Natural Alchemy
is handsome.
Beware the sting
indeed.
STARGAZER
She knew the names
of all the constellations,
whispered them to me
even as I lay in the womb.
She gave me a star name,
raised me in dreamy days
and stellar nights.
She taught me to always look up.
Together we explored
the secrets of the stars.
Side by side, gazing skywards,
we found joy in the eternal search
and in each other.
She is long gone now,
And I wonder if she knows
that the day I laid her in the ground
is the only time I have ever
looked down.
STEP FORWARD
We take
email
and
ecommerce
so
completely
for granted
I guess
ehumanity
is the next
step forward
in our
evolution.
Is everyone
ecstatic
about that?
SUNBLIND
The sun
must have been
in my eyes
when I first looked
at you.
Bedazzled
blinded
I just didn’t see
the secrets
you kept
hidden.
I fell hard,
breaking
every bone
in my body,
only to find out
it was all
a lie.
SUNRISE STILLED
Sunrise stilled
the morning mourns
Shadows stand sharp
like a devil’s horns
My bleeding heart
weeps into the rose bed
luscious pink
turns to radiant red
There’ll be no breeze
no cooling rain
We’ll never see
the sun again
It will be forever dark
so this is how
we’ll make our mark
Our bleeding hearts
must weep ’til they’re dry
We cannot let
the roses die.
THE FICKLENESS OF CATS
I acquired her some years ago.
He moved in a little while later,
so him and me
and Cat made three.
He preferred dogs, he said
but Cat soon won him over -
it was a matter of feline pride.
He likes steaks and hamburgers,
I eat stews of lentils and herbs.
Mouth full, he speaks freely,
his grammar lively but inaccurate.
I chew slowly, concentrating
on my adjectives and verbs.
Cat always sits by his chair -
she knows whose plate
to beg scraps from.
In the evenings we sit side by side
holding hands, watching TV.
He loves sport and action movies.
I prefer documentaries
about things like GM foods, BSE.
Cat leaps onto his lap, circles and settles.
I reach out to stroke her
but I think she senses my tension.
He sleeps on the right-hand side,
dreams sweeping away
the minor worries of his day.
I lie awake fretting
about whether the bed
meets the criteria of Feng Shui.
Cat always sleeps at his feet,
disliking my insomniac manoeuvres.
We manage to live in harmony,
living proof that incompatibility
is no deterrent to love.
But I know that if he were ever to leave
my heart and my house
would truly be empty.
For Cat has shown where her loyalties lie.
She would go with him.
WAR & SOAP
A wet Sunday afternoon,
nothing to do
but watch TV:
633 Squadron
and a cup of tea.
Isn’t that the man
from Coronation Street?
The one that owns the factory?
The theme music still stirs,
I’ll be humming it for hours.
Celluloid death still moves
but I won’t lose sleep over it
because it isn’t real.
Outside it’s still raining
so I’m not going anywhere.
What is the name of that actor?
He looks good in uniform,
RAF blue reflecting in his eyes.
If I’d been a rear-gunner
shooting the enemy
down in flames
I would have wanted him
to be one of the crew.
But I don’t have to worry
about things like that,
war is professional now.
Computer-controlled lasers,
remote controlled soldiers.
Think Kosovo and Iraq.
The film finishes at five,
I’ll have time to prepare dinner
and pour myself a glass of wine.
I’ve got until seven-thirty
before Eastenders starts
and at 9 there’s another film.
Think I’ll skip the news tonight.
There’s bound to be
a real war somewhere
and I don’t want to hear about it
or see real-time pictures.
They might keep me awake.
WATERCOLOUR
Out of the darkness
of a stretched canvas
he paints his watercolour world
The sky dazzles
The trees astonish
Nature could learn from him
He paints a woman
in a sea-green dress
arms open wide
scarlet mouth laughing
I didn’t know it was possible
to convey such happiness
with a sable brush
Now he caresses her hair
with a tender touch of gold
and I can’t help but sigh
He pauses
silent
waiting
knowing I don’t see
what his eyes see
Because the woman
in the painting
that beautiful
laughing woman
is me
and I don’t know her
at all
WOMAN SCORNED
Handy with a kitchen knife
I twice tried
to end a life
Attempted murder
but he survived
Tried suicide
but I’m still alive
They decreed I’m far from well
and locked me alone
in this padded cell
Mad and bad
abandoned here
Haunted by images
startlingly clear
Not-quite-snuff-movies in my head
Stab and slash scenes
Oh how he bled
So much gore
and blood and stuff
that turned out
not to be enough
I wonder does he think of me
imprisoned for life
while he runs free
I’m sure he thanks
his lucky stars
as simpering women
admire his scars
WRECKED
You’ve always jumped
without looking ahead,
leapt into the void
without a shred
>
of fear
One day
the cord will snap,
the canopy rip
and uselessly flap
above your head
You will be buried
deep in the sand
and all we’ll see
is your broken hand
trying to wave for help
Always reckless
one day
you will be wrecked
YETI
The footprints are not human.
Pulling notebook and pen from his pocket
He jots down the measurements
and prepares to take photographs
and plaster casts before the snow
obliterates them and as he works he
imagines the hordes of scientists
and sightseers who’ll flock here.
He thinks of fame and glory, until
a sound makes him glance up.
It is everything he thought it would be
and so much more. Slowly
he raises the camera and focuses
on the fantastic face staring back at him.
But no picture is taken, because
something in the eyes stills his hand.
A message is wordlessly conveyed,
profound and desperate, before
it is gone, lost in the swirling snow.
Amazed, understanding dawns
and he knows he has a duty to
tear the pages from his notebook
and rip them into tiny fragments.
He must let it all go, even though
it means there’ll be no fame, no glory.
But if he were to die this very minute
he’d die a very happy man.
IMAGES OF GREECE:
COFFEE & OUZO
As the hibiscus flower raises
its scarlet face to the sun
he sits on the terrace and sips
bitter coffee, long cold.
In his kitchen dirty dishes
fuel happy flies.
A forgotten broom
gathers dust to itself
in a dark corner,
and as the sun shakes hands
with the twilight sky,
he is still there on the terrace.
A glass of ouzo now rests
beside the coffee cup
oozing aniseed his tongue
no longer tastes.
The hibiscus furls itself away,
a partisan flag hiding its colours.
Behind his milky eyes lie
a thousand memories
of treacherous mountain passes,
of guns, of glory,
of men made brave by circumstance
and the common cause.
He has memories
of a beautiful face
that grew sad and empty
for want of children.
Now she and his comrades
are waiting.
He is just biding his time
with coffee and ouzo.
DIASPORA
Day after patient day
she’d sat beneath
the ancient vine
shelling almonds
one by delicate one.
Now the aromas
of vanilla and cinnamon
drift from her kitchen
and dance
on the shady leaves.
That vine has shared
the secrets
of generations past but
will know little
of generations future,
for their home
is another country.
Today she bakes biscuits,
a once a year ritual
because her children
are coming
with their children
and theirs.
Each year more come
from across the seas
where biscuits are bought
from convenience stores.
Their faces bear
familiar features
yet they speak a language
she doesn’t understand.
She can hardly see now,
but her fingers know the way.
Her biscuits will be perfection.
Just hours from now
they will all be gone.
And so will her children.
KALAVRYTA (kal-A-vreta)
The next four poems have a story that needs to be told before they are read.
On December 13 1943, Nazi occupiers marched into Kalavryta and ordered all men and boys aged 12 and over to assemble on the hillside that overlooks the small town. Led to believe that they were going to be forced to listen to a lecture, they took blankets with them. In reality it was an act of reprisal for resistance activity in the area, and the soldiers opened fire on them. Very few survived the carnage.
The women and children were locked into the school, and the building set on fire. They escaped, it is said, because a soldier took pity on them and opened the doors.
But most of their men were dead, all their food was taken and the whole town was razed to the ground as the soldiers left.
The hill is now a lasting and very moving memorial site. The names of those who died are inscribed on a wall, and there is a small room built into the hill where lighted oil lamps hang from the ceiling.
Outside the school building (now a museum) is a bronze statue of a woman flanked by her two young children, dragging the body of her dead husband on a blanket. This was commissioned by the son of one of the men who was killed that day. He is, in fact, the little boy of the statue, reaching up to touch his mother’s arm.
I have been to this site several times, and it never fails to move me.
KALAVRYTA: THE MAN
We didn't know what to expect,
the townsmen and I,
but we knew enough to be afraid.
We were herded like sheep
away from our homes,
while our women were left behind
to wait and wonder.
We all helped the old men
as they stumbled on stones,
refusing to let them
be humbled by the enemy.
As the bright blankets
were spread upon the hillside,
as fathers and sons whispered,
I looked across to where
the group of soldiers stood.
My eyes locked
with those of a young man
whose hands visibly trembled
as he raised his weapon.
Fate reached out and touched me
with cold and sorry fingers
and I saw clearly
what was about to be lost on this hill.
I pushed my son behind me,
tried to warn the others,
but my words were obliterated
by the blast of the guns.
I was just one of twelve hundred
men and boys condemned this day.
As my knees gave way
I gazed down on the church
where I’d prayed just yesterday,
the church where I
would be buried tomorrow.
I could not shut out the dreadful sounds
but I closed my eyes,
screwed them tight against the horror.
My mind's eye recalled with sweet clarity
the faces of my wife and children.
What will become of them without me?
What will become of Kalavryta?
KALAVRYTA: THE SOLDIER
My eyes swept the hillside,
taking in the blankets spread on the grass,
the baskets of meager rations.
Fathers and sons whispered to each other,
asking the unanswerable question.
I closed my eyelids, screwed them tight,
but my mind's eye presented what was to come.
An image to haunt me al
l my days.
With resignation I opened my eyes again,
felt them widen as they met
those of a man standing on his bright blanket.
The expression on his face was sad and knowing.
They locked, our two pairs of eyes.
He called out a warning,
as I, with cold and sorry fingers,
raised my rifle and took aim.
The order was given.
We both fell to the ground as the guns blasted.
The man’s legs gave way in death,
mine buckled with the horror of what I’d done.
I thought then that when I got home –
if I got home -
I would remember this day with shame and rage.
I would forever curse the men
who dragged me to war
and brought me to my knees in Kalavryta.
KALAVRYTA: THE WOMAN
Wolves had scavenged in the night.
The sweet-sour smell of death
tainted the December wind.
We had to beg to be allowed
to bury our men while there was still
enough flesh to know them.
How had it come to this?
The search was dreadful,
each of us trying to identify our husbands,
fathers, sons, brothers.
Each of us unable to imagine
how we would carry on without them.
Our homes and fields had been destroyed
and all our food taken.
We struggled to wrap
the bodies in bright blankets,
the cold and bloodied fabric resisted
the contours of stiff limbs.
The very air fell silent and still,
the ice-flecked blades of grass saluted us
as we relieved the hillside of its burden.
I don’t know how I found the strength
to manage the back-breaking task.
As I traced the face of my husband
with cold and sorry fingers,
I wondered how I could possibly explain
this terrible day to our children.
So much was lost in Kalavryta.
KALAVRYTA: THE VISITOR
I stand on the hillside in respectful silence.
Unbidden, the story unfolds itself.
Bright blankets are spread on the grass;
fathers and sons are thinking the unthinkable.
I close my eyelids, screw them tight,
but the images relentlessly roll on.
They will haunt me all my days.
As they must haunt the young soldier
who says he was simply obeying orders.
I see him now, his tired eyes widening
when they meet the gaze of a man,
whose expression is sad and knowing.
They locked, those two pairs of eyes.
The man called out a warning
as the order was given.
The soldier raised his rifle