while the night

while the night awaits

I unroll the high tide like a blanket

tightly under my chin

the waves like silken bedsheets

my body immense under the unlit sky

my arms stretching across the bay

my legs and feet unfolding far

far towards the invisible horizon

my head resting on the shelled sand

my lidless gaze resting in space

you can't understand if you haven't been there

but I'll let you come with me, if you wish

the waves tucked against my cheeks

the gentle glow of the stars

the silent scorch of the abated sun

the mind-music humming

the verses binding the thoughts

this perfected unity lulls me to sleep

I'll let you come, I'll let you come with me

to hear the heart of the sea pulse

while the night awaits

in that semblance of sleep

when memory takes over and starts dreaming

the soul-search commencing in the details,

in the inflexions of the voices,

in the shape of the sun,

in the form of the waves,

in the wrinkles at the corner of the eyes,

in the words, the meaninglessful words,

you can't understand if you can't see

you can't understand if you can't hear

yet if you have forgotten how to feel

or what it takes to listen

to hold a hand

or to withhold a hand

for they are like tears

I'll let you come with me

if you really want to see

if you really want to see

if you really want to see

when the world forms

what the world was, is, will be

while the night watches

while the blanket of the seas

envelops us both in loneliness

in exile, in brotherhood, in love

while the remanence of trees and rivers

traces arid songs of exile, brotherhood and love

and loneliness

bottled up deep in the ground

I'll let you come with me

and hold hands

and set the stars free

by breaking open glass poems

here, under the domed sky of Gyaros,

of Efstratios, of Makronisos

where my name is once again

and forever, Yannis Ritsos

to Rena

 

prairie fire

the general tiredness of being

of the self, the consummation

of the nerve of the blazing mind

like a prairie on fire

on constant fire

constant wakefulness

like a self-imposed hunger

to keep the mind sharp

a window wide open

to stay awake at the wheel

umpteenth cup of black coffee

watching the blaze advance from the porch

never quite the repose

tense vigil of the senses

nose in the air to detect wind changes

the body carries on, fragile equipoise

on the tip of conscience

incessant tinnitus

like an anthill or a beehive

or a prairie fire

thoughts in motion

synced with the pendulum of the arms

pulling back before the torched ground

the flames unchecked

keeping awake night and day

the roar, the roar above every sound

controlled habit of running away

organised chaos of leaving everything behind

flammable possessions at the mercy of the inferno

pictures, books, writings

all left behind to be burnt

necessary sacrifice to preserve

the crystallised legacy of the instant

thoughts after thoughts after thoughts

my mind like a prairie on fire

on constant fire

 

Ohm

Claims of achieved greatness,

of being a remarkable man

have been drowned

once and for all

all possible events were now

sunsets seen from rooftops

dousing the plain with fire

prime location to witness the end of the world

you put an end to us

you left me on the pavement

unwarned, unprepared

with nothing on but what I wore

you were a swarm of locusts

and hail like fucking cannonballs

a great tinnitus that wouldn't stop

a roaring gale felling trees

and you didn't care

you had to move forward

– leave corpses if need be –

it was a beast of a year

and you almost killed me,

I have to say,

first with love

then with hate

– oh, how much more potent hate is –

that great force you used

like a typhoon's

could hardly be resisted

turning soil into mud

levelling houses and minds

you were a freaking natural disaster

and quite oblivious of the magnitude

of the earthquake which you were about to raise

I stood there in the palm of your hands

and suddenly your hands

were in a fist packing a snowball

with locked jaws and a frowned brow

It's going to take a while to recover,

you know,

like learning how to walk again

(yes, I know what it feels like

it makes you wince

and cringe

and sometimes cry)

but I'm breathing

against all odds I should say

and, like you, moving forward

not as easily as you strut and parade now

looking great and feisty even

it's the slow march of a dead man

on his way back into the light

but one thing you made me realise,

haggard and panting and uncomprehending,

with fantasies of death dancing before my eyes,

is that I was happy and you weren't

– you couldn't and will never be –

so you went ballistic

and laid waste where our house stood

where our family might have existed

and be ruined much, much later,

because of you.

but claims of near-satisfaction

and of happiness

will be made once more

even if on an atoll somewhere

lost on a mountain range

on a squall-battered beach

daydreaming in front of a blank page

in a bloody bookshop I don't care

because to walk is to be happy

because I'll be happy again

I shall leave, then,

and not glance back

steadfast and fierce

in my exile

in my silence

cunning and subtle

scheming

perhaps dying alone, yes

but my spirit able

my voice untethered

unnormed

whole

like a tremor swelling from the ground up to the chest

 

The lost art of spinning plates

 

while the plates whirl

in white bouquets of porcelain petals

like gyring butterflies

defying the gravity of the situation

spiralling like flat earths

their barycentre elsewhere

well-known flying objects

in typical domestic brawls stilled

common household paraphernalia

hurtling through apparent inertia

while the hunched man announcing the show

moves like a gorilla in an impeccable suit

weaving platitudes and

praising the infinite movement

while the audience sees through the lies

they know the ropes and tricks

the plywood effect

the ridge under the plate

the impression of flatness

the distractions histrionics

while all of this is just coordinated effort

strategical jerks of the wrist

a keen eye for loss and gain

and a good supply of plates

while the spinner doesn't do much

just entertains the delicate balance

dishes out the illusion of control

with pivoting accuracy

on the axis of ceramic cynosure

makes our heart fluster at every turn

while other hands pick pockets

the motion captivates our emotions

the looped words and gestures

the invisible orchestra twirling symmetry

our mind wobbles out of focus

while all our eyes can rivet on

is the swirling of the spinning plates

while we want and don't want catastrophe

it will happen no matter what

with soft bangs and loud whimpers

while the plates whirl

 

Dazed

Days like dark, rainy sheets of night,

dazed like a man just told he had cancer

longer than the longest night ever

unmoored, left to wander and fight

on their own, each step a stumble

yet giving every appearance of peace.

 

Days like lasting days and days

with interspersed periods of heartsease,

short, relative lulls,

atolls of tinnital silence

drowned in tidal rage,

numbing roars and senseless fury.

Days like these hurry the departure,

ready us out, give logic

to the horror, the horror of leaving,

leaving behind the atolls, the lulls,

blur the contours and with

absolute clarity of mind make us see

what the others dare not imagine:

lightless shores stretching to the horizon.

Edinburgh 28.VII.14

 

Au temps la mer

On attend que le vent change

on serre les dents en attendant

que le grain passe

on tourne on chavire

ficelé dans la nasse

on flotte dans des maillons étranges

on s'attend au pire

on n'est plus dans son assiette

pourtant rien ne s'arrête

on ourdit des plans

qui tombent à l'eau

on tisse des rêves de liberté

en un instant

qui file comme une éternité

et qui revient au point de départ

on veut changer le sens du vent

on veut changer l'essence du vent

on s'emmêle dans les contretemps

rebattus par la galerne

les lames vont et viennent,

battent contre le vent qui durcit

battent contre le ventre qui s'endurcit

les franges laineuses des vagues

comme des nuages de semonce

on tisse, on tisse, on défait l'ouvrage

l'orage détrempe les fils

on panique, on retisse

les foules se tordent malaisées

on rapièce le bateau de Thésée

du mieux qu'on peut

et puis, avec le mauvais temps,

progressivement,

on se détache du fil du temps

on se laisser porter par la houle

par la foule par ces flots

brodés de mille fils d'une eau

ni tout-à-fait verte, ni tout-à-fait bleue

et à perte de vue au loin, l'écheveau

des nuages qui rumine

déjà une autre ruine.

 

Sur la colline

Nous sommes les enfants qui jouent sur la colline

tombe la pluie, tourne le vent

nous jouons dans les blés qui côtoient les vignes

à colin-maillard presque tout le temps

tombe la pluie, tourne le vent

Nous faisons des rondes jusqu'à l'ivresse

tourne le vent, tombe la pluie

nous dormons tard souvent car rien ne presse

nos souliers trempés aux flaques de nuit

tourne le vent, tombe la pluie

Nous échangeons des baisers et des regards

tourne, tourne le vent !

nous jouons à cache-cache dans le brouillard

nos mains cherchant, nos mains cherchant

tourne, tourne le vent !

Parfois il arrive que l'un d'entre nous meurt

tombe, tombe la pluie !

tombé de la colline, petit dormeur

petit sauteur, tombé du nid

tombe, tombe la pluie !

Nous ne connaissons pas la tristesse

vive la vie, vive le vent

nos cœurs sans cesse bercés d'allégresse

nous sommes tous bien vivants

vive la vie, vive le vent

Nous célébrons les levers de soleil

sombre la vie, triste le temps

nous admirons les lunes vermeilles

nous chantons à nos cœurs palpitants

sombre la vie, triste le temps

Mais chaque réveil décuple nos ardeurs

triste la vie, sombre le temps

nous dessinons des fleurs aux mille couleurs

nous nous embrassons haletants

triste la vie, sombre le temps

Nous sommes les enfants qui jouent sur la colline

tristes et sombres et joyeux et lents

portés par la vie et chantant la pluie opaline

peu soucieux du monde et du temps

tombe le vent, tombe le vent

Old haiku

Fought Death I have
though much was destroyed
none was defeated

***

Kites like rainbow dragonflies
hover furlongs above the
smell of the sand

***

Lovers in the setting sun
halting to embrace
one shadow on the shore

***

Seagulls reeling all
afternoon in the warm air
cold sobered them up                                                 28/02/2012

What the foot creates when the hand designs

"Roads endure longer than pyramids."

Karol Bunsch, Polish novelist and aphorist (1898-1987)
 

Edinburgh vestige

"It's starbucks o' clock on Princes Street
and droves of Ingmars, Colins and Manfreds
are let loose and white as sheet
confront the menu with scratching heads."

Thank you, Antoine, for the fond memories.