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