Jane's Poetry

THE SNOWDROPS IN YOUR HAND

2011-02-12T08:04:00.000-08:00

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

2010-10-14T10:31:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-12T06:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-06T10:06:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-06T09:52:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-06T09:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-29T12:06:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-05T04:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-05T04:03:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-05T03:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-03T00:36:00.000-07:00

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

WOMAN GODDESS, FLOWER OF THE GODS

2010-08-28T01:02:00.000-07:00

For my friend Jill, on her 60th Birthday

I met you when you were most vulnerable,
Held together by nature’s resin,
A pink peony, all fluffed up and fluttering
In the wind of catastrophe,
But you were saved
By an unmoveable resilience to change,
And bolstered by friendship,
Turning the past into a beautiful album
That you kept close enough to be a comfort,
Yet far enough away to remain untouched,

And you became the woman goddess that
Was not afraid to say:
This is how I feel,
This is who I am,
A multi-petalled peony with hidden nymphs,
Enjoying the fragrance of the sunshine,
Enjoying the magic of the moon,

And taking all those broken pieces of heart,
You glued them together again,
Not wanting to discard a lifetime of love,
Not wanting to throw away
Remembrances of heartache,
Knowing what a heart was for,

Unbridled you galloped through the meadow
Freeing yourself from life’s bonds
A flash of glass on a sun-lit mountain,
Shining at the edges like the afterglow of day
Knowing that your fingers touched the stars,

Now, serene and brightening our presence
You sit amongst friends, almost too many to count,
In celebration of being that child of the universe,
That you and we, know you are,
That goddess woman, who has traveled life’s journey,
And learned life’s secret lore,

And, like the nymphs of the peony,
Your mischief continues to delight the Gods,
Bringing them to the brink of laughter, the brink of tears,
Filling their hearts with wonder at your power,
As they hold and protect their irreplaceable flower

© Jane Sharp 2010

VERSE FOR FUN!

2010-08-28T00:59:00.000-07:00

TOUR BUS DRIVERS IN CRETE

When bus drivers trough their spaghetti
They don’t use much etiquetti,
They shovel it in, dribbling oil over chin,
And grow more obese and more sweaty.

While looking for no-show slips
I came across other odd bits,
And to my surprise they were quite a large size,
Now I wonder which driver they fits.

There’s a driver, we all call him Elvis,
His head is much bigger than pelvis,
But if inches you seek, though it may take a week,
His wick, they do say, more than 12 is.

When a driver is ready for action,
He proves to be quite an attraction,
For he has the right gear with an exit to rear,
And firestone with just the right traction

There once was a driver called John,
Who polished his bus till it shone,
He rubbed it each day, and some they do say,
That its lustre is second to none

Most drivers I know are quite calm,
They wouldn’t do anyone harm,
But the language they spout when they curse and they shout
Reminds me of Animal Farm

Some drivers with long legs you’ll find,
Are usually most courteous and kind,
And, truth to tell they’re as sexy as hell
Especially where legs meet behind

Some drivers they drive with no fear,
The highway they’ve made their career,
Like knights of the road they ferry their load
As though on some far planisphere.

When a driver says ‘taka-taka,’
I think of a man with on knacker,
He’s usually Greek and unwashed for a week
And the answer I give is, ‘Malaka.’

There once was a driver called Josh,
Who said jolly-dee golly-gosh,
I’m sporting a tash and I’m ready to flash,
But I can’t find my old mackintosh.

O Manolis offered a bed,
In the rear of his bus, he said,
But I looked at his kecks and I knew he meant sex,
So I told him I’d rather be dead.

At the water park drivers will drool
At teenagers just out of school,
And some of them long for a tart in a thong,
Even though it’s against the rule

A tart with a bare posterior,
Thought she was oh so superior,
But her pink cellulite was a terrible sight,
And it moved like an old spring interior

Have a good summer all you reps out there. I've done that, got the T-shirt!

A CRETAN LOVE SONG

2010-07-12T00:28:00.000-07:00

How nervously do dance the fingertips
While playing out our love on every string,
And to our hearts they bring, with rhythms soft,
A happiness that wefts aloft, and weaves
Such intricate harmonious chords that feed
Our bodies, till so stirred our blood becomes,
And so absorbed inside our loving, that
Nothing exists beyond the rush of now,
Except perhaps the whoosh of Angel’s wings,

And picking up the pace swift lyra bow
States loud intent to seal the instant of
Our falling, urgent so we don’t forget
The very moment, nor the place we met,
The sun so bright it blocks out every sound,
Every worldly gibe, until the shadows
On the damask hide in a shift of leaves,
That set cicadas rattling the olives,
Like a chorus of crones trying to sing.

Quietly in its last refrain it slows,
The melody now fixed, the bow content,
Each note recalled, reeled in, the work complete,
Its spell forever etched within our feet,
Magic perfume scents the air around, and,
We, ecstatic, whisper wine soaked kisses,
Listening to the pound of each others heart,
Hypnotized by song, not knowing the hour,
Only blue eyes: blue eyes and a longing.

Jane Sharp
9 July 2010

PHILOSOPHY

2010-07-12T00:26:00.000-07:00

Stuff keeps dropping down the crack,
into a dark abyss of black
nothingness, where it rots and splits
in decay, leaving only bits
of matter, and images that haunt
the niche behind my eyes, and taunt
me with forms I recognize, but
cannot reach.

I have in mind the gap between
my boiler and my stove, which seems
to lay in wait for unsuspecting
prey, ready to gobble up each thing
that strays, unbalanced, from my grasp,
a noun in decline, where fast
it joins forms predestined to
become unknown.

It was a sausage, cooked and fat
that fell most recent down the crack,
over the edge and through the grid,
like a burial at sea it slid
into the deep, where now it finds
its rest, and what it leaves behind
is pure geometry,
thought, at its best.

Jane Sharp 8 March 94
Edited April 2010

MUSIC TEACHERS

2010-07-12T00:24:00.000-07:00

Music teachers come in all shapes and sizes,
Like dinosaurs, they are thin at both ends
And fatter in the middle,
They come in a mixture of genders,
An assortment of ages,
And they peer,
As teachers do, over your shoulder,
As though seeing the sound you make.

They can be plump old-maids - not quite nuns -
Middle-aged puffs with dripping fingertips,
Down-at-heel school masters with good imaginations,
Would-be sergeant majors, forever tapping their batons,
From a podium,
Euphoniums growling um-pa-pas
Screeching Stravinsky strings,
And cymbals missing that one chance,
To smash the silence,

And their peering goes on,
Relentlessly,

Miss (Sister Bernadette) Ogden,
Had a mission,
To refine country girls,
Recorder on a Monday, raffia lampshade-making Thursday,
As if farmhouses needed the cows piping in,
Or, raffia lampshades, come to think of it,
My descant filled the gap between 3.30 and teatime,
It was a chance to get out of milking,
But ‘London Bridge is burning down,’
Did not impress my bible-bashing dad,
Who liked to sing ‘We plough the fields and scatter…’

Before I had time to master hymn tunes,
Miss Ogden went to live with God - they said,
Leaving her little cottage full of raffia lampshades

Mr Haygarth was tall, thin, and fussy,
He had a double piano-stool
And a ‘naughty pussy’ called Tibby,
He peered over my shoulder, wagged his arms,
And pursed his lips to say, ‘Oo – dear - mistake,’
Like a pantomime dame (he’s behind you),
My Dad said he thought he was a bit queer,
It made no odds to me,
Until he ran off with a senior boy
From the grammar school,
Leaving Sonata in C, unpolished

Sonata in C played on my rescued-from-the-rubbish overstrung,
Two notes in every octave missing,
Didn’t impress anybody either
Dum, thud, dum, dum, thud-dee thud, Thud,Thud, dum…

It would have stopped there,
But my parents had entered ‘the mission’
And found me another teacher,

Miss Hall was a serious mistress, (so my Daddy said),
With a grand piano and a metronome,
She corrected my sloppy performance,
And drilled me into accuracy,
While peering incessantly over a red fan
That she closed to hit me with,
Whenever I made a mistake,

It was a miracle I passed exams,
Thinking of ‘naughty Tibby,’
Expecting a fan on the wrist,
Playing scales without a ‘ray’ or ‘soh’
And finally, I lost the will to ‘thud’,
Wanting to rip the felt out of my Knauss
Hating the sight of my Adler,
And wishing I could make a raffia lampshade,

Mr Michael Murphy, Catholic, with three kids,
And a head full of organ music
Tried to teach me harmony
But teenage hormones and Bach didn’t mix,
No matter how much peering he did,
And I began to loose sight of the plot,
The title,
That ‘thing’ that I was ‘to be’,
In my case, ‘not to be’,
When I grew up,
A music teacher,
I began to like Michael Murphy more than Bach

My Dad stopped my lessons and blamed the Pope,
He said Murphy was the devil in disguise,
Meanwhile my best friend had just won first prize
At the show, with her raffia lampshade

Mrs Gillian Ruddick, short, plumpish,
Happy graduate,
Cambridge Cap and gown,
Came down the street singing, ‘The hills are alive…’
A knowing twinkle in her eyes,
And a fan tucked into her handbag,

I should have clocked the look,
I should have recognized that pernickety smile;
That dinosaur stance;
The way she peered into my hands
As though hearing trapped melodies

And now I’m back in the chair,
Or on the stool, as it were, (not double)
With Mrs Gillian (on a mission) Ruddick,
Hell bent on extracting the bad wisdom
That I grew up with,
Drilling and filling-in the un-refined gaps

I am loving every single minute
Mrs Gillian Ruddick extraordinaire!
Not a hint of a raffia anywhere!

Jane Sharp
9 March 2010

Notes: Knauss was the name of my German Upright piano.
Adler was the make of my descant recorder.

FUNERAL DAY

2010-06-16T11:36:00.000-07:00

Where does life lead but a hole in the ground,
Where a sand-silt mound or a concrete tomb
Give just the right amount of room, to sqeeze
A wooden box inside, where lay a bride,
A bridegroom, or a child, someone's mother,
Uncle Clive, a colleague or a friend who
Died, now dried and packed with lillies and silk,
Dropped into the earth to rot and decay
Leaving only the memory of a voice,
And the sadness of a funeral day.

EVENING VISITOR

2010-06-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

Stopping the light from pouring through my door,
He was a silouette against the sun,
Like De Vinci man holding wide the jamb,
And it took me a while to realize
The form, the personna of Vasilis,
Ill? Drunk? Whichever it was his hold good,
Mumbling incoherently to the wood,
But quiet, gentle, nothing offensive,
Nothing good, and nothing I understood,
At first I thought him lost, but I was wrong,
He knew the reason, it was in his head,
The gathering of limbs was incomplete,
As his foot crossed the thresh to venture forth,
Offer of hand would have been impolite,
So I pulled a chair into his path, and
He sat a good hour trying to tell me
His wife had left him, she had gone before,
I think mine was the only open door.

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

2010-04-11T10:31:00.000-07:00

As it is National Poetry Month you may like to take a look at my poetry blog (see links). If not here is my poem of the day:

Conversation with a Parrot
"Tell me about God," said the parrot, who had heard people talking,
"He's a creator," I said,
"A creator?" said the parrot,
"Yes, he made everything," I said,
"He?" said the parrot,
"Yes, he made me and you," I said,
"He made me?" said the parrot,
"Yes, you," I said,
"You?" said the parrot,
"Every inch of what you see, God made," I said,
"What you see, God made," said the parrot,
I had to agree - he was a very smart parrot!

Jane Sharp

PEELING

2010-03-31T09:02:00.000-07:00

Lulled by the rays of a September star
In a surreal haze of 'out of body'
I joined your paternal trestle
To drink cold beer and set the world to right
Your women were in and out of the kitchen
With pots, like handmaidens
Tottering about to your every call
That is, until the potatoes arrived - two sacks
Then you moved
Eager to prove strength rather than help
But help it was
And like dead pigs' innards, you spilled potatoes
Onto the grass ready for your women's knives

I swapped sides to join three generations of peelers
Once of a day I wouldn't have wanted to be so cast
But there was a certain comfort in sqatting
Knee to knee, engaged in the task of peeling
Besides I didn't want the bloody work
Of butchering the lamb
Nor the sweat of heavy iron cauldrons
And cylinder gas
And it made a change not to have to listen
To your brash vulgarities

Peeling was such a sympathetic way
To bring me closer to your family
It was almost worth the hand cramps
To win approval
But it didn't win me over

Later at the celebration, when you danced
And sang, and laughed with your brothers
I, in female sobriety was a marooned astral
Hating all that segregation.

RESURRECTION

2010-03-12T09:50:00.000-08:00

RESURRECTION

Sigh Messiah
Agony of cross
Howl out your heart for death
Echo of shadows

Cry rusty nail
Let twisted minds drown,
Let the blood of slaughter
Steep Calvary

Weep moldy wood
The stench of decay
From hacked bodies of war
Cracked sin-stained skulls

Sting shiny blade
Slice a crimson cull
Splatter gut-gore carnage
Barbarous tribe

Burn torch of night
Illuminate sky
Flood putrefied badlands
Oriflamme dawn

Rise in the light
Snake-cast left behind
Smooth peach in the garden
Resurrection

Jane Sharp
12 March 2010

This is the same poem written in a different metre

RESURRECTION (TAKE TWO)

Sigh, Messiah, agony of the cross
Howl out your heart for death’s shadows to fall

Cry rusty nail, and let twisted minds drown
Let the blood of slaughter steep Calvary

Weep moldy wood with the stench of decay
From hacked bodies of war, cracked sin-stained skulls

Sting shining blade, and slice a crimson cull
Splatter gut-gore carnage, barbarous tribe

Burn torch of night, illuminate the sky
Flood putrefied badlands oriflamme dawn

Rise in the light, the snake-cast left behind
And wait, smooth peach, for the resurrection

Jane Sharp
12 March 2010

Aunt Martha's Lenten Quest.

2010-01-14T12:08:00.000-08:00

Aunt Martha's Lenten Quest.

A Yorkshire Poem By Jane Sharp.

NUMBER 1 POEM IN GREEK (with a few mistakes I am sure).

2008-10-23T08:18:00.000-07:00

ΟΤΑΝ ΜΠΟΡΩ ΝΑ ΓΡΑΨΩ ΕΝΑ ΠΟΙΜΑ ΣΤΑ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ

Όταν μπορώ να γράψω ενα ποίημα στα ελληνικά

Θα μιλήσω για τα καύσωνα τα καλοκακίρια
Όταν κοιμάμαι το απόγευμα.

Θα μιλήσω για τους κρυούς χειμώνες
Όταν η μυρωιά του καμένου ξύλου με ακολουθεί.

Θα μιλήσω για το φθινόπωρο
Όταν οι αγρότες φαίνονται κουρασμένοι.

Θα μιλησώ για την άνοιξη
Όταν αναπνέει ο Θεός ζωή σε όλα.

Και Θα σας πω πως νιώθω
Όταν κοιτάζω τα αστέρια
Στο φωτεινό ουρανό,

Πως νιώθω οταν ακουώ τα πουλάκια
Στην ψιλή μαρκίζα,

Πως νιώθω όταν αγκαλιάζω τα δέντρα.

Και θα σας εξηγήσω γιατί είμαι ερωτευμένη με την Ελλάδα.

Εν τω μεταξύ θα καθίσω στη σκιά,
Οι λόγκες των ακτίνων το ήλιου
Με θυμίζουν τον Αχιλλέα.

Jane Sharp
September 2008

JACKSON POLLOCK?

2008-07-27T04:55:00.000-07:00

Jackson Pollock passes by in sleep
A name I keep on my lips
Till morning,
Not knowing who he is
Or why I want to meet him.
He spills out roughly over my dry tongue
Into consciousness,
And even as I stretch and yawn,
Thinking daily things,
My mind brings forward
Jackson Pollock.

So I open a window and ask space for an answer.
Had I come across the name in conversation?
Had the information flashed across a screen
Surreptitiously hidden from me
To be revealed in dream?

Could it be that Jackson Pollock, in death,
Was left splashing the universe with his colour?

Was he yet weaving snaking lavender threads of pure emotion?
The unfettered Jackson Pollock.

It is no surprise to find the man
Behind the name had, in life,
Trapped something of his genius on canvas.
Chaotic scenes of brilliance woven
Like Aztec visions of hell
Transcendental spiders’ webs within which a part of Jackson Pollock remains visible,
Captured like a snapshot American Indian.

Three names were in the dark but only one remains a spark: Jackson Pollock.

I wonder, will someone in some other time awake with my name in their head?
Are we ever dead?

ODE TO A MARKETING WHIZ

2008-07-17T07:39:00.000-07:00

Oh soft the sweet computer calls you by
And flirting bids you sit for hours on end
'Clicking on' and 'keying in' which I, shy
Of talking by machine my right defend
To play Sudoku, watch TV or sew
And silently do pass my day (and night)
Alone, widowed by a whiz whose bloggin
Pays for my homely comforts, don't ye know!
And though I'd love some male attention, right,
Nothing beats a profitable 'log in'.

Jane Sharp
Lonely Poets' Society

A HEART THAT'S AS COLD AS STONE

2008-07-08T04:56:00.000-07:00

(I wrote this song in the aftermath of the split between G and me)

It doesn't bother me that you hurt me so
It doesn't bother me I'll just let you go
It doesn't bother me that you told me lies
It doesn't bother me that you criticize
And now you're all alone
A heart that's cold as stone
And crying in the dark.

It doesn't bother me that you loved and lost
It doesn't bother me that I pay the cost
It doesn't bother me that I burnt my hand
It doesn't bother me it's just a ripple in the sand
And now you're all alone
A heart that's cold as stone
And crying in the dark.

No more dancing in the summer sun
Two hearts that now will never be as one
You locked me out and now you're all alone
With a heart that's as cold as stone.

It doesn't bother me that you locked me out
It doesn't bother me now there is no doubt
It doesn't bother me that you lost your way
It doesn't bother me our love was easy thrown away
And now you're all alone
A heart that's cold as stone
And crying in the dark.

No more dancing in the summer sun
Two hearts that now will never be as one
You locked me out and now you're all alone
With a heart that's as cold as stone...repeat and fade...

FLYING HIGH

2008-02-19T07:08:00.000-08:00

It's like this,
Yer flying along in the middle of nowhere,
'Cos the sky is full of nothing and 30,000 feet is a long way up,
When outside yer see a man in a top hat peddling for all he's worth
On a bicycle.
That's strange, yer think,
And because nobody else sees the guy (or at least doesn't let on they 'ave),
Yer think, nah, couldn't 'a' been, and continue reading the in-flight mag
Which 'ad been so boring as to cause ye to look out the window in the first place.
All the same, yer think, that guy was mighty real to me, and ye look around
To see if anyone else is looking 'disturbed'.
Yer don't want to say anything 'cos yer
Know it's impossible for a man in a top hat to be cycling throught the air
At 30,000 feet.
And anyways yer don't want people to think you've 'ad an embolism.

He was wearing yeller trousers too,
But he weren't a clown, at least I don't think so.
He were just 'sit-up-and-beg' enjoying the ride.
I could tell he were enjoying the ride 'cos he 'ad such a 'gleeful'
Smile on his face.

I can't believe no-one else saw 'im.

I look out the window again half expecting to see some of his mates
On the same track,
But no,
No such luck.
And now I feel sort of privileged to 'ave seen 'im,
A bit like descovering some rare botanical thing in the 'edgrow.
There's loads o' times yer the only one that notices these things.

I wonder where he was off to,
That chap on the bike, 30,000 feet up, in the middle of nowhere.
It could just 'ave been a weekend thing,
People do all sorts o' crazy things on a weekend.

Ye', yeller trousers... and a blue shirt...

Must 'a' been a Chelsea supporter!

The Rudiments of Musical Knowledge

2006-10-04T22:31:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-10T22:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-25T22:44:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-19T23:09:00.000-07:00

Three days without the computer - agggggh!

Boiled Goat and Spagetti

2006-06-15T23:16:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-24T23:13:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-22T05:13:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-22T04:21:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-05T05:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-03T05:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-03T03:52:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-29T10:52:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-29T10:46:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-29T10:37:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-27T07:03:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-21T09:08:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-21T09:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-17T23:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-17T23:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-17T23:07:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-13T22:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-13T22:44:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-12T12:19:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-11T04:51:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-11T03:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-11T02:50:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-08T08:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

Looking out to sea

2006-04-08T08:10:00.000-07:00

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.