THE SNOWDROPS IN YOUR HAND

You held me like a newborn child,
A blanket wrapped round tight,
You asked if I was warm enough,
And would I be all right,
My eyes were closed, but I could see
The snowdrops in your hand,
The springtime change had come too soon
For us to understand

I could smell the lilies better
Than I’d ever smelled before,
And I heard your tender kisses
As I entered heaven’s door,
The springtime change had come too soon
For us to understand,
My eyes were closed, but I could see
The snowdrops in your hand,

I felt your heart burst open wide,
A tear upon my cheek,
I knew you’d come to say goodbye,
But neither one could speak
You held me like a newborn child,
Not wanting to let go,
With your arms wrapped tight around me,
To protect me from the snow,

But winter cold was all around,
And angel voices called,
I drifted into paradise,
Those peaceful, painless halls,
And when I opened wide my eyes
Upon a springtime land,
I saw you there, right by my side,
The snowdrops in your hand,

You held me like a newborn child,
A blanket wrapped round tight,
You asked if I was warm enough,
And would I be all right,
The springtime change had come too soon,
For us to understand,
My eyes were closed but I could see
The snowdrops in you hand.

Jane Sharp

TRIOLET ON THE CRESCENT MOON

Howl Turkish moon, slither of light,
Illuminate my destiny,
Stamp void with influential might.

Howl Turkish moon, slither of light,
Howl dark orb, scimitar of night,
Squinting fluence of third degree.

Howl Turkish moon, slither of light,
Illuminate my destiny.

Jane Sharp
2010

A Triolet is a 13th century poetical form.

CLOSE ENCOUTER WITH A TOAD

Shocked at the sight
Of an uninvited drain-liver
Inside,

I pulled the face of a Gargoyle
And made a loud "Ugh' noise.

He plopped over my hand
In the shadows
A good six inches.

We played that game of 'statues'
Like at school - turn away
Move.

He proved a match 'till I caught him
Mid hop in my
Mop-bucket,

Like a rubber toy I once had,
He dived upwards all slime,
Scaring me with the sudden
Rigidity of his blob-body.

I took him to the door
And put him out like Tom
For the night.

A slimy toad in the drizzle of a
Cold midnight
Jumping.

I knew he would never be
A fairytale Frog:
A handsome prince.

Jane Sharp

HAIKU ON LIFE, ON WISDOM, ON A CANDLE, ON DEATH

I am in being
Tomorrow is becoming
Now is in passing

The Papa smiles and
The wisdom of Sofia
Is in his aura

In a tiny church
I lit a candle and prayed
For those who suffer

It flickered beside
Other diminishig flames
And danced in the dark

And spent wick littered
The eternal sand-filled font
Glittering gold-leaf

The eclipse is a
Shadow at the edge of dark
Where light is dissolved

Jane Sharp
2004

OLIVE PICKING

Working in the olive grove,
Dimitri thinks only of the yield from his old roots,
This knot-knarled tree is one of his favourites,
Years of pruning has coaxed its spreading shape
Into a willow-wide bouquet of boughs,
Laden with bullet-blooms that beg release.

Now, the master stands back and admires
All that nature (with his help) has created,
And before the purging begins,
Silence.

Then, with every thwack of his katsouna,
He urges the fat, cobalt fruit to shower onto
Carefully laid collecting nets.

This hessian pack, unloading onto stone
From the wooden back of unshod Neddy,
Is filled from that great, cracked tree (a good year),
And Dimitri, we see, is pleased
As the press begins to wind, and the screw to crush
The olives.

So the scene with stubborn Herk,
In slow perambulation making work the grind,
Till mushy purple-tinted juice infuses fabric
With virgin-sweet scent,
Ali-Baba jars are brimming full of oil,
And tired Dimitri is content.

Jane Sharp
2004

THINK OF ME

When the lid of my box, outside the door,
Stands sentinel to my journeying soul,
And sunlight throws a prismic-cross across
The name plate of my chest, think then of the
Day we scrambled up the knoll through thicket
Only fit for a girded Prince to brave,
In attempt to raise his Sleeping Beauty.
And remember the apex of rock which
Gave us solitude;it was a place to
Sense parameters wider than the world.
We were drip-fed by threads of lurex-light,
Until so large had we become, and yet
So small, so much a part of the strata
That all below seemed, as from a magic
Carpet, to flow upstream, and we remained
Unseen observers perched on a warm rock.
Go there now, or top some other apogee,
And say goodbye, for I am already
Out of reach on Charon's ferry, and can
See your words unfurl like almond blossom
In the ether: soft whispered curls of sound
That becomes the hush-dance of the ocean.
And when you light a candle think of me,
Put a kiss on your fingertips and blow
It to the winds of Africa, for I
Am in each speck of the Sahara, my
Life but a memory that is flashing
Across the universe, a shooting star,
Death a mirror fractured by blinding light.

Jane Sharp
2010

ATTACK ON THE MONASTERY OF ST GEORGE, VRAHASSI, CRETE c 1770

She was on the hillside gathering greens,
Bent at the waist, head close to soft clover,
When hoof-sound made her mindful, still, and she
Crouched like an animal, afraid to move,
Then she set to sprint, but her long skirt caught
In the gauze, making her easy bounty,
Musk-soaked cotton pressed onto her warm breasts,
Freshly exposed through the rip in her blouse,
A hard Turk sealed her screams, violated
Every orifice, fucked life from her lips,
And left her for the vultures to feast on,

From a monastery not far away,
Came the hope of prayer and the promise of
A hot meal, hoof-sound made the monks mindful,
Habitual mutterings gave courage,
Switched on by the Angelus at daybreak,
They pleased God in a haze of sweet incense,
Inviting invaders to their table,

Abbot Gabriel turned towards heaven
And entertained the Turk, not knowing that
A circle of vultures clericked the sky,
Ready to gobble his flesh, drain his blood,
Tear apart his sibling’s unburied limbs,

The moon was up three times before he heard
Of his sister’s death, and berating cries
Accompanied the tolling of the bell,
Until his breath choked with venom of hate,
Until his sack-cloth soaked tears of revenge,
Till hoof-sound was the Devil at his gate,

When next the culprit clopped to rest and feed,
He did not meet with hospitality,
And whilst he tied his steaming steed, he was
At once set on, bludgeoned and boiled in oil
By raging priests, all thoughts of goodness gone,
Honeyed with justice, at damnation’s door,

At dawn they bore down for holy slaughter,
Razing the sacred home, and defacing
St George with a lead ball to the temple,
A damaged witness to torture,
Abbot Gabriel was imprisoned, hanged,
Hoof-sound muffling his call for forgiveness.

Jane Sharp
2010

SOFIA

Through no fault of her own, she was chosen,
In fact, she was minding her own business
At the time,
Involved in cleaning her own house.

I suppose it was due to that selfish moment
Whilst not keeping company with her neighbours,
Or peering from behind curtains,
That it happened.

It didn't register at first,
Ordinary things never do;
A mindless glance at her wrinkled stockings
Caused just the right angle for her vision.
Even then, it was like looking at
A piece of tissue paper on a skating rink,
Marble-white being perfect camouflage.

And in that instant, she became aware of
What it was,
And what it meant.

Looking over her shoulder she bent down
To focus on such a delicate thing,
Not exactly light enough to be air,
And yet, not rooted to the earth.

But the illumination was too bright,
And the perfect feather
White and sacred,
Seamed to dance around her feet.

She heard the absent bird call out her name,
And in her heart she knew from whence it came.

Jane Sharp
2004

APHRODITE RE-BORN

Did we meet too late in a stranger's bed,
One night in July, when the heat was too much
Even for a blanket?
And we had to drape ourselves over the edge.

You leaned my way and blew
A gentle fluting down my spine,
Which lit an ember almost lost,
Barely a touch,
A top-coat test,
Traced on my back a filigree line.

You held my hand and cradled my head
To your gossamer chest,
And stroked my hair, my golden hair,
Close to your heart as never before.

I warmed in the wrap of your nakedness,
Your fingers lightly skimmed my flesh,
As would butterfly wings an unopened rose,
You caressed the skin of my tict-swollen breasts,
And cupped their weight like fragile living things.

And then you deftly played with the moss
Of my maiden's grave,
Teasing her out - ghost of delight,
She-genie rubbed from Eastern night,
Lured from the depth of her Venus-moon cave.

Must-filled nostrils I raised up my head
To your hungry eyes,
Tasted your breath,
Your hungry breath,
Sealed your mouth,
Your hungry mouth,
Devoured the demon from deep inside.

Did we meet too late in a stranger's bed
That night in July?
When your reading of me was a Modigliani,
You the only sound I heard.

Jane Sharp

MITES AND OTHER BITING THINGS

Mummy-like I sleep atop my bed,
In sheet-shroud hemp, to save me from the mites,
Which creep inside my app' and feast the night
On flesh and fat,

And now retreated undenied,
They wait unseen, my sweet-oil limbs,
To tap my blood from top to toe,
While I in dream am numb to flow,

Maybe they sink into the nap of duvet, pillow,
Or some gap between the legs and wooden slats,
Which gather dust and harbour gnats,

And, once so fed they rest for days,
Before prepared to guzzle and gorge
The nectar of my honeyed veins,
Again the cause of so much pain,

So, whether these unsightly blotches
Come from micro-mite or other biting thing,
I hope this tight bound swaddling sack
Will keep me safe from next attack.

Jane Sharp 2004

HAIKU ON COCKTAIL HOUR

At Latino Bar
Beneath the October moon
We sipped fruit cocktails

Knowing that too soon
The bewitching hour would come
And splinter the spell

I had in my head
A tune which tinkled softly
Like Tibetan bells

Τα Χρώματα της αγάπης

Πάρε το χέρι μου
και οδήγησε με στην άκρη της νύχτας ,
εκεί όπου άρχισε η σπίθα της ζωής
και θα δούμε τα χρώματα
που βλέπουν μόνο οι τυφλοί .
Θα πάμε ένα ταξίδι ερωτικό
μέσα στο σκοτάδι,
και θα χορέψουμε
με τις κόρες του ουρανού .
Οι καρδιές μας θα γεμίσουν
με χρώματα από τα μάτια τους,
τα χρώματα της αγάπης.
Θα συναντήσουμε μέσα τους τις νότες των αστεριών ,
όλες τις ώρες θα κρατήσουμε τη νύχτα,
όλες τις ώρες θα είμαστε αγκαλιά για πάντα .



English translation - this is not a poem just a straight translation but it seems to work OK

Take my hand and lead me to the edge of night
Where began the flash of life
And we will see colours
Only seen by the blind,
We will go on an erotic journey
In between the dark,
And we will dance with
The daughters of the sky,
Our hearts will fill
With colours from their eyes,
The colours of love,
We will meet inside the notes of the stars,
All the hours we will hold the night,
All the hours we will be an embrace

Jane Sharp
August 2010