JACKSON POLLOCK?

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

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

(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

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

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?