Greek Voices

Greek Voices

Yianni, out of work, huddled in a doorway,

Sucks the last smoke from his precious roll-up,

Feels the thin cloth of his empty pockets,

And stamps his dead-man’s shoes on the pavement,

He doesn’t want to queue for potatoes

In the open streets of Athens, or take

His wife a bundle of clothes from the church,

He doesn’t want to sit at a table

Like a monk from Athos, waiting for Easter,

So he goes to his mother, who, welcomes

Him, open arms, to her bare house, and shares

A pot of boiled greens she picked on the hill.

He returns home blasting the sweet Virgin,

Not because there is no meat on his plate,

But because his voice is all he has left,

His wife shouts back, not because there is no

Meat on her plate, (or hope of any) but

Because the sound of their voices creates

Paradise in a vacuum of silence,

They want their voices to be heard; they want

To rattle the glass of a thousand panes

©Jane Sharp 2012

In Memory of Marie Colvin and Remi Ochlik, Killed in Syria, February 2012

In Memory of Marie Colvin and Remi Ochlik,

Killed in Syria, February 2012

In a bunker,

Covered in grey dust,

And grazed,

Eyes glazed over with

Tears of Homs,

The battle-crack

Of Somme

Blasting history

To oblivion,

Heads clamped in palms,

Unarmed, brave,

Strands of DNA

Standing defiant,

Waiting for angels

In God’s garden,

In the slant of Spring rain,

In the same slant of Spring rain

That grows orchids.

©Jane Sharp

February 25, 2012

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.

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

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

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

WOMAN GODDESS, FLOWER OF THE GODS

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!

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

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

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

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.