liking .......................................................... 186

v

The Proper Lawn......................................... 187
The Sound of Spring .................................... 188
Equinox to Divali ......................................... 189

Joneve McCormick
Chinese formula poems............................... 193
I Had............................................................ 194
It is inside................................................... 195
My friend tells me... ................................... 196
Gandhi......................................................... 197
The Saint..................................................... 198
Letting Go ................................................... 199
Aunt Heather .............................................. 201
Killing the Christ within .............................. 202
on the road ................................................. 203

Nimah Ismail Nawwab
Gentleness Stirred ...................................... 207
The Longing................................................. 209
The Hidden Layers ...................................... 210
Arabian Nights............................................. 211
Adored Essence ........................................... 213
The Ambush ................................................ 214

Olutayo Osunsan
Entebbe....................................................... 219
Her .............................................................. 221
The Meadow ................................................ 222
Loveliest of Summer Days ........................... 223
A BLESSED MAN ........................................... 224
Have you ever ............................................. 226
Lioness ........................................................ 227
A Soldier...................................................... 228
Good Morning .............................................. 229

vi

Laurence Overmire
Beastly Ideas ............................................... 233
Wade in the Wave ....................................... 234
When Pilate Heard ...................................... 235
The Word .................................................... 236
Cold Driving Rain......................................... 237
Gathering .................................................... 238
Lineage ....................................................... 239
Alternate Universe ...................................... 240
Seascape ..................................................... 241

Dimitris Palasis
Don’t Cry..................................................... 245
So Little ...................................................... 246
Cloudy ......................................................... 247
The Return .................................................. 248
Memorial ..................................................... 249
The Life of The Wind .................................. 250
The Blue Winter .......................................... 251

Wesley Patterson
Shadow........................................................ 255
Phoebe ........................................................ 256
If only.......................................................... 257
A Whisper .................................................... 258
You .............................................................. 259
Tracks ......................................................... 260
My Finest and Best ...................................... 261
He................................................................ 262
New Millennium .......................................... 264
Vertex ......................................................... 265
Flux ............................................................. 266

vii

Michael Pokocky
Untitled....................................................... 269
When Darkness Comes ................................ 270
Home........................................................... 271

Rati Saxena
My life in you .............................................. 275
The sea........................................................ 276
Among the earth-coloured trees................. 278
The Absence of Colours, in the World of
Colours ........................................................ 281
Wild friendship............................................ 282
when he plays the drum ............................. 283
The hymn of slippers .................................. 284

Laura Schuster
Vision Encoded............................................ 289
Crime Scene ................................................ 290

Elvira Selow
greed and other beasts ............................... 293
hard beat in italy ........................................ 294
solar wind ................................................... 295
a dictionary’s flight .................................... 296
old couple ................................................... 297
Conquistador ............................................... 298
thoughts on linkings .................................... 299
renovation................................................... 300
roadwork ..................................................... 301
closing books............................................... 302

Renée Sigel
Impression 1................................................ 305
In a name .................................................... 306

viii

Damals ........................................................ 307
Loss ............................................................. 308
The Hunger ................................................. 309
Masquerade ................................................. 310
White Heat.................................................. 311
3 Sonnets: ................................................... 312
I. Brushed in splendour... ........................... 312
II. In spite of solace... ................................ 312
III. Insipid shadows..................................... 313
Voices of Silence......................................... 314

Eddie Tay
Jogging Before Dawn................................... 319
My Other ..................................................... 321
Willow ......................................................... 323
After a Class Reunion.................................. 324
Hokkien ....................................................... 325
Reading Wordsworth ................................... 326

John Thomas
To See the Earth in Vast Expanse ............... 329
Maybe It Needs a New Starter .................... 331
Will You Be At My Funeral? ......................... 333
Short Cut ..................................................... 335
Is a Dream?.................................................. 336
Camelot of the Mind ................................... 338
The Mysterious American “Continental”
Breakfast..................................................... 339
Despair ........................................................ 340
Let the Rainbows In .................................... 341
Curse of the Jealous Warlock ..................... 342

Markus Vinzent
Forthcoming ................................................ 345

ix

Changming Yuan
The Calm Clam............................................ 349
Withered Twig............................................. 349
Human Culture............................................ 351
Awakening................................................... 352
Subjunctive Mood........................................ 353
Name Changing ........................................... 354
The Savage Spot of Light ............................ 355
The Way Forward ........................................ 356
Allenian Dragonmania ................................. 357
The Vest Knitted for George....................... 358
Immigration................................................. 359

Catherine Zoltan
San Francisco .............................................. 363
Tribute To Cavalier ..................................... 364
Why This Poem............................................ 365
Parent Here................................................. 366
I Can Want .................................................. 367
Little Girls................................................... 369
The morning after....................................... 370

Poets’ Bios............................................................. 373

x

Introduction

“Poets are born, not made” − though clichéd − is amply borne
out by the poets who feature in this anthology. When the idea
for the anthology was first presented by Professor Markus
Vinzent, the spontaneity with which the poets responded to his
call eminently put paid to all notions of the poet being a mere
craftsman, seeking perfection. The heart of the matter is that
one cannot choose to be a Poet. It is Poetry that ultimately
makes the choice. And once the Muse has intervened and
exercised her right to choose, a Poet is born.

We present you with a unique collection of poetry from all over
the world − an exotic bouquet, bound by a universal love of the
living word. Each of these poems is “alive” in the sense that
each seeks to communicate something that is otherwise in-
communicable in ordinary language. A poet lives and observes
the world he lives in very intensely. His predilections of subject
matter depend upon his interests. Hence, he may write on a
wide variety of themes: social, political, personal, religious etc.
A poem may be biographical, humorous, patriotic, progressive,
formal, satirical, pastoral or even didactic − though didacticism
is no longer considered a virtue in a poet. Whatever the subject
matter of his poetry, a poet writes in response to what society
deals out to him. And often, in his quest to arrive at the truth,
he freely commutes both within his social milieu and without.

The poets in this collection all have a common goal and pur-
pose − to reveal the truth about the human situation shorn of
its upholstery. Regardless of the methods an individual poet
adopts to divest Man of his manifold guises, it is the business of
presenting a true picture of society − warts and all − that solely
preoccupies him. And this is true of all the poets in this
anthology.

xi

To give the readers an insight into the poet’s working methods,
here is how Ananya Guha tackles the “duality” of human
existence in “Poem in Prose”:

Once, as a child I wore masks…
Today I still wear masks...But
The masks of my childhood and the masks of today are no
longer the same.

One can sense a palpable note of despair in the lines: the poet
despairs of the loss of innocence but what irks him the most is
his inability to forestall man’s fall from grace!

Bob Hart, in “Call Me Hypocrite and I Shall Answer” speaks of
the importance of keeping the channels of communication open
in a relationship:

If I’m a glass and if your dying stains me
don’t you see that you must
live to make my colors shine?

What the poet seeks is active participation in a relationship
which is at once spontaneous and unpretentious. A relationship
wherein two people may “live” as a perfect foil to one another,
if only to bring out their true colours. Here, too, one can
discern the poet’s anguished plea to let the “Mask” drop.

Eddie Tay, in “My Other” pulls the mask back to show two of
him! His “other” does things that he, respectable citizen,
would not do:

He puts on my clothes, steals my money, and tells me
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...

With both humour and despair, he observes his “other” to be
the hunter that goes into the darkness for poetry:

When I go to bed hungry
he leaves the house with my keys
and prowls the night for poetry...

xii

Rati Saxena pulls back the Mask in “The sea” to reveal the
primordial relationship between man and nature, and from a
perspective both profound and majestic she shows the creative
forces reigning in harmony:

I saw
him and the sea
that evening,
he was lolling in the sea
and the sea was overflowing in him...

The metaphor evolves:

...the sun was sinking in the sea
and I was sinking with him...

There is no separation here; instead we find ecstatic union.

The themes that the poets touch upon in this anthology are
various and multilayered. Personal love is one such concern
that rears its head every now and then. Aainaa-Ridtz A.R,
Renée Sigel, Maolcolum Bascher, Fide Erken, Michael Pokocky,
Elvira Selow, Monica Korycinska, Catherine Zoltan and Chang-
ming Yuan all dwell on the subject of love; but each individual
poet imparts his or her own distinctive treatment to the
subject. Whilst Renée Sigel reflects on another’s treachery and
self-deception, and feels deeply aggrieved at the “demise” of
love in “Damals,” Maolcolum Bascher is fondly meditative in
“Thames,” where love is depicted as a remembered experience
which is at once delightful and poignant. The poet straddles
these antipodal aspects of love with delicate poise:

When she lay sleeping
Some spark between us in the heat
In me it never truly dies.
Now I cannot see the river
All reflection is inside.

Catherine Zoltan, on the other hand, does an admirable volte-
face in that she speaks of a mother’s love for her children. The
poet is acutely aware of the transient nature of life, which
reminds us of William Cowper’s splendid rendition of the same

xiii

theme in “The Poplar Field.” In the poem, “Why This Poem”
Zoltan very subtly persuades us to make the most of life and
love lest death strike the all-cleaving blow:

…I may be gone before I know…

… All that little children want
is someone they can tell.
All they want
is for you to listen well.

The notion that time is at a premium is hinted at ingeniously in
the poem. There is an inescapable note of urgency that exhorts
the readers to take control of life, and cherish each moment of
it to the fullest.

Changming Yuan shows us with great humour the universal love
of fathers in the context of his own father’s intense desire to
empower and protect him. In “Name Changing” the father will
stop at nothing:

confucius once said
if the name is not right
the speech will carry no might
so my father created my name
by rearranging the sun and moon
vertically and horizontally
to equip it with all
the forces of yin and yang
dispersed in the universe...

One could say that the poems in this anthology are all about
Love in its myriad forms.

A poet employs a varied assortment of literary devices to suit
his purposes. He makes use of metaphors, similes, euphe-
misms, meters, bathos, alliterations, humour, etc., to drive
home his point. However, these “tools” do not necessarily make
him a good poet or guarantee good poetry. A carpenter might
well be equipped with state of the art technology, but unless
he has acquired the skill to use his tools effectively they will be
of little use to him. The same holds true for the poet. The

xiv

poets in this anthology use a variety of literary devices with
great facility.

Michael Brill, in his poem “Tall Fires” handles personification
with considerable panache:

My toaster died this evening,
In flame and then in steam.

The poet brilliantly invests a common household appliance with
human qualities. Having thus gained our attention, he very
cleverly leads us to the heart of the poem and by means of
artful imagery, laced with grotesque humour, succeeds in pre-
senting a skilful juxtaposition between the sentient and the
insentient. The poem, towards the end, takes one final dig at
Man and ends with a pithy saying:

I pulled the plug—tall fires are bad,
But SHORT fires are much worse!

Which at one discharge exposes Man’s vulnerability and his
slavish dependence on modern gadgetry!

Nigel Burwood, in his poem “In fern” informs us of the value of
being prepared when one needs to be saved; with
characteristically stunning wit, sophistication and economy of
words the poet tells the entire story in four short lines that
expand far beyond themselves. We quote in full:

In the middle course of my life
Having strayed from the straight path
I got lost in a dark wood.
Luckily I was carrying a mobile phone.

What else is there to say? Well, the editors would like to add
something: Nigel suggested the title for this anthology, and we
thank him very much.

Poets like Roger Humes and Kostas Hrisos are at their best in
their short poems. Sample Humes’ poem “The Kindness Of Once
Strangers,” which we also quote in full:

xv

When the final words are said
and door is quietly closed
do I hear you softly weeping
or perhaps sharpening your vengeance

or perhaps both.

Observe how the poet tersely yet convincingly sums up a
domestic situation. The singular thrust of the last line cuts
through the tenuous bonds of a relationship with a final
flourish. Once the “final” words have been said, there is no
room for reconciliation.

Hrisos’ poetry, unlike Humes’, is replete with robust optimism,
coupled with a delicate sense of humour as the following poem,
“I see the Light,” also quoted in full, clearly shows:

I see the light
Somewhere in the distance.
I am not scared.
Even if it’s only a candle
And it goes out, by the time I reach it,
I will light another.

From a very different perspective, Dimitris Palasis presents a
drama of life in death, death in life with accomplished subtle-
ty. In “Memorial” life and death engage in a lively interplay
beyond strict boundaries:

...I drew you in front of me
weaving dark and light
with my figures...

Deep in sleepy eye-holes
your memory
was not of existing things

For Nimah Nawwab, life and discernment go together, death
and mindless suppression; rebelling is an essential part of the
process to claim one’s full humanity, reminding us of Gandhi’s
statement, “The only tyrant I bow to is the still voice within.”
In “Gentleness Stirred”:

xvi

...“Stop, your scarf has slipped.”
The tirade begins, gains momentum...

The mind is strange, the spirit stranger yet,
The rebellion begins.

A poet may use length to achieve an effect, such as John
Thomas does in “Is a Dream?” when he builds up a haunting
power through a refrain. Such a simple question the title asks …
or is it? In fact, the whole poem is a question, of the most
profound and many-layered sort. Starting from a dream as
“random neurons on the go go go,” the poet creates a verbal
symphony that expands to encompass the whole universe:

...Somewhere across the galaxy a house stands
High on a rocky crest above the blue-green sands
And all the twists and turns of that strange place
Are but reflections of the flickers on our lids and face...

Suddenly we realize that the question itself has the power −
even the moral power − and the true answer doesn’t matter.

Alexander Pushkin once remarked: “A poet is a king and kings
must live alone.” The act of writing poetry is doubtless a lonely
affair. However, having said that, one must bear in mind that a
poet cannot write in complete isolation. Poetry cannot be
created in a vacuum. The progenitor of poetry needs must be
alive to the world outside. He must be alive to the ebb and flow
of life as it were. And invariably, in his relentless search for
inspiration, a poet may draw heavily upon external sources and
influences. The poets in this anthology are no exceptions. Poets
such as Patricia Kelly, Chiesa Irwin, Üzeyir Çayci, Wesley
Patterson, Laurence Overmire, Olutayo Osunsan and Erik Larson
have all richly benefited from venturing beyond their imme-
diate spheres and the results are very much in evidence in their
works. Patricia Kelly, for instance, has used the Haiku, a
Japanese verse form, to great effect. In a group of poems under
the title “Autumn Haiku,” she adroitly captures the sombre
mood of the season:

xvii

quilted autumn leaves,
caught in mid-tumble by love,
warm both wall and heart

too lazy
to close window:
only nose above quilt

One has to read the poems in their entirety to fully appreciate
their beauty.

In conclusion, the editors of this anthology would like to say
that we are confident that this collection will bring a measure
of good cheer to all lovers of poetry. What is most remarkable
about this anthology is the fact that the poems give little
indication of the diverse, cross-cultural identities of the poets.
They speak in one voice here: a voice that is distinctly human
and universal. Thus we have a poet from Pakistan, who speaks
with ease and spontaneity to people of all cultures, as do his
fellow poets in the U.S., Canada, Great Britain, Germany,
France, Greece, India, Africa, Australia, China, Lithuania,
Turkey and Malaysia. It is this multi-cultural mulligatawny,
served up by the poets of this anthology that lends piquancy to
this unique collection of poems.
The Editors

xviii

Love Enraptured
Waters rise in humdrum
Escalate crashing onto shores
Tearing ages against the grain
Clawing, reeking into Love enraptured
Like bamboo, curve a dance
Stealing glances of silent awe
Pearls drop from Eyes of Reflection
Wings drenched in tears uncurled, sore
Lifting its dreading flight, “Fly
Little one, Fly!” she cried
Voices unheard in restless beats
When oceans burn, when tears raze
When hearts are devoid of honeyed embrace
Cold stenches the grounds of wretchedness


3

Words to Live By
These words, they etch and grow within, striking each root, clawing
deeper and finally breaking the sheath that covers your heart, to let the
light pass through. Rejoice when love enters and light defines the space
of living…

These words
they etch their ways
onto your heart
scraping like thunder
scraping like the edges
of a blunt linoleum
tool etching, always
tooling to make a dent
hoping to break that
dark dried blood
smeared heart

... these words

like Izraeel they whisper
nothingness, yet they
beckon you to mop
your face smudge on
the barren earth kissing
and embracing it, like a
tear from the eye
falling down then
forgotten

...these words

they talk to you, they are
your breath, the blood you
gave at a funeral of peers
the ones you killed
the lusts you buried

...these words

4

they tempt not your soul
for the soul of the lifeless
sees not the flame
of lust that holds tight
in the grip, fizzles in the
essence like burnt
coal and tears
breathing life
encircling moths
drawn to
the sun

..these words

you live with
uttered in solitude
loving, hating fighting
always nudging, denting
hoping to break
that dark dried blood
smeared heart

letting the Light
through

5

Maolcolum Bascher

7

A Public Reading, The Crescent Arts Centre, Belfast

Among a City’s coarse remains,
Its closed rooms grieving,
Beyond all paramilitary gains
A tranquil seat of learning.
One building
Wrecked by time’s decay,
The back room
A poor man’s theatre.
We crowded out all division
And dissent,
Entered into an explosion of reading.
She was centre stage, a Poetess
Stalking to and fro, head erect
Slim hip throw-ing
A tantalising attentive image
With every explosive word.
That night
She was a Poet of stature,
The soul of her was winging
Above the fire, scorch and splinter.
She was force and confidence
The cells of her visions inherent
In the uncanny use of language,
None had ever given her lesson.
Heaney would have welcomed her,
McQuickian would recognize her,
There was no part of catalyst;
When she left the stage
It was to deathly silence.
Then
The uproar of her well-deserved applause
Disturbed the dust high ceilings.

9

Bonding
(for Geraldine, my long lost lover)

She was quiet in the grouping
Lounge of
The Ulster Peoples’ College.
Nothing of division
Simple bonding
Head down into reading
Hardly heard
Her faded green duffle coat
Swamping her figure
Like some frail eccentric old woman.
But
When she looked up
The green of her eyes
Sea depths
Evaporating in Irish Sunlight.
We hardly ever
Spoke a word
She and I.
Good Evening
Or Goodnight.
Light softening the outline City
She was almost a mouse
In a dusty corner of poetry
With her dreaming quiet voicing
But her words demanded attention.
We all listened and wanted more
And more she gave to us.

10

Memoriam
(for Seamus Heaney)

Break your guns
For the cloth drum is silent.
They have buried their dead
With all due pomp and circumstance.
Who will heed the bugle call?
The deaf have no hearing
And the blind cannot see.
Who are you?
Is countless death such a magic thing,
That it will give us unity − Never!
And that which men call God
Is faced turned from us.

No gun this pen
Between the finger or thumb
Nor fork or spade
Seamus
But conscience!

No more the strong arm lift
Into love and rough tweed smell.
Pipe racks will remain
And the curl of leaf bone dry.
Where Mothers in their weeping
Watch their Daughters grieving.

When bugles sound and drums retreat
Marching men stamp their feet.
The snowdrops have sprung

And the grass is silent,
The buds of winter are breaking
And the spring enters the sea.
Spring is on the border
And the Watcher, face stained, hides.
The Hare begins its dancing
And the squat black barrel is live.

11

Not a breath of ease,
Or whispered Irish breeze
Disturb the stillness.
Listen!

Hear the drum beat, snare tight warning
The Brits are coming.
Parade grounds have emptied
And the Saracens whisper rain.
They have their orders
And will come again and again
Until death is retrieved.
Sleep then
Is that a Rat, tat, tat.
Is it the wind?
Or is it
A butt knock thundering a door?

No more the black cap
or hideous tones inscribed
No more the fall noose
No sense in Law.

Vigil candlelight and weeping
Have been offered in recompense.
I did not see their salt stain
Or hear the low murmurings of shame.
And beyond these defenceless deaths
Heroine or Hero
They do not talk of heroism.

12

Thames
(for Rosemary Agnew-McKinlay)

Gulls on a mud bank, ducks in the glide
All ripples expanding, bank touch
Hulk on an island slipway
Rot in the hull
Branch in the overlap.
It seems as though
Island and boat are one.
Fabric in the wind and tide
What waters run
Will run on forever
In the sea, cloud and rain
Snowflake on a hill
I will not see that hill again.
But sometimes
I may think of Ireland.
Our memory, she and I
Grey eyes clarity of her laughter
Walking at the side, arm swing
Her stride in tune with mine.
I loved her easy
When her hair, wind lifted
Threw back the sun
And her breasts
Pushed thumping into hug
A Wife for any man.
When I first met her
She was silence on a hold
An open gaze in her eyes
A puzzlement in mine.

The waters come as I look out
Dark is on the other side
Where thoughts cave in.
The length of waterman is lighted
The bar an island at the end.
I watch!
But she will never enter

13

Too much sea between us
Between her and the Brit!
There was difference with us
Her Tribe resolute in hatred
Flags on the twelfth, ranting beneath.
But disparity was strength in our length
All things common to a sea.

In bed she was a Lamb
A Tiger in the haunch
Each thrust her rise
Cool sweat on her skin
When she lay sleeping
Some spark between us in the heat
In me it never truly dies.
Now I cannot see the river
All reflection is inside.

14

Books at the top of a stairs
(for Geraldine Reid)

All books
Words; lighted dreamings
They rise from solitary imaginations
For shoulder stoop revision
Night thoughts.
I forget all daily habit
Sit in a straw weave kitchen chair
Page into other wisdoms.
My easy companion is smiling
Some heart amusement
Erodes her serious concern
Any moment now!
Her laughter will bubble free
Break the lip of studious intent
And the woman at the counter
Will lift her head for silence.

Do not stop laughter
Such things
Lovers are made of
Private touching
Waking from close skin sleeping.
There is her fine length of back
Light trace miracle her spine.
I know when I touch her
She will reprieve all patience
I the Lamb leaping spring
Her Tiger flaunting the jungle
The Lion of our union.
She will find
The imprint skin of my creativity remain
Trace the line placement
Of all these human years
And her exquisite sleeping

15

Will come to others as dreaming
Tribes will declare territorial divisions
Stray Dogs will bark the Belfast moon.
She has recaptured silence
But there is still laughter within her green eyes.

16

Olive Trees
(for My Arab Father)

As if blood between us
His sense of humour − wicked.
Not much of conversation between
Two quiet thoughtful men.
Nothing of common language
Sits uneasy between them
A Look, a gesture of hand.
A slight lift of eyebrow
And all things are understood.
Two potted Moroccan Olive trees
Are a measure of this man.
There is a sensed strength in them.
Acclimatised to this english weather,
They thrive; reach for the Star
Some years before they fruit
The sweet of North African olives.
But like My Father, I am patient
As much as his Son should be.
And if there are
But four single years between us.
My Father is still My Father!

17

Ottolenghi, Islington

Cakes, pastries.
Such a vast colourful
Absolutely delicious array
Of flavoured tastes
Tongue tantalising adventure.
Sitting,
As I do
At a single round white
Metal table,
My posterior adhered
To a white
Metal folding chair.
Some spark of season acquired
Within this quiet lounging.

They come swinging past
Hip throw, skirt whirling.
Laughing, chatting.
Fierce throw of stunning eyes
And every one is beautiful.
Whether fat or thin,
Round or matchstick tall.
And lovers oblivious
Other than each to each
Float along Upper Street.
Some may
Consider nuts, cream,
Custard and jam.
A veritable joint indulgence
Shared lovers’ experience
Of cakes, pastries,
Walnut and marzipan.
A mouth-watering full stop.

18

Brother

Here in Cheswick
Is where
Your good heart lived.
Not far
From a dancing tree.
A rain soaked sun
Washing the high street.
I can almost hear you
See the laughter, pride
On your face, your Sons,
Turned up towards love.
Until death thundered your veins
Cracking your heart still.

19

On such a day as this...

On such a day as this
When skies are clear
And all seems so perfect
Melissa is dying.
How hard she fought.
Never for one moment
Forgetting others’ pain.
She would make me laugh
With her emails
Her lovely sense of humour.
I will miss you
My American Warrior.

(Melissa suffered ovarian cancer for some years.
She was always positive and never gave up.)

20

Unfinished

Dancing betwixt the fervent
and the calm,
the in between of constancy
in her, here and now bewilderment.
Where one is not
the solid ground, she captured
with her indecent intent
Hell bent
on total inconsiderate destruction!
Her success beyond all consequence.
As he, within the gaseous multiple
tied well into his own mortality,
aware of the increased pain of it
and that Other?
The weakening of force
against the roulette spin of fate.

21

Fumiko Abe

Quiet in her polite approach
Into bow of her greeting.
In a normal Yokasuka bar
Where polite Japanese gentlemen
Relaxed after work
Much like in an English pub.
It seemed
I was being asked
Whether I would like an orange?
Strange offering, I accepted.
She peeled the rich orange skin
Laid it aside.
Then
With her manicured nails
Removed each particle of white pith
Until the fruit was naked.

Each segment separated
Was laid into a porcelain saucer
A regular circle pattern
And sugar sprinkled to sweeten.
She presented her offering
We each ate a segment
Until only one was left.
After momentary deliberation
I offered her the last segment
Which she accepted.
Later
She came to me
Waited as the bar owner translated.
She was to finish work at 10 pm
And wished to take me to
Another Japanese bar.
Where we were made polite guests
And later
We climbed a hill to her wooden house
And paper sliding walls.
She laid a sand pillow for my head

22

Love between us
Was a curious lack of language.
Our fingertips and skin
Spoke more than any words
For ten immense days
Until the pacific claimed my leaving.

23


25

The Poet in Exile
(Dedicated to artists who are persona non grata in their
own country and have had to go into a self-imposed exile!)

Sagacious as the scarecrow
He leads a stilted life
In the sun’s hot gaze.
His mouth, dry
And stuffed with pebbles
Produces no sound, no breath −
Only the wind soughs hollowly
In his shallow depths.
The Sun, the Moon, the Earth
The season’s cosmic conspiracy
Vouchsafe nothing
Not even a grain of thought
In the loamy compost of his brain.
Sagacious as the scarecrow
He can only articulate
The raucous speech of pebbles
With a stony silence.

27

In The Dark

Somewhere around a shadowy corner
Of a nameless street
In somebody’s backyard - grown over with nettles
Children play cricket.
I can hear their shrill voices
Wafting in the torpid, evening breeze
Throwing a challenge
To the interminable gloom of approaching dusk.

Not far away, a young mother
Restrains a deprecating hand
In a sudden flood of remembrance
As she watches her children play
From behind curtains:
She dare not disturb the placid waters
The river will flood its banks anyway -
And the little children
Will learn to be afraid of the dark!

28

Rain

It’s pouring like never before.
You are stranded in the pedestrian
Subway. And as usual
You notice nothing except
The decrepit, old beggar
Hunched upon the splattered steps
Before his decrepit bowl
That is quickly filling up
With soft, sudden silver.

He regards you leerily
Face twisted in a wicked
Toothless grin. You shuffle
In your reeboks. Eyes averted.
His gaze, sharp and lance-like
Cuts through your shirt
To the stippled skin.
There’s an edge of extra glint
To his eyes. Or is it only the rain
Drawing everything into a sharper focus?

29

To The Muse

Ours is a love-hate relationship
Pivoting about dawn & dusk, hope & despair, life & death

That we have got along with each other tolerably well
For so long - through long spells of drought

Broken suddenly by a short-lived, but, torrential downpour
Provokes a mild a wonder!

Long hours have I spent with you
In the park, at the theatre, on the beaches

Or in your arms lipping your warm breasts
After a post-pandrial siesta

Even in silence, (when we have quarrelled!)
And yet I have failed to understand you -

No matter how hard I try
I fail to convince you that I am a good lover -

I promise you fidelity in the words you have given me
But you simply shrug me off with such indifference

That I almost cry out in despair
Like a madman - froth in mouth

And reel under the strain
That overcomes me in continual surges of pain:

Like the eternal lash of waves on a moon-jinxed night!

30

A Bunch Of Flowers

Hustled, prodded and packed
Like a flock of sheep
Into the long, narrow aisle of a jetliner,
They queue up to their assigned seats
Fighting time, excess baggage and the grime
Of rootless years stamped on their faces.

All sense of this mad rush
Will soon be washed down with immodest sips of whisky,
All explanations brushed aside -
Like the smooth-scented paper napkins
Dispensed to preserve what little there is left
Of human company.

Suddenly in the midst of it all,
Somebody soundlessly wafts into the picture
In a rain of glances.
Hugging a bunch of flowers to her bosom,
She glides down the aisle
Coolly conscious of the confusion around her.

Sheltered in the eye of a storm,
She slips in and out of the crowd
Expertly shielding her prized possession
From the relentless onslaught of pressing bodies.
Ah, somewhere somebody is waiting. Somebody beyond
The metallic banshee of jets. Somebody who cares.

31

The Yellowing Green
(for Maolcolum)

The sun peers through windowpanes
Shamefacedly
Like the household cat
Who lets himself in through magic portals
After a night’s murderous binge.

The ceaseless ticking of the clock
Shatters the ethereal peace
Of delightful sleep -
(After a spell of insomnious tumult -)
With crass indifference.

There were times when lengthening shadows spread gloom -
Ah, how often we leapt out of bed
Just to watch the glorious sunrise
And the naughty gambols of playful lambs
Upon lush green meadows.

And now, twenty summers later,
One hardly takes notice of the full-grown lambs
Grazing upon the yellowing fields:
Only the grass
At the foot of the telegraph pole is green.

32

The Unfinished Man

He dreams about a blue house
With a red roof
And mangoes that burn
Like hundred watt bulbs
In his backyard

He has been dreaming about them
Ever since he banged his head
Against a cross-beam
In his father’s garage
(He had not reached puberty)

He has had several accidents since:
One very nearly claimed his left eye
His dream has not changed though
It is always the blue house with the red roof
And mangoes that glitter in the backyard

He dreams about a blue house
Where the night disrobes
In a slow strip tease. Where dawn
Slips silently under bolted doors

Spilling her load of gold-edged mail

Where fear does not coil, uncoil
In the belly
Like a thousand vipers
Where shadows do not cast
Dark glances in doorways at dusk

Where clocks do not echo
The heart’s silence
Ticking away into oblivion
Where mangoes are in season
All the mellifluous year round

33

Ah sometimes his mind goes blank
He fights the dark in the dark
Hoping for something drastic
A blow to the head perhaps
To jump-start his brain

Tonight he is fighting again
Against the din of consciousness
The dogs are stripping the night
To the bone. The flower in his brain
Is withered

The mangoes are slowly becoming stone

34

And In The Human Heart
(for George W. Bush)

There is a certain emptiness
In the human heart I cannot fathom.
Nothing grows there
(Except the echoing beat of despair
Throbbing to the rhythm of machine-guns!)
There is no substance:
Not even for a seed of hope.

The great deserts that span the great continents
Have gushed forth either water or oil;
Vast wastes of sand
Have sustained many a civilisation
And borne the toil
Of a million shuffling feet -
But, in the desert of the human heart,
Where there is neither water nor oil
Only the hungry fires of destruction spring.

35

Kali
(Hindu Goddess of Destruction to whom bloody sacrifices are made)

A blood-burst of flaming gongs
Cleaves the black silence
Like a knife

Bodiless voices
Rev up relentlessly
In a ceaseless dithyrambic clamour:

As sphinx-shaped carousers
With billowing bellies
Break into a riotous dance -

Around a towering figure
Of a dumb-struck dark goddess
Who only speaks the language of blood?

36

Kashmir

Iridescent drops of blood
Gleaming like scattered beads
Upon a desert of virgin snow
Bear a mute testimony

To somebody’s twisted lust.
The terrible hungers
Of a famished land
Record in their throes

The birth of gun-toting messiahs
And a feeble pulse
Of a primeval storm that echoes
Gory tales of a divided hearth.

37

A Lament For Their Eyes
(*For my ULFA brethren who are either dead, dying or will die)

They want to shut their eyes, they cannot
The red, lidless eyes gape like festering wounds
They are struck with a strange sickness
They are struck with the seeing sickness of the sky
The sky sees everything. The sky is one enormous eye
The sky never stops seeing. Seeing everything all at once
The eyes too can see everything. But only in patches
The sky sometimes weeps

The eyes do not weep, they cannot
The eyes have become clogged with excess salt
They cannot wash themselves clean like the sky
The eyes do not have the luxury of tears
The waters of the eyes have become locked in ice
Like subterranean cataracts in winter
The waters of the eyes have withered into a lake
A lake of frozen tears

The sun comes feeling for their eyes with pointed daggers
The moon comes feeling for their eyes with banderillas
The wind comes feeling for their eyes with grasping fingers
They cannot shut their eyes; they cannot shut their eyes
Last night they fished out a corpse from a pond
Its mouth was wide open. The eyes protruding like ping-pong balls
They say he cried a lot. Others say he died of seeing too much
Now he tastes death in his mouth and death stares through his eyes

The rain claws at the green skulls of violent memories
The air is moist with blood spewing from ransacked towns
A vulture slakes its thirst at fetid pools of submerged bones
In the distance clouds gather like poisonous mushrooms
The rice withdraws into the earth. A swathe of smoke
Covers the eyes of those who have come
To cremate their dead. Somewhere a girl tries to sing
But the song sticks in her throat like a knife

38

They want to shut their eyes, they cannot
They cannot shut their eyes in spite of the daggers
They cannot shut their eyes in spite of the knives
They cannot shut their eyes in spite of the guns
That seek out their pithless hearts with long fiery tongues
They are the fallen angels with wings like shards of electricity
They cannot shut their eyes, their eyes with their pierced dreams
Oh, if they shut their eyes the nightmares begin.

*The United Liberation Front Of Assam, a secessionist militant
organisation fighting for an independent statehood in Assam, India.

39

Michael H. Brill

41

Tall Fires

My toaster died this evening,
In flame and then in steam.
It choked on bloated, frosted things.
Its wires did glow and gleam.

A moment when my back was turned,
The bloated things did spawn
Each one a flame that spouted forth
From toaster’s mouth a-yawn.

I gaped as these two spouts of flame
The cupboards did assail,
Each flame a roaring demon
With a multicolored tail.

Through wreaths of smoke I jumped until
I reached the towering flames.
Two tall and skinny fires these were,
Two demons without names.

Though they were tall and lean and fast
I vowed they’d bow to me.
A primal thought flashed through my mind.
I turned as if to flee.

And then I grabbed the carcass
Of my ailing toaster friend,
And tossed it in the sink
And brought it to its watery end.

Oh, yes...Before I let it go
(I guess I was too terse)
I pulled the plug − tall fires are bad,
But SHORT fires are much worse!

43

Patently Obvious

Patent 6,980,xxx
says I can’t breathe in again:
Not my idea to use
...can’t point to prior art...
...saw it on the Internet...
...lawyer back at two...
...I’m on “hold”...
...[gasp]...
Treble damages!

44

Last Blue Reflection 2002

The photographer had one last task here.
Alone, at nearly midnight,
he shouldered fifty pounds,
climbed fifty floors,
assembled hefty tripod,
mounted camera aimed at the blue phantom towers
(searchlit gaps where the real towers fell last year),
and waited − patient fisherman −
for vagrant photons scattering
from chance dust and mist.

Though cable-muscled legs ached,
his grim eyes (much aged since fall)
banished the pain,
demanded this distant departing view
to warn, to contain the lethal avalanche.
Could wraithlike bridge spans from the phantom towers
carry forth his faith in the future
and a thousand latent souls to their new beginnings?

Just before dawn he sighed,
closed the shutter,
packed away the camera,
trudged down the stairs.
It was no good tonight:
too much wind swaying this building,
too little dust.

Only a few more blue-lit nights.
Luckily he would need just one more try.

Then, on to his next work
(born of his faith before the evil day)
− protect and nurture his new baby at home.

45

View From Afar

Dots of light, electrons’ spoor,
deftly, seamlessly woven on my screen −
capturing early-spring mid-morning in your home;
looking out through a mirror
at the ancient city across the bay,
trees in the mid-ground not yet in bloom
except the polka-dotted playful pinwheel.
Your patio grows in full leaf.
Small birds live in the foreground room,
maybe parakeets
on brief vacation or too fast for the camera,
but fresh water awaits
when they return or alight.
Draped on the dresser, attached to a metal necklace,
a diaphanous purple shawl
whose casual perfume could weaken a man.
Behind the camera a bed,
not with live-tree posts
but strong enough.
Also the sun, and the returning traveler −
now farther than Odysseus from Penelope
in space, time, and probability.

46

Luminous Reflection

That candle flame’s enough at night
to lose a key and find it
but casts a shadow in the sun −
a greater light behind it.
The shadow gutters low
and blocks the words I read and write,
so better now I use the day
and snuff the lesser light.

47

Drama Review

The new production of “Death of Everyone Else But a Salesman”,
a timely tribute by Ruth (R. A.) Rellim,
would have been the bellwether of the decade
but the actors and stage crew
were absent on opening night
pursuing their new careers
in telemarketing.
I tried to clap with one hand
as the other plied cell-phone sales.
No audience to be annoyed.
No one alive to enact the present −
only your ghostly wish-world of futures.

48

Green Shackles (escheating and other fine things)

Hey! Don’t toss that note from the bank, or
the state will get your idle bank account!
”How so?” you ask.

First the bank freezes your money so it will hold still.
Then the state grabs the frozen green.
I call this harvester the Good King (G.K.)
in deference to history...
“What history?” Now you’re curious.

Good King John threw up his hands,
then threw his arms around the unclaimed land.
What else is a good monarch to do
with all that green?
(Even so virtuous,
those hands were forced
to sign the Magna Carta)

Now, many Johns and Georges later
G.K.’s good work lives on in US (or is it WE the people?).
The unstirred pot of green − a bank account
reverts to George du jour, through suited proxy.

“What!” you say. “That pot’s not idle −
I stir it every tax time.
1099 makes it fine − right?”
Wrong.
You pay yearly the burden of Pharaoh
and Caesar
and Mad George combined
yet G.K. sees it not.
Heshe grabs your green again
from pots unstirred two years.
(That’s when the money freezes, ready to steal!)
The G.K. name “escheating” hides the cheat.
Recall if you can the cheat
when in your later years
your hands can’t stir the pots so briskly

49

“Don’t like it? Then leave!”
I can’t. My dwindling green dribble
is still shackle enough
and holds my free inalienable body.
G.K. won’t let me move it.

50

Kicking the Ars Poetica

How came the poet to this state?
Typical homeless man
on a typical Christmas in Harvard Square,
yet with a difference:
a sign saying “Poetry” across
sharing the “e” with “Readings” down.
Word-processor calligraphy,
held by filthy rag-wrapped hand.
His receding mane does look a bit Shakespearean
but his eyes scream in petulant pain:
“They took my best stuff!”

Once perhaps he was a rainbowed splash
in a magnificent cascade,
Homer to Marlowe to Shakespeare
to Asimov and beyond:
“his verse has launched above a thousand more.”

Was his natural poet-poverty
helped along by lawsuits?
In his innocence,
did he take in vain
the name of some copyright or trademark?
Loss of poetry and wealth, the sign (from Kinko’s),
all the rest would follow.

As I pass, I wipe moist eye with a Kleenex
mindful of how I must honor his image.

51

To Emancipated Dogs of The Future

The time has come to emancipate you,
to let you run your own world.
I know you’ve been waiting a while for this;
we relinquish the keys gracefully.

Once you licked our hands,
slept on our floors,
ate what we gave you,
silently asked permission for calls of nature.

Then came the rain of heavenly virus RNA,
changing you forever.
Now you think and talk and ask questions
like when will you be free of us?

We ask nothing in return,
yet I fear you will pay a grievous price.
In the old state you died easily when the time came:
An injection given to you, unawares.

Now you inherit the mantle of the master.
No one will ease your death,
the slow, agonizing dissolution of the body
that, as masters, we have had to bear.

This is the price of emancipation,
to be bound by the shackles of Hippocrates,
and by an ageless ethic.
Only your hardened criminals will be immune.

52

No Bull

We both know it’s been a rough ride
on this bucking bronco of a plane from Europe.
Now you say you teach middle-school phys. ed.
and what is less
you just ran with the bulls at Pamplona.
You prove it with your video,
shot your second day of running.

I met six bulls too, just yesterday −
my shoe’s evidence not so graphic as your horn-torn sneaker
but more fragrant.

English cow pastures have nature-walk easements −
polite counterparts of Pamplona streets.
This one spanned miles of eastern polders,
a drainage ditch on each side,
six herds of cows visible in the distance
each one with a bull.

An occasional snort in the sultry air
mixed with the brush of our feet against grass
as three of us trudged in.
Academic Glenn had done this before −
no need to worry.

One half mile in, a trick of the eye:
A huge bull, with his admirers,
seemed to stand right in the path.
It was impossible,
but so.

The bull stood with his front feet on the path,
his herd behind him.
Head held high, horns shining in the sun,
tail swishing, he looked down at me.
I remembered this gesture from middle-school −
unmistakable.

53

“Let’s go back,” I said to Glenn,
who drew out a map and unfolded it.
I went on: “Glenn, I don’t think we need a map
to figure out what to do now.”

Glenn turned with me, and his female student followed.
As we walked, my backward glance saw the bull standing.
He was unlikely to pursue, I reasoned:
His absence would make his cows scatter
perhaps to take up with other bulls.
Maybe we understood each other.

On the right was a more distant herd,
a brown mountain hulking over it.
“That’s a really big one” said Glenn,
but I had closer worries.

On the left, a herd that had been far away
now stood a few feet from our retreat path.
We affected nonchalance in our walk
but I skirted the right-hand drainage ditch
and slipped and almost fell in recent leavings.

Where was the bull?
Suddenly emerged a gray flank
rippling like a huge flag in the wind,
rising from the herd in a mounting tension.
Too short a moment, I thought,
but we got by.

Relieved, I recalled another thought from middle school.
Nookie is good, even if it’s the other guy who gets it.

54

Driving North at Low Noon

Driving north at low noon
I feel not much day is left,
But it is warm − no snow or rain’s in sight.
Sun is behind me, dazzling
(I dare not look in the rear-vew mirror).
Ahead, bathed in warm colors,
Trees rush by me, stark and wrinkled,
Yet evoking summer evenings
As the cold blue sky stands blamelessly apart.
I shift to elude pain as I drive,
Adjusting the burden of half a century.
A religious meeting and my northward way
Have hidden the shadows that foretell the night.

Soon darkness comes, and (in a while) I rest.
The last ember of my wakefulness
Harbors yet one mote of New Year’s resolve:
Though another year bears me inexorably northward,
Though another winter meets me
on its way from the Arctic Circle,
I shall find low noon again.

55

Modern Moment

I was sitting in Peet’s cafe in Frisco
(as they don’t like you to call it)
talking online with a cloned genius
Einstein Turing Turbo 7,
as he likes to be called.
My virtual handmaiden Zelda Fitz 6,
was, as always, at my side.
Suddenly just as I was feeling peckish,
my old pal Didier teleported himself
in from Paris − the Boul’ Mich
(another no-no nomenclature)
with a fabulously fresh baguette
baked just 15 minutes before in
the 23rd arondissement.
Quite a modern moment.

59

Noir

A war hero kills his roundheel bride,
in ocean winds under glistening palms.
Rain falls on her body,
darkens her dark dress,
draws blood along her black hair.

Lightning reveals the stoic face
of a shamus sleuthing in a hotel garden,
his scarred jaw, his laconic teeth.

At a night club in the bay hills,
singers wear slinky dresses
with sparkle and sheen and have long hair
and dark glowing eyes like Veronica Lake.
Lust and longing perfume the air,
where the svelte girls torch-sing about lost love
and the utter impossibility of happiness.

A lot depends on a heartsick gangster
driving down a dark mountain road
in a long white Lincoln.

Later all the good and bad people
shoot one another in a dirty garage.

60

Where is Fantomas?

At that time Fantomas haunted
the places and passages of Paris,
always disguised, always a man
− sometimes two men.
The hack author Igor Larsen,
(“Two Eggs on my Plate,”)
or the poet assassin Lassenaire,
elegant criminal of the Seizieme.
Untraceable, unseizable −
sometimes a frail old man,
the pedantic antiquarian Loupart,
or Lord Mortimer −
a tweedy English bounder,
wiry, whiskered, springing from the dark.
Everywhere and nowhere,
untraceable, unseizable,
but never for an instant himself,
a feat beyond his incredible power.

61

Wittgenstein’s Jukebox
I’m sitting in the House of Pies
Drinking muddy coffee
While Ludwig talks at me.
Always the foundations of reasoning
And the limitations of knowledge
To logic − and only logic.

‘Put another record on the juke box’
I shout after 2 hours (and no pie).
‘But there is no juke box in
The House of Pies’ cries Ludwig,
‘Can you prove that?’ I quip.
He laughs out loud (a rare thing).

‘Nigel − I like your cheery face.
Let’s go camping in Norway!’

62

In fern

In the middle course of my life
Having strayed from the straight path
I got lost in a dark wood.
Luckily I was carrying a mobile phone.

63

Never Said A Bad Word

At the funerals of those who died too early,
well before their time (a short innings)
I usually hear the dead man described as
having ‘never said a bad word about anyone’
and sometimes it is true.

I hear it so often that
it seems saying bad words
about people is the secret of a long life.

Is it meekness or genuine niceness
that holds our dead man back?
Does he feel that if he put people down
they would do the same?
And why does he spend his afternoons in drinking clubs?

64

Dark Car Theory

Only a part of the secret
is ever revealed.
It happened on 85
just past Cupertino.
A dark car is closing in behind me
at high speed on the crowded highway
in dying light.
Pulling over to let it by
I slow down and glimpse
a secret running under the world,
the dark car theory,
the demon is multiplied,
the meek are twice meek,
the unlit car will weave fast
through the shining safe cars.
Take care, those who most need
to take care cannot.

The racer tears into the future,
he had been useful
to demonstrate the theory.

65

A Lesson with Mr. Menticulture

The pupil says: −

‘Please Mr. Menticulture,
can you teach me
to live without worry
and fear
and, like, fast?’

Mr. Menticulture replies: −

Yes. Consider, if it is possible
to, like, get rid of fear and worry,
why is it necessary
to have them at all?

The pupil says: −
I get it.
I, like, totally get it.

(Leaves room.)

66

The Way of the Tourist

Take the funicular railway,
kiss the Blarney Stone
walk the Boboli Gardens,
ride the London Eye.
This is what we do
while we are alive.

Up the Eiffel Tower,
down the Blue Grotto
round the Coliseum,
onwards to Angkor Wat
back through Cumberland Gap
always best as a tourist
with camera, phrase book, and map.

Ignore experts,
go where everyone goes,
surrender willingly
to the way of the tourist.

Swim in the Med,
drink the local brew,
visit Elvis’s grave.
This is what we do
while we are alive.

67

CEO

Sometimes hiking in obscure hills,

I caught sight of my linemen
And would climb up for a talk.
When I told them I was the president
Of Bell Telephone Company
They were, frankly, amazed.

Walking to the opera
Or just pacing the pavement
I would disappear down a manhole
To check my workers were all right,
And to show my appreciation.
Such acts have made me inordinately
Wealthy.

68

Blameless

There was a time that has run away
When dread and fear woke me each day.

Streets leading down obliquely to ramparts
No longer confound,

Pools and great subterranean reservoirs
Cause no disquiet.

I am the master of fallen years
Beyond laughter, beyond tears.

Unmoved by failure or success,
Indifferent to indifference,
I lead a blameless life in Bournemouth.

69

The Mauve Sea

In all your life you have never seen
the mauve sea...

As though thirsty to die
on her
a bird tramples fire

I did not see either
at the point
of resurgence of morning
on the mauve sea

As though thousands of hopes
vibrate on her
my eyes disappear
into the calls of the next day

A start shakes me in the morning
with tears, facing, opposite
It rests
and stretches with all my grief
before my eyes...

The mauve sea

73

They Have Taken Their First Steps in My Heart

The pain first took hold of my wrists
In the heart within my heart
My sweet children
Took their first steps.

Rain drips on the windows
There is that which comes
From far away
With hands in handcuffs
I do not know the day or year of humanity...

Stars shine
Thanks to drops falling from trees
The moon springs tight a trap on my pessimism
For a night…

The pain first took hold of my wrists
In the heart within my heart
My sweet children
Took their first steps.

74

The Valley of the Culprits

In the valley of the culprits
be patient.
Remain planted on your legs
to be struck
by the newcomers and, leaving them,
never look behind you,
so that each one can see
the hairstyle on the nape of your neck.

In the valley of the culprits
while insults fuse together
do not say anything, especially
make like the nightingale which ate a blackberry
while the human one is depreciating.
The bump at the end of your nose
must not have an impact on your spirit.

Know that your language burns if you eat while pricking
and your backyard burns if you speak bitterly.
Above all
forget your mother, and your father.
It is not necessary to worry about their fate
or that they are weakened physically
or drag themselves along.
Do not say anything.
Drop...
Let your efforts break down.
Let the mast be reversed...

75

Carry on your way simpering.
If you see a fallen friend
above all have no feeling
no pity
and if you have envy, give him another kick.
Do you know that nobody is thinking of you at this moment?
If you come across a large turkey
cut its throat without saying anything to anybody
and eat it!
Have no panic, remain still
where you are well hidden!
In any event
you are in the valley of the culprits.

You will be viewed badly if you work much.
You will be driven out if you speak the truth.
You will be crushed
if you go the way of love.
You will be beaten in various ways
if you resist tyranny.
You know
that there are things not to be neglected.
In any event
you are in the valley of the culprits.
Be pitiless!
You know that integration is spoken about uniquely,
that at least your identity card is like theirs.
One demands it from you insistently.

If in spite of all you do not like
all that I have just said
you do what you want,
act according to your desires
as well as your accomplishments,
one never knows...
Perhaps you will be accepted!

76

Friendship with Photos

Make drawings
of a friend
a comrade
a neighbour
and place them in a central corner...

Do not count contours and losses
retiring from your memory
words
like interest, aggression, treason...
Colour, decorate
manage them...
Hang them in the nicest place
of your home...

As long as they are there
sleep without fright
without fear...

You will see
that your friendship
with the festive colours
and the sincere lines
will not deceive you.

77

The Hunter Has Become a Guide for the Birds

The hunter has become a guide for the birds,
his two faces
against two wings.

He has chopped down trees
to make a post
with small dried branches
for the birds to roost.

He has broken off flowers
to decorate this small tree
to cheer the birds.

He has put small stones
and large grains of wheat
on plates
so that the birds can eat.

He has constructed
posts with pencils
and towers with posts
from the ruins of the towers
so that the birds can take cover.

He has appended signatures,
each one different,
on dry leaves
with his two faces,
no one noticing.

After some time,
chasing the birds one by one,
he blows like a wind,
saying that judges and prosecutors
are his friends.

78

The birds, like many others,
quickly understand
and when the time is ripe
they emigrate,
exchanging one thing for another,
finding another country,
agreeable people, trees,
grains of wheat on plates
and flowers of all colours...

while living peacefully there,
the hunter is of two faces
against two wings.

79

The Children of Midnight

Memory of war is silenced in them
and there is a tiredness in their knees,
the children of midnight kneel before the sun...

this only one
of the many thousand sorrows
covering their eyes
as if they were thirsty for a drop
of the moon’s light

The children of midnight
walk fallen in the dark,
resembling the sky

I cannot leave these sensitive, indifferent ones
I still do not know...after how many years?
I re-examine them
and they still cry,
these children of midnight

80

The Cul-de-Sac of the Rose

Grief will invade your dreams.
Listen to the ocean
for all that you would see.
Remember blue fields
fulfilled by sun
while sorrow sleeps.

Hand in hand
nights bring fish.
Your eyes soak up the sky,
you cannot endure
the murmur of things disappearing
in the cul-de-sac of the Rose.

There, poems will be silenced,
songs will make you cry,
glass will break in your hands.
You cannot think,
and then you know
you are no longer able to see me
in the cul-de-sac of the Rose.

81

Before the Eyes of All

A whistle has snared your longing,
your pride has burned
into a young man’s roots,
deceiving your mutual hope;
and your thoughts,
like handkerchiefs of stone,
have fallen from the bridges.

In your own dazzled eyes
colours are not repressible,
but you have packed the sun
into compartments.
While the sword plays
darkly in the dazzle,
your stories open the arms of slavery.

A whistle has snared your longing,
your pride has burned
into a young man’s roots.

82

Do not pass by the places which I frequented

Especially do not smell my flowers
or tin my hopes
As a favour
Do not stretch your frozen hands
towards my fire...

Do not finger my nights, full of nostalgia,
with pity for my stars!
Do not make my songs endure
Go, before my eyes
As a favour
do not pass by the places which I frequented.

Leave me to myself
Do not mingle in my thoughts
Hold yourself distant from my feelings
As a final favour
leave my poems
Do not pass by the places which I frequented.

(Üzeyir Çayci’s poetry has been translated from the French by Joneve McCormick)

83

flower language

flowers have miraculous colours
they send us love with their perfumes;
flowers have a different language

even if i learn all the languages in the world
it won’t be possible for me to tell about love
as well as fragrant flowers

i smell love watching their colours
and want to say “i love you”
in the flower-language to my lover

87

Autumn

It’s been raining continuously.
Bright drops are seen.
The streets have opened their way
To the gloomy loneliness.
It’s not possible to find
The brightness of daylight,
Distinguishing the daytime from night.

Darkness in the sky
Is being felt like a saddening end.

There is a silent wait among the trees −
Oh, when will they be naked!
Leaves have been falling so slowly
Because they don’t want to be noticed.
Trees are getting undressed.

The weather is dark.
Alone are the streets,
The leaves are falling.

Autumn has come crying.

88

Shadows

Grandma is sleeping in her bed
one of her thin hands
lies on the quilt
with long, beautiful fingers

Her bed is in an empty room
nobody there
except a young lady from the past

Grandma can’t speak or sing
she can’t even see a thing
still she has thin hands

The young lady used to sing
she used to speak cheerfully
cook delicious food for mealtimes
with her long, beautiful fingers

Grandma is sleeping in her bed
her long, beautiful fingers on the quilt
out fly three white doves
not true beauties, just shadows

89

In your heart
small is happiness
in green grass
but far is happiness
in a bird’s flight

as you want to get closer
it goes far away
small is happiness
in sky’s clouds

happiness is a liar
says you own it
but just leaves sadness
and goes far

not possible to know
who owns it
we smile in sight
but in reality, cry

small is happiness
in green grass
but far is happiness
in a bird’s flight

don’t seek it
in sky clouds
it’s in your heart
not so far

90

The Love Tree

There was an old tree
at the corner of the street
so big and imposing
that everybody tried to climb it

Some people weren’t strong enough
to grasp the branches
so they fell
before reaching the peak

Some were too heavy
when these tried to
reside in the tree
they broke the branches

There was one person
tall, thin and gentle
he reached the top
after struggling many years

He settled there
his beautiful wife aside
but the scenery was so attractive
that he started watching.

91

Music brings your love

eyes closed
i open my heart
feelings pour and spread
dancing

music is in my brain
i want to feel it
so i stop my brain
and let my heart work

mind is far
but heart is near
heart feels the music
music brings your love

92

They Called Me To The Country Of Poetry

Late,
One evening
They called me
To the Country of Poetry.

They said,
“Come quickly!
If not,
No tickets will remain.”

The streets of the Country of Poetry
Have flowers on the pavements.
They smell
So distinctively.

Travellers pass along the streets.
They disappear,
Leaving something scribbled on a scrap of paper...
Some odd writings.

Some people read them
Others throw them away.
But they are inexhaustible
Those odd scribblings.

Travellers come
To the Country of Poetry.
And sometimes are unable to procure
A return ticket.

They drift along
The narrow streets
And pick up flowers
With unusual formations.

93

Tonight,
There’s a free
Ticket available.
A one-way ticket.

I salute the ones who stay
In the Country of Poetry,
For it’s the country of
The lonely, poor and peculiar.

Unfortunately,
It’s not possible for you
To enter −
Unless you really are a poet.

94

The Poet

was interviewed
for a job
how will poetry
help you in life
thundered one
of the members
looking around
triumphantly
as if he had
asked the
question of the decade

he winced
muttered “poetry is life,
symbols...”

he did not get the job
but went out into the world
armed with more poems
to battle it out.

97

Poem

Come speak to me
in the language of the soul
Come speak to me
in the twitter of the birds
Come speak to me of a savage silence
that is holiness,
and let me be a begging bowl
for alms.

98

Poetry That Speaks

Poetry that speaks is
the written word emerging
out of the oral, in time’s
mythic shroud, in pictures
of man in primal moorings.
Who wrote poems then?

Poetry that speaks is ancient
language of birds, of nature
in whistling wind,
God’s omnipresence.
What are poems written for?
In what archetypal silence?

Poets are driven by mad lust
in history’s corridors; in time’s constricted space.
Poets are friends of rites, ceremonies
of voices marauding and dead.

Poetry that speaks is man clawing;
eating raw meat tangled
in clannish, internecine wars.
Poetry that speaks is time’s spate,
rivers’ red.

Let us write the poetry of origins
of ancient gongs and wildfires
stampeding this mad hollowness
and, hammer the heart with words.

99

Memory Takes Wings

Where did they come from, the poems?
From the written word, tormentor of feelings,
The spoken sometimes a defaulter?
The weather, a beaten rose?
In early morning’s awakened holocaust
The grey dusty Radiant Reader
Plugging its way to school with monotony?

The school hall brooding over boys
In grey-green uniforms...
Messiahs of sad spirit

They still brood, these poems
Music of lives, my life

And
Memory saunters...
Takes wings.

100

Forests

Once again these rains,
gathering into bowls of dust
gnawing memories; with cloned feet
drying up membranes
Mine is the staring gaze on yesteryears
as these hills haunted
like passing shadow
Does anything bedevil them?
Or is this antediluvian land
replete with myths and stories
reclusive, full throated
in its plea
for solitariness?
These rains make
their wraith like appearance
once again, compelling me to
hide within its thicket of dense forests.

101

Tree

Now I am alone
alone as the tree
with its drooping
dismembered self
planted for nocturnal years
near the window of
a peregrinating house
The tree is taciturn
knows the sun, the hills
the moon and speckled stars

The tree stands anonymously
refusing to mingle with habitat
even when the stormy sky
threatens to shake ramparts
in the whirlwind

Views landscape
with its gnarled
spreading branches like tentacles,
melting into fistful of waif like tears

We are alone the two of us
Waiting patiently for the hawk

102

I See Poetry

I see poetry in all sorts of places
I see a word lying in the ambit
of a leper or a beggar
I pick up that lone pariah word
and write a poem

Poetry in those huge blue arches
swirling overhead;
my kite flying days
In the silence between infinitesimal spaces

Poetry too
in the mad woman
with her ugly peering eyes
who came to my house, one summer’s afternoon
moved by monsoon’s fury
only to die
and to cause a death in me;
Somewhere

Every night
there is pulsating poetry
whether a dog howls
or the wind sends a piercing cry.

Time ticks away ruthlessly...

There is poetry there.

103

Lost

The poem
that was found
among garbage
and heaps of rubbish
stifled me
with a song
a song of destiny
a song of the wayfarer
a song in the midst of
revolution
it was lost, by pilferers
who killed people
in the name of religion
in the accusation of conversion
they blasphemed truth
the killers of men, women and children
then came the cry of the song
the poem that was lost
cupped palms into prayer
and wept like never before.

104

When Do We Meet?

Will it be in the twilight
hour? With fate interceding
or will it be in the profusion of delight
some call it love, the sceptics: destiny
let me inhale from the garden of roses
to be reminded that you were once mine
just for those few palpitating moments as
you resonated with the world-around you:

And I was born.

105

Wound

It has opened once again
the wound,
it hurts no longer though
but when it opens
it nurses all the old ones
and I feel like a bandaged
victim, condemned to days
of hibernation in moth eaten
asylums, where soulful living
is non-existent, where the
wound comes back
full circle, to lash the body
with tremor, with periodic
inanity.

Healing is out of the question
what can, and perhaps
will happen is that like the
yawning mouth of a river
the wound will continue
to stare me in the face
agape, aghast, that I
am still its wayfaring friend.

106

Poem in Prose

Once, as a child I wore masks. Colourful. Of different shades and
hues. Wearing them during the festival season, they made faces.
The mask and I were one. They were my glasses and through them
I saw smiling faces, crying, angry, laughing faces. Today I still wear
masks. But where are those red, blue, yellow masks, those that I
revelled in, those that I wore as a child? The masks of my childhood
and the masks of today are no longer the same.

107

Greening Down To Red Berries

Autumn is blood no matter what.
Whatever blood is, in the vat, that’s Autumn!
I mean, Spring is trying to leap up
to and with
a fire invisible;
with summer
that fire jells into flesh
whose distances yawn into longing,
abyss between the heartbeat al-
ways frilling green.

Autumn takes to the legs −
the kid’s kick in all out racing −
not to long for, but to go!
So the long days curl,
red edges closing together −
fashion avenue is intense with dyes
more crimson than sunset
more blue than sky,
sky nor flesh is necessary to the distance,
nor wind to the stirring,
wine only wanted in the stain
for its intoxication!
Autumn is blood no matter what.
Whatever blood is, in the vat, that’s Autumn.

111

Floating Alone In Worldly Company

Penthouse ledges are for the birds
a little lilt of upward notes
stray help for
balancing on the edges
or a trapeze hello
to float some silver
passing to where
the yellow castles went
with gardens purpled
where the gold goes

all the day
is glowing to go there
slowing to sleep to
dream it more
dancing in slow motion
melody silking deep into evening

112

Damp Similes and Mossy Messages

Like someone diving into diverse rivers
somehow always arriving
at the exact same shore
I return to the same metaphors, even find
the sandpiper prints
of the same messages
in my different poetry.

Gosh. Look at that. The same images.
Like in this poem: river, shore
Already second hand images
visited by Victorian families on weekends.
I still wear them like a favorite old vest
to solemn and light occasions.

Pond river puddle lake − see? Sure.
If you dip your hands
into many of my groups of words
they’ll always come out wet with water, and
examining your palms you’ll likely find
some shore. I am enamored of shores
almost as much as faces.....almost
as much as eyes.....almost as much as distances
and clouds (damply obscure in my
unoriginality) I routinely describe as bright

113

punning on the genius of
a vapor thread that waved them,
the story threads that brought them there,
fingering the image lightly of that
silver-irised multi-flowering of myth −
am I bright? No! I’m flashy − I mean splashy −
all wet, since it doesn’t make
me shine like a mirror to
be so slow to keep lightning out
of the world of my words like sunrise-growing weeds
its accumulated dew-globes such a
fertile glare of repetitions
it bursts the thermometer from which
a facet-minded god is proposed to leap.

To leap and multiply.
Beams on the waves. Sea what I mean.
Pacific. Atlantic. Mythic.
In the
eyedrowned disorientation
of the below-wave dive
fin-wave hope to come to illuminate
a new ascension of an unfamiliar shore.

114

Inspired By A Lord Byron Poem

Pardon me a moment.
Oh, I came back late?
You’ve left two lifetimes behind
since I left you How is it I recognized you anyway?
I think I spent the whole time dreaming.
Except a second or so: you know
that star we looked at? − I was on it.
In it I should say.
It was very hot
at first
white brightness all around me, then
I dwindled till I
got all cold
and its heat was far and distant stars itself.
But that was just
a second or so.
Dreaming
brings you to strange people in
strange places.
You and I most often meet on ski slopes at full speed
making whiteness rise behind us.
Or one of us meets Mark.
The strange people would find
those strange ski slopes I mean.
In the dream? Something like it.
A terrible lot of fun.
Oh, they were fun! Like the ones a long long time ago.
Do you trust me to
hop off for just a moment? I’ll
be right back.

115

On Reading Harriet Brown’s “A Letter From The Country”

I am dressed in the feel
of animals brushing by me
the warm torso of deer
the brushlike soft raccoon
the featherwhip of wrens crows robins sparrows hawks
hot wolf fur
the trees are walking and I feel them too
the tuft of weeds and the wild turkey
I am dressed in family.

Some places the brown earth is spotted with snow like a fawn
water the snow
will be cold on me
you will see my overcoat of snow.
The lining will be
the hot smoke of black wood and red leaves
the leaves
are chuckling cooing grumbling.
My overcoat is manifold with mouths and eyes
I am dressed in family.

116

Call Me Hypocrite and I Shall Answer

Standing on the stage and
dying in my arms with all
the strength of beauty in your face
and what colors of Goya
am I wearing now?
You cut the lines into yourself, say
“these grooves are my life on this place!”
And then you press yourself against the paper.
And I say “pity is as horrible as suffering”
so
I hold only ink on my heartshaped stone
no blood.
My blood in some distant place
I may have long forgotten. I might
hold you there
and cry your tears as warm not freezing salty sweet
forgetful of how flesh so smooth a spread
is natively susceptible to rankness.
The horrors of war. And where − if I
could mine it in me − would tenderness take me?
We have the harmony of seasons
in atmosphere as thin as cellophane
and frail as tissue.
Shall I come back (fresh from the dead)
with your grandmother’s comforting lips on
a childish smiling brow
wearing the blue of the homeland river and
a russet in my storytelling gown
weaved all of sunrise after purple nightflow?
Shall we together seamaiden swim
where age is no rotting but only a wine
and kinder never totem only lieder −
liebchen: shall we?
My sleep is my drug and will you wake my grey nerves
to the toothache of this world?
If I’m a glass and if your dying stains me
don’t you see that you must
live to make my colors shine?

117

Human in a Foreign Country

Ask him what Hamlet place he was coming from
to look out at this peopled place and decide
all the children are doomed.
Was it that in his own self-detested lewdness
he saw the world as only
the great cradle of corruption?
How vast to scan
through freshforest odor and
all paths and towns and elder growing
and eyely multiply each coming seed
of childly look
to unpassable grimfall future!

Not to call it alien. Nature is in the nutshell
and from in a shadowed rotting husk
a fertile visionary eye can turnip to
an unusual shape of telescope −
a viewer of vistas original
not to call it wholely exile.

He might have been a maker of symphonies:
have left behind
what voyages? − what nights? −
to look so on the color of this day
where he’d arrived befuddled
son of a mother
groping for an all-circling truth
to ever-begin-and-end in
his spirit he never knew was this dark
a marriage ring to make
compassion out of despair.
Oh the journeys are interesting:
dark nights and the weapons there
the sometime stars
the mirrors of black holes
companion walks; beds and
some of them left bloody

118

so many smells that mingled
with the pining under pines.

But see how even a blade pierce of blackness can be
a light of vision if
the stroke is seen as one’s own.
But those children
standing in his outer and
his inner eye
small with their little
hands to grasp the to-come
he must meet them someday
somewhere.
Another moment
he must make another future
to meet himself and them in
their looks
and all the looks
arriving in a multiplicity of curious-to-find.
The heart is a journey. Perhaps
we choose and
not choose what it carries.
Journeys themselves
arrive at places
mix visions there
make music as
the boat is overturned or rides the waves.

119

I See the Light

I see the light
Somewhere in the distance.
I am not scared.
Even if it’s only a candle
And it goes out, by the time I reach it,
I will light another.

123

The dilapidated pot

I look OK, for my age.
Without a head, just
A big mouth that looks even bigger opened up.
No legs, just one arm;
But what do you expect?
I’m not a Greek Urn.

124

My father

My father would not do
any domestic chores;
could not cook
or do the dishes.

We ran out of clean clothes;
we went out & bought some new.
We ran out of clean dishes;
we went out & ate at restaurants

that is until mother returned home
from a short stay at the hospital.

She wasn’t quite sure
she should be happy
we could not cope
without her.

125

Heron-on-a-paperweight

At first, misreading your name as
“Haron”, I thought you were named after
“Haros”, the boatman who carries the souls to their place
Painted on a stone that
We throw behind our backs, meaning “never to return here again”
You fit the name but look nothing like him.

126

A perfect moment

Eyes level to the sea
Raindrops explode
Water-crowns splash
Faces red as apples
Bobbing disappear
Into the blue

The surface the sky
The sun water-paint

Which way is
The rain falling?

127

Hey Dad can I borrow the car?

And so what if Phaethon
stole his father’s flaming chariot
and burned to the ground a few villages,
and froze to death one or two towns?
I would do the same given half the chance
to ride solo the chariot of the Sun,
even at my age!

128

Post-Market

Pomegranates explode.
Figs flesh bursting.
Grapes bleeding.
Melons under the knife.
Apples chopped
and coconuts smashed.
Bananas’ skin peeled.
Garlic crushed.
Olives stoned.
Black-eyed beans.
Tomatoes squashed,
black and blue aubergines.
Potatoes dust themselves and rub
bruised courgettes
with dandelions.
Ladyfingers stroke
onions full of tears.
Thyme scented honey,
olive oil mixed with oregano:
potions.

129

My grandmother’s advice

She spits on her fingertips
that pull the wool
into a fine thread.
“Don’t fret”, she says
and spins the spindle with such a spin
I forget to cry,
“Just spit on it,
it’s the best medicine for little scratches”.

130

Academici poetry anthology

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Academici poetry anthology