The Rudiments of Musical Knowledge

I was all a QUAVER
As he WALTZ'd me a-ROUND,
Then he changed the TEMPO
And we TANGO'd to the sound,
It only took a MINUETTE
His FLAT was very small
And I bowed out, RALLENTANDO,
Before the curtain call.
The PHRASE he used was simple,
STACCATO and quite BASS,
And I gathered from the DIATONIC
Look upon his FACE,
That I'd better ALLEGRETTO
Before he made me stay
To REPEAT FROM THE BEGINNING
In some other RHYTHMIC way.
I CODA stayed, I CODA,
But I JIVE'd off to the BAR
And COMPOSED myself a moment
With an iced TONIC SOL-FA,
TRANSPOSED I felt much better
And called a METRA-NOME
But as I fumbled for my KEYI heard his dulcet TONE,
He said don't worry I'll be BREVE
And then he PAUSE'd to REST
He'd SCALE'd the stairs in DOUBLE TIME
And had to BEAT his chest,
The moment was CHROMATIC
But his TIMING was just right
And when he said "Let's TIE THE DOT"
I had to PLAY BY SIGHT,
My KEY became quite MINOR
As we stood atop the stairs
And I ACCIDENTAL-ly dropped it,
Not altogether fair
Because he had to CROTCHET down
And whilst on bended knee
I answered, AD LIBITUM,
"Yes," in PERFECT HARMONY,
The change in me was MAJOR
My SIGNATURE became
An ORNAMENTAL sounding SHARP
A quite AUGMENTED name,
We learned the RUDEMENTS quite fast,
DUETS were slightly naughty,
He TRILL'd me then and TRILL'S me now,
Although he's well past FORTE.

Vrahassi Bone House

If you put my bones in a cardboard box
Please don't be so hasty,
DRACULA SNACKS may be quite good
But bones are not so tasty

Besides it doesn't look just right
When other casks are oak'
To have an ad of 'TASTY SNACKS'
In fact it's quite a joke

Do you suppose the Verger knew
Perhaps it was a dare
Whichever way you look at it
It doesn't seem quite fair

But in the bone house one such box
I saw amongst the racks
In truth it bore the 'vertisment
'DRACULA TASTY SNACKS'

(I wrote this after a visit to the grave yard in Vrahassi).

Boys

Boys yell obscenities in the street,
They stuff with macaroni
And drink coke,
They pull out birds' wings and torment puppies,
They throw litter in doorways and vandalise,
They terrorise old ladies with firecrackers
And do no wrong in the eyes of doting mama,
They have one finger up a nostril,
Pee anywhere,
And are boys for ever.

computer down

Three days without the computer - agggggh!

Boiled Goat and Spagetti

I once fell in love with a shepherd,
A shepherd from far away Crete,
He was dark as the black midnight heavens,
With a passion for dance in his feet,
But though he was so very agile,
And my heart strings he magic'ly plucked,
Oh, I just couldn't stand his aroma,
Or the food that his old mother cooked...

Boiled goat and spagetti and sweaty-sock cheese,
Mutton and odd bits of ram,
Liver and kidney and heart and sheep's balls,
They all came along with the man.

My shepherd was so very handsom,
The handsomest man on all Crete,
He spent all day long on the mountain,
With his wooly-backed beasties, the sheep,
But it weren't just the smell were the problem,
There were other unatural things too,
Like the way that he had when he wooed me,
On dinners of hot sheep brain stew, and...

Boiled goat and spagetti and sweaty-sock cheese,
Muton and odd bits of ram,
Liver and kidney and heart and sheep's balls,
They all came along with the man.

Oh, he wooed me right good three times weekly,
But I just couldn't hack all that stew,
And he never the once took his boots off,
Well, what has a girl got to do?
I said that there'd be no more dancing,
He'd have to get on with his life,
So that was the end of romancing,
And he went off in search of a wife (someone who could cook him...)

Boiled goat and spagetti and sweaty-sock cheese,
Mutton and odd bits of ram,
Liver and kidney and heart and sheep's balls,
They all come along with the man.

The church where he wed it was humming,
Though everyone looked nice and clean,
The trouble you see were his wellies,
And where they had probably been,
But the dancing went on way past midnight,
The village had done him real proud,
There were tressels for over a thousand,
And all that traditional food, (you got it...)

Boiled goat and spagetti and sweaty-sock cheese,
Mutton and odd bits of ram,
Liver and kidney and heart and sheep's balls,
They all came along with the man.

Well his bride she was ever so pretty,
She'd shaved her moustache for the night,
Her stockings came up to her kneecaps,
And her arse was a Turkish delight,
And they danced like there'd be no tomorrow,
Even the earth it did shake,
And my shepherd was so very happy,
Because every night she would make...

Boiled goat and spagetti and sweaty-sock cheese,
Mutton and odd bits of ram,
Liver and kidney and heart and sheep's balls,
They all came along with the man.

So if you like me are so tempted,
By shepherd's in tall leather boots,
Remember you may need a clothes peg,
And a liking for offal and shoots,
But you're sure to enjoy all that dancing,
And his family will treat you real fine,
Just don't go expecting French cooking,
Cos the food that you'll get all the time (will be...)

Boiled goat and spagetti and sweaty-sock cheese,
Mutton and odd bits of ram,
Liver and kidney and heart and sheep's balls,
They all come along with the man.

(That's it folks!)

Mantinadas

I wish I were the tear that falls
onto your lips each morning
then I could take away the pain
and satisfy your longing

I met a man in Vrahassi
his boots were made of leather
he left a footprint on my heart
that will be there forever

Anavlohos, Anavlohos
Vrahassi sits your mountain
each house a white rose in your arms
each scar a flowing fountain

When I see you in the morning
rasping breath and bleary eyed
let me destroy your cigarettes
and the raki you've imbibed

*For information on the construction of a Mantinada check out my Poetry Workshop web site on:
http://feelings.ws

The Cheesemaker

THE CHEESE MAKER

Your body leaned at thirty-three degrees,
From bent toes to the soft cheese you molded,
And you pressed a trickle of warm whey
Through the holes of the Toupi, on doubled hands,
As if to give life, to restart a heart,
And when you prostrated yourself again,
The line of your body was like Omar as Doctor Zhivago,
Mountain weary but sultry as an Eastern Prince,
And heavy gold hung from your neck
Over the open popper of your black denim,
Like the cobwebs that wafted
In the draft of a thermal above the cauldron,
Into which from time to time you poked a finger
To fish out specs of ash,
We sat, a crowd to keep you company
And watch you work,
Taking turns to stir like a Christmas Pud
The warming milk,
And while you shaped rounds of Misithra
We shared a bowl of hot curds and a bottle of Drambuie,
The night was over all too soon for me,
But I knew you would be out in the dark of the morning
On the scree with your sheep,
And sleep was as precious to you as your winter jacket,
So we said 'good night'
And I with purple potion on my eyes
Took you home to my bed,
Where I fantasized under the spell of Morpheus,
Until with the cold of morning
And the red crest of dawn,
I heard the call of Oberon.

Toupi - a small basket in which the cheese sets.

The Vrahassian

I do not speak of Cretan Man,
But of the dark Vrahassian,
He is both proud and very shrewd,
And on occasion can be lewd,
It isn't hard to make him smile,
Though seriousness is more his style,
And now his donkey is no more,
His status is a 4 x 4.

He'll drink the raki till he's blind,
And miss a day - but never mind!
He'll throw his waistcoat on and pose,
But never ever blow his nose,
With dogs and gun he looks the part,
Knee boots indeed are very smart,
And as he strides towards the door,
Remote unlocks his 4 x 4.

His woman should make sure he's fed,
And give him what he asks in bed,
But even then he's apt to roam,
Some night when he is far from home,
He'll twist his tash, put on the look,
And seek some other skirt to fuck,
He'll fuck and think of her no more,
Now that he has a 4 x 4.

And when bouzouki rhythms beat,
His very soul is in his feet,
And nothing can replace the dance,
So muted is he in his trance,
And to the music he displays
A passion that could last for days,
He even disregards the law,
Now that he has a 4 x 4.

This man you'll say is very rough,
But I prefer to think him tough,
There are occasions he may lie,
But for his brother he would die,
I know you'll think me quite insane,
But listen, please, let me explain,
You see I do so much adore
This mountain man with 4 x 4.

Though often he is very wild,
In many ways he's like a child,
And though his moods are continental,
Still, he can be very gentle,
But most of all I love this man,
Because he doesn't care a dam,
And when his landscape I explore,
It has to be by 4 x 4.

Grasshopper Bread

Before you read this poem it is important for you to know that ‘Grasshopper’ bread is the name my neighbours give to a special loaf that they have in the house just for visitors.


Village women cluster round the van
As if to rummage through jumble,
Black hens wanting to peck sweet corn
While the man fumbles over euros

Fluffed up cardies snag on warm crusts
That drag in the air for butter
To the trip of shuttling slip-ons
Not to be out of the house too long.

And Grasshopper bread sits on the shelf
Like a prize bear at ‘Luna park’
(The one that nobody every wins),
Waiting for that dark hopper-in.

Waiting for someone to share the day,
That unexpected visitor
Who always finds an open door
And an open store of stuffed vine leaves.

If the cob goes stale then never mind
On Wednesdays mornings before eight
Fat hens flap about in the coup
Craning for the scoop of ‘Grasshopper.

The van-man stops in the village square
With his bears wrapped in greaseproof bags,
A regular date for the hags,
While their fat hens dance the Syrtaki.

Luna park is the fairground.
Syrtaki is a Greek dance.

A Bit of Erotic for a Mountain Climber

Come bury your head in my bosom
And I'll enter the world of your dreams,

Come bury your head in my bosom
And we'll smother ourselves in sweet creams.

Enter the valley of drumlins
And roll round each boulder of flesh,

Taste the delight in my codlins
And pretend that you're in Marakesh.

Feel the silk sheets slip between us
As we toss and slide to the floor,

Drown in warm oceans of peaches
And grab just a little bit more.

Dimple my dough, rough as you need,
Make me a profiterole roux,

Filled with confectioners' custard
I'll heat up your chocolate fondue.

Sway like an Eastern snake charmer
And in Lotus position I'll charm,

I'll charm you my free mountain climber
Till elbows and knees are all worn.

Come, bury your head in my bosom,
See me rise like a lemon souffle,

Come, bury your head in my bosom,
And together we'll swing a belay.

Sometimes it's good to lighten up a bit when writing poetry.

Maria

We walked together,
I the younger by a generation,
And when I thought you would falter
In flimsy slip-ons there was not
The slightest indecision.
I on the other hand reached out
Three points on the rock, to steady myself,
Even though my boots were good.
And despite your bottle-bottom spectacles
You found on the hillside
Perfect specimens of wild vegetables
That I would have called grass,
Even then with my good eyes
I couldn't lay my hands on the same,
Besides, all around were prickles,
But your skin never felt them.
Neither could I make that regular tearing sound
Like sheep pulling at roots.
You were well practised at grazing,
If it hadn't been for your cardigan and skirt
And knee length stockings
(I can hardly call them pop-socks here),
I could have easily mistaken you for an animal
Bent head down amongst the shrubs and thistles.
The real give away was the plastic bag
That no self respecting 'Horta Picker'
Would be without (and very seldom is),
I didn't have one (and probably never will).
Then, after, there were green weeds
All over your kitchen floor
As you plucked at dead bits
And rooty bits
And bits of the wrong stuff.
The good went on the table ready for the pot,
It took us half a day (very pleasant mind)
To provide a dish of horta for the family,
Who grunted as they sat at the table
Forking it, like famers making hay,
Into heads two inches from the bowl,
Oil dribbling off chins.

Horta is Greek for wild greens.

Cretan Shepherds

Beneath mandila furrows
Sun squinting memories reside
And images of black provide
A brotherhood of mountain pride.

All hairy faced and raki eyed
You strut a slow but princely gait
And know that all the world will wait
Now that your presence sets debate.

And so you shepherds congregate
With such great peacock-like profile,
You bunch so matey, so tactile,
In unsophisticated style.

Thus ever flows eternal trial,
The confluence of East and West,
A perfect symbiotic test
Of custom, culture and conquest.

For now the shepherd has progressed,
His TV set has pride of place
He's in the 20th century race
And four-wheel drive is commonplace.

His wife even has factory lace,
Though lamb, please God,
Will stay the same,
It may go by another name,
But shepherds will retain their fame.

And Oh the folly, Oh the shame
Should mavro turn another shade,
Should shepherds take another trade,
Should raki turn to lemonade.

For all things lanate never jade,
Your studded shirt and black Levis
Keep dark as moonless winter skies
The old cut diamond in your eyes.

(Mandila - a Cretan scarf.
Raki - clear white spirit
Mavro - Cretan for black)

Haiku on blue

I saw the voyage
Of a floating caique
In the blue of dream

I saw the dance of
A rainbow dither in trance
Of aquamarine

I saw the splash of
Everlasting life in an
Embryonic stream

Sunrise

Tinged by the dawn I invoke the sun
To break the circle of the cosmos.

I put away the mark of the moon
And empty myself to the four winds.

My fringed fingers tingle with photons
From the revolve of the universe
And I am adrift on the current
Like a rooted sea-anemone.

The Angelus-bell resounds its first
As the ground bursts blood
And warm blood burst into
Aeons of thought that steep
My mind with talk of
Yesterday's tomorrow.

And a karmic stalk of brilliance
Scorches my humanity
And scars the pink cocoon
From which I rise,
To bathe in Holy sentience
Of mankind.

Morning

A dragon hump looms in zulu three hundred light,
Holding the blackness back beyond the moon,
An earth-edge boundary on night patrol.

The east-arc spot tracks its flank
spilling a Gulag beam onto the periphery
Where sentinels stand to guard deep hollows

Ready for Apollo to kiss the dark.
And virgin loam flushes with that first touch
Making shadows yawn and creatures scurry.

Dawn-song echoes spheres to wake all earthlings,
While lambent-light floods the hump with morning
And orchis - cretica smiles at the day.

Penelope

How many days before you return
To the woman who waits?

How many silent nights must go by
With no-one at the gate?

How many sheep must I count to
Woo me into a slumber?

How many moons illuminate my
Womb-fires fading ember?

How many love sparks must fizzle
Out in this cocktail of dream?

How can I keep a sun-filled heart
When you're far away upstream?

Haiku on love

Lights burn in your eyes
Like Cretan caiques on
The ink-tide of night.

To smell the sweetness
Of your lips is to be in
Persephone's lea.

When I see your eyes
My heart eats fire and I am
So very hot inside.

Adonis

A tiny fish bone caused his pain,
Or so he said.
It was a niggle behind his tooth,
But no-one knew.
And what did it matter anyway,
It was his pain, not communal.
Like Tin-man with a tummy ache
It was impossible to detect his discomfort,
But the sharing seemed to ease
A quota of his suffering,
An the recongnition that I felt
Caused a temporary numbness
Of my own hurt.
I could feel the warmth of his aura
Mend the break in mine,
And the token shell which fizzed with vitality,
Became an anchor as he took it from his neck
In a moment of friendship.
He told me that his pain was just,
For the taste of the fish had been so good.

For Ralph and Uschi

Ralph, I promised you a line
What a pity I cannot make it trail through the air
Like your Havana.
Even a bi-plane could not string the sign
I want to write.
And then you asked for two,
One for Luck you said,
The other for Love.
Well if Love is passion
Then thank you for the second line,
For without passion what is Luck.

And Uschi, you flit
About the uncultured streets of Sissi
Like Cleopatra above the mob,
So beautiful that I am envious.
And I know Ralph spends his time
Writing second lines
For you.

Who would have thought that
Over a bottle of Jim Beam
We would meet in such a place,
Luck!

I slipped into your space
For no more than a sip
And tasted warm kumquats
On the lips of a Matador.
Passion!

(Sissi is a small fishing village in Crete)

Mike

Say 'hello' to Mike
When you meet him in the street,
Try his food it's plentiful
His charm a real treat,
Don't cry shy of foreign pies
Or fish you've never tasted,
You'll find his meat is always fresh
And specially decorated.
Accept the Raki when it comes,
It's one of life's adventures.
Be a devil warm your gums
And sterilize your dentures.

Haiku on a Bouzouki Player

Lost in acoustics
My bouzouki player made
The crockery dance

And fingers tapped to
His interpetation of
Zorba's melody

It mattered not that
He was in a taverna
He had his own space

The Ancient Cedar Forest

I went where there were trees
Before the pirates came
Leaving charred embers

Now bald petrifaction
Like bleached skulls remain
Uncovered skeletons

Earth-skeletons exhumed
By earth-breath
And earth-tears
Weeping for lost trees

Wrinkles in my Sheets

There are wrinkles in my sheets
I did not see before,
And already there is knocking at my door,
But I am not prepared to let him meet
My crumpled bed until I've made it neat.
The iron grows heavy in my dimpled hand
And steadily I lean the creases out,
'Till ruck becomes a plane I understand
And rumpled nap compressed and innocent.
It would not surprise me
If I heard it said,
"The Japanese have ceremony of making-bed",
Performed with perfect symmetry
Billowing sheets unfurled
Would be re-formed,
Smoothly laid out with a sweep of the arm,
Corners tucked flat in origami fold,
No less an expression of the love held
By the tea-makers.
Making beds should not be done in a hurry,
Rather lined like a Faberge egg
Ready to cradle some chamferless jewel.
When my bed is made, furrows ironed out
And the turn-down taut,
Waiting unrumpled for its precious let,
Then, when there are no wrinkles in my sheets,
I will be ready to open the door.

(this poem won fourth prize in the Ouse Valley Poetry Competition 1992/93)

Yiorgos

You were in your best light that day
As you posed with the great curly horned ram
Surrounded as you were by all that chinkling
And the silent eclipse of eagles in the eye of Uranus,
With only tall crags and the vee of the gorge
And the hush of the wind as it passed to the sea.

You were for me a valiant cavalier
With that angular stance of a proud Hussar
And I could see you in a braided jileko
With the flash of steel in your cummerbund,
No doubt your boots were handmade
In the mountains.

And later, all those qualities of chivalry blazed
When you shared souvlaki and a glass of beer
With the old priest Nicodemus at Selinary.
We cooled our hands under the fountain flow
Imprinting the ocean with our friendship.

O Agrotis

The terrace is a geriatric wing
Beneath a canopy of foliage,
Where you flop in meridian shadows
Panting like a pride of well fed lions.
Your skin is a slow drying doe with an egg glaze,
Pools of opaque albumen are blood burst eyes
That squint through phased irises,
Black and hollow like tunnels of your mind
Etched with agronomy, stench and incest.
And in between a sweet virgin
And the scent of oregano.
Did you ever have colour in your life?
No,
Colour and comfort were not your lot,
Only grey,
Grey, grey and more grey,
Layers of grey
That will be peeled from your body when you die
Like the layers of an onion bringing tears.
Now all you need is a rackety chair
And patched workwear for planting cabbages.
There is no woman's clucking here,
Only the bark of your grumbling soliloquy
And a siphonic slurping of coffee while you
Snook and spit over a dish of olives
And a karafachi of raki.
And your woman meanwhile
Is on the hill gathering horta in a plastic bag.
No doubt you will take your katsouna to her
If she doesn't feed you or let you fuck her,
Even though you smell of old goat.
And between the gobbing up and grunting
You still have the gall to ask me for sex
As though the only memory you have
Is nature's call in your bollocks
Like a need to urinate or finger beads.
It is too late for education,
An eagle points its wingtips to heaven
But all you see is the earth that bore you.

(Horta is the name given to wild greens)

Yannis

Yannis thought his luck was in
When the blond he'd been eying up
Accepted a drink.

She had the same thought.
He tested her, to see how easy she would be
By placing his hand on her shoulder
In a matey way.
She'd been leaned on before
And shrugged him off,
But did it with a smile.

He tried again
This time it was a very sublte move around her
As he asked to be excused.

On his return she moved forward
To avoid collision.

Hmm, he thought,
Not so easy.

She planned to take him
At approximately one a.m.

He placed another drink in front of her.
"I'll get this one," she said.

Haiku on a Greek Salad

Beneath white feta
Is a succulent garden
Of summer sunshine

I soak my bread in
The virgin oil of winter
Tasting Katsounas

Trilling mandolins
Make trellised shadows dance like
Godfathers in spring


Note: A katsouna is a long stick which is used to beat the olives from the tree.

Looking out to Sea

Looking out to sea

In the eminence of emerald drifts the idea of
Menelaus leaving Crete,
With the power of Mycenae
Crusted on his feet
And venomous blood
Surging those bronzed pectorals
Of a thwarted youth.
And woe betide the bold Paris
And his bride, stolen or otherwise -
Conjecture,
But so devised as to create a war,
So terrible,
So prolonged
That ten years passed and heroes lost
Before they saw their brave Prince home,
Wearily to Sparta come
With the fair Helen
So unhappy won.