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.