Friday, 1 January 2021




We who have no future

Have no past:

The tyranny of progress

Reduced to a point;

Teleos, purpose,

Shrunk to absence;


Billions of miles into nowhere.


October 2021

Jazz Odyssey


Bird’s impetuous rhapsodic voice

Detonates a Homeric immediacy

Unleashes the Muse

Beginning where she will

Falling pell-mell into now

Into the spinning out of a soul

An epic history, a heart

Driven far and wide

Through sea sorrow, lotus lands.


September 2021



A day among the immortal seasons

In September fifty years ago…..

The corn has been cut,

And over the stubble field

Weaves a shoal of swallows and martins,

The field glistens

The hot air shimmering and vibrating,


Colour is drained from the south

There is a diffuse glare of sunlight,

The hedgerow elms are silver-grey

The backs of the swallows shine like gunmetal.


To the north the line of oak, ash and birch

Is rich in colour.

A party of tits filters through the leaves,

Among them are two willow warblers

A fierce migratory restlessness is in their movements

They flicker like yellow lights in the green spaces.


September fifty years ago

A day among the eternal seasons….

We thought the world would last forever

We were wrong.


September 2021

The House of the Waning Moon


Autumn Equinox,

Full moon,

In the dark house

She turns in profile,


A cheekline  crescent at the north door

Where the winter stars fly in.


Equinox of Spring

She moves in the dark

A brilliant outline

Moves beyond the lamplight

To the south door

Where the  swifts fly in.


August 2021


Note: The waning moon of the Autumn Equinox rises progressively further to the north of east, and the opposite is the case in Spring. 

They Told Me, Heraclites. For CT, after Callimachus.


They told me, Heraclites, you were dying

And it stopped me in my tracks

When I remembered the nights we spent talking,

Drinking wine, smoking pipes, reading our poems,

And how a long time ago,

Up on the mountain near your place,

I walked slap into reality, by accident,

Just a simple twist of fate,

And it made me laugh,

Because it made no difference to anything,

And so I know

That your poems will live on

And that there’s nothing in the nature of mind

That is capable of dying….

Nothing at all.


August 2021

Scent of Limes


Scent of limes,

That time of year,

The time of yarrow

The herb Achilles took to Troy to heal wounds,

The plant the Taoist Masters

Divined the Book of Change with,

That time….

Returned like a strain in music that assembles

St John’s wort, betony,

Flowers of the bramble,

Flowers of the lime

Streaming down the wind,

A dying fall….

“Flower o’ the broom

Take away love and our earth is a tomb!” 1


July 2021


1 Robert Browning, Fra Lippo Lippi.

The Year After


The year after Vasily Arkhipov saved the world,

Summer among the Isles of Greece,

The gift of being nineteen

Writing in a shuttered peasant’s room

In a house under the mountain, on Ikaria,

The island where no foreigners came,

A runaway from post-war England,

Scratching with a pen by day,

Working on the mackerel boats after sunset

“These balmy placid island days.”


Kennedy dead.

A dark day in November nineteen sixty three

Hitching down from Scandinavia in the snow

Ending up in the small hours in a dim café on the Belgian border,

The border closed till morning,

A kip on the tailboard above the slush,

Coffee and dark tobacco at dawn,

Like a benediction.


It was the coldest winter since ‘47

Snow in the streets till March,

Mandy Rice-Davies swigging champagne from the bottle

In the back of a limo. The Beatles

Industrial, insistent, clanging like an advertising jingle….

Back on the road there was silence, space,

The edge of loneliness, fear.


Peyote on the beach in Crete

I tuned Bird in from the static…..“Out of Nowhere,”

A miracle of rare device

Cut adrift while Memphis burned.


July 2021 

Ashes to Ashes


Sitting in a dead man’s dust

Head of the Gully, high summer,

Fragments of bone among the scabious.


These days I walk the world

Like I wasn’t there anymore

A space open and generous

Like a childhood vision.


I pick up a grain

And roll it between my fingers…..

It’s the time of St John’s Wort, Marjoram,

After the Solstice.


June 2021

A Bestiary of Flowers


Hawkweed, hawk-bit, mouse-ear, yellow goat’s-beard,

A bestiary of the Solstice. Flowers… earth-gold as a hawk’s eye,

The fierce, dense yellow of high summer;

Egg-yolk bird’s-foot trefoil,

Dragon’s-teeth, viper’s-grass,

Beasts at the heels of Aphrodite of the Flowers,

Dove’s-foot crane’s-bill, dog-rose,

Wolf’s-bane, toad-flax, sow-thistle….

Conjured by the violet-haired Muses

Their steps visible in the quaking-grass,

Their scent crushed in the thyme,

Eternity in the touch of your fingers.


June 2021



The falling shafts which never fall

Flash across my windows

From bows drawn in Africa….this house,

A memory in the souls of swifts.


Black sparks struck from entropy

The air no element for endurance

But for these warping shapes of gravity

Curves in space and time

Falling across the wind

Falling through all dimensions



May 2021

Look Back


Remember when your waking breath

Was like the air of paradise? When your body

Embraced you like a lover?

Look back…coloured shadows…..

But these violets, this may blossom,

Ash and oak

Are now as then

The same as in Sappho’s time, or in Shakespeare’s

Or in your own eternal season….

Look back with them one last time.


For now the seasons are dying with the summer ice

The spring, always as fresh as youth,

The physical touch of youth,

The spring is dying.

The spring, the eternal season among seasons

Is being wasted away by the trillion dollar plague;

Wasted away by those philosophers of human nature

With their bow ties and dead souls;

Wasted away in corporate boardrooms

By old men with silver hair and perfect teeth

For shareholder value;

Wasted away by Capitalist Modernity,

And the inheritors of the European Enlightenment

That genocide project, a scorched-earth war

Waged against all other cultures.


Look back now

For the past is dying with the future

Look back

Summon the Cretan gaze

Converse with the shades again

Look back

Look death in the face

All you who have been worthy of this world.


April 2021

Hesiod on the Farm


The plough-maker he called “Athene’s servant”

Carpenter to the goddess of technology

Who pegged the plough-tree to the stock

Fixed the shear

Polished the grip;

Or he walked the mountain for a holm limb

Formed in one piece

Stock and tree unbreakable.


He thought himself wealthy to have both

Curing in the smoke of the chimney

Throughout the winter

While he wrote the history of the gods

Sung to him by the Hippocrene Muses

In the roaring of the wind up above.


April 2021

Blinded by the Light


April afterglow

Cold as an oracle

The Pleiades, Orion, the Dogs,

Fall headlong into the sun

Blinded by the light

Oedipus consumed.


This is the road at Colonus

This the gesture of Theseus

This is the void beyond the Labyrinth

The journey through the night

From the end

To the beginning.


April 2021

Dog Days


Agni shines against the dawn

Sirius returns

Fire engulfed in light at sunrise.


When Electra drew water for the farmer

River Inachus in darkness

ὦ νὺξ μέλαινα χρυσέων ἄστρων τροφέ! 1

In the dog days,

In July in the heat,

Sirius, Dog Star, rose at dawn,

Rose earlier each night

Nearing midnight in Autumn

The season farmers cut wood

Cut plough-trees and wagon-timbers

Announced by the seasonal stars.


Since then the stars have drifted,

A long precession of the axes through the centuries,

Drifted deeper into Winter….

A month in two thousand years,

The seasonal star-clock running fast

The dog days in September now

In the cool.


What poets will write

When Sirius returns to the heat again? 2

What farmers?

What world?


1 “O black night. You who nurse the golden stars!”

Euripides, Electra.

2 The precession of the equinoxes is around a 25,000 year cycle.


March 2021

Hare on the Hill


The smale foules then

In Gramarye, in the violet moon,

Puck and the muses

Tangled in the roundshaws.


Hare on the hill

Roe in the high wood

Swans in October starlight,


The river… heron above

Otter tench, pike,

Raven rolling at break of day,


Badger town, fox hollow,

In the greenwood….

Festivals of owls.


March 2021

Eternity Overwhelmed



And when there are no longer seasons

When cyclical time is overwhelmed, as

Tide by tsunami…

When a road has been driven through eternity.


When there is no longer climate

Only weather; unpredictable, chaotic, violent;

When the great forests are cut down

Made monoculture: palm oil, burger-ranch, soy plantation,

Capitalist Modernity…. an ideology made palpable.


When species become so rare

Their evolution is brought to halt

Abundance-driven natural selection

Overwhelmed by selection for profit,

The shape of death: palpable, obscure…


When there are no longer seasons,

Time overwhelmed,

Eternity overwhelmed,

Summer, no more,

Spring, no more.


February 2021



The fear was the best of it

Those fugitive years

Along a glittering world

Under a different sun, another moon,

Somewhere between the days,

Without contact, the void

A second skin.


Lost in orbit

Come back to another time

An alien planet.

Here the birds are not the same

The stoat on the track

The willow herb blowing

The scent of lime blossom…..

They are unreachable

The shouts beyond the horizon.


                      February 2021

The Same Stink


The world smells of death.

Where once there was that high rolled hair

(Called Victory Rolls when it was all over)

The heavy military skirts of the camp guards,

The cigarettes, the laughter, the camaraderie outside the barracks,

We’ve all seen the pictures….

Now, it’s blond hair, falling in regulation spirals,

A style as formal as a salute,

Pink lipstick, the lashes, the slim

Baby-blue dress,

“The Christian girl-next-door”

Almost a porn-star,

The PR Nazi…..

It’s the same stink….

The world smells of death.


January 2021



Old midwinter moon

Walking the old path

With the old gesture

Remote, aloof, way up there.


Summer moon, twice the size

Crouched over the horizon

Rolling a tun of buttermilk

The same old story

Old as the wind.


January 2021

Monday, 5 June 2017


A Free Man

He looks out on the world
Slightly disdainfully.
He is quite unselfconscious, neutral, objective,
Or maybe just unconcerned, simply comfortable,
Something  he has earned of course
Through his realism, his lack of illusions.
Happy?  For sure. If it weren’t
Slightly unrealistic for him to think so.
And he has nothing to add to the world,
Nothing at all. He is someone who thinks he is free
Because he has no idea
What freedom is.

                        December 2019


Now is the moment of oblivion
The hoarding away of the sun
Now is the eclipse of love
Blood-red moon on the rise
Now is the seed of rebellion
The fist that punches through the earth.

                            December 2019 

Received into Itself

This old book,
A translation of Cavafy by Rae Dalven,
A translation that reveals, with sensitive phrases, with empathy,
Something of Cavafy’s life, of his soul,
Of the warmth and sounds of an Alexandrian night,
This old volume
Seemed quite forlorn when first I took it in my hands,
Without that magical quality I sought, just a book
Bleached along the spine by the sun,
By years on some shelf touched by the sun,
Until I had read and reread the poems many times
Picking it up again and again
Turning the pages again and again
As it seemed to grow heavier, more substantial,
More numinous….. and proud to receive back into itself
The mind of Cavafy that had come alive in my mind
In the union of our minds.

                                               November 2019

Bid Her Farewell
After Cavafy The God Abandons Antony

When suddenly in the night,
You look out and see the stars passing
With exquisite music, with fire,
Do not mourn for the future lost to you now
The struggle that has failed, the resistance
That has turned out to be an illusion;
As if long prepared for this
As if fearless, bid her farewell
The world that is leaving;
Above all don’t be fooled,
Don’t tell yourself there is time,
That the science is inconclusive,
Don’t give way to these denials;
As if long prepared for this,
As if fearless
As it becomes you who are worthy of such a world,
Walk calmly to the window, and look with awe,
But not with the vain hopes of the coward,
Look up at the exquisite movement of the stars
And bid her farewell
The world that is leaving you now.

                          November 2019


Colours of a Raphael saint,
Mute, alchemical,
Rose-ochre, calcined blue,
And a billow of flight
Buoyant as blown hair, perfect
As a gesture of Christ’s hand,
Innocent as the day of adoration.

         October 2019


e e cummings
Who showed poets how to play
Volume II of the Complete Works
Containing one of those poems that
Made our world……
Genius enough,
But most are the quarry
Not the cathedral.

The book
A quality cloth-bound hard-back,
Fifty years old.
Smell it
Feel the paper between your fingers
Run your finger along a line
And feel the indented typeset print
See where the endpaper
Has been glued by hand to the board
And is raised in relief by the cloth binding.
The book opens like an oiled door…..
Shut it, and it says

Heft its weight
A sword is no more finely balanced,
Nothing contains more complexity in a span
Than this world refracted by mind
Alchemised onto organic filaments, finely wrought,
With a little ink, nothing there of any meaning
Without another mind….. the poetry
Is only ever in a mind.

Put into a computer
It vanishes into an instable medium,
Dependent, evanescent, immaterial,
Just another memory;
A physical book is mind, made matter,
An incarnation.

Your finger separates a page
By stroking along its top edge,
Delicate and precise,
A craftsman’s dexterity we forget we have.
The compositor picked up every letter
Placed it upside down in a composing stick
Stroked it into place with his left thumb
Every full stop, comma, question mark
Of the odd Cummings typography.
Feel the texture of the print,
The hand that picked the type
Was the last hand to touch it
Before it pressed into the page,
You are almost touching him……
Like Keats, he holds his hand towards you.

                                  October 2019


In the valley of the moon
I find the cave where the stars sleep….
How intimately close they are!
Their crystal wings wrap round them
Their chill touches my face. Night!
Nurse of the stars!
Your children sleep out the day with the wolf and lion
Whispering like frozen angels,
When their claws loosed their grip on your breasts,
Thirsting for the milk of heaven they fell
Came rustling fast under the trees
Clung to the roof of this underworld
Leaving stardust enough
To fertilise asphodel fields
Until they rise
To suck the dugs of paradise.

                     September 2019


I walk beside the cathedral
See sycamore seeds
From high up over the tower
Spinning down
Think how strange it is
That a tree should evolve a wing,
Then notice they’re spinning too slowly,
They’re too large and pale,
And approaching beneath them
See they are feathers twisting down
Some stuck together with bits of flesh
Flight feathers, clots of down, bloodstained,
And it can only be a Peregrine
Tearing its kill out of sight behind the parapet.
I look around to observe the behaviour of other birds
But there are no birds in sight,
No pigeons or gulls,
The jackdaws have vanished,
And when the feathers stop coming
The sky is empty,
Only a white half moon
Looking the other way.

                         September 2019

Seth 70

Graffiti on the limestone cliff
At the head of the Gully
Spray paint
Pale blue:

For fifty years I’ve watched it fade back into the stone.
Seth passed this way was all of it
He became an echo
Slowly I stopped being offended.

Below the place
Three trees have grown
A sycamore, then an ash, now a whitebeam,
The patch of falling rocky earth
Echoes “tree,” flows down away
Growing marjoram, mouse-ear, devils’ bit,
Slides down to scree, the herbs
Keeping their places like fish in a stream…
Mouse-ear hawkweed, acid yellow,
Blithe as the glint of a knife,
Marjoram, mouth-watering,
Rock-rose, pimpernel, black medic,
These unchanged,
Above, in a crack,
A solitary spring cinquefoil the size of my hand,
Just one or two flowers each year,
Stems no thicker than matchsticks,
Put on no growth in forty years.

Walcombe Slade,
“Tilio-acerion woodland
Of slopes, screes and ravines,”
Wych-elm, ash, lime, yew,
The cliffs and rocky brash
Fostering whitebeams rare as unicorns…..
One on the great slab athwart the base of the cliff
Tall as a man in 1970
Now just a yard taller….

We pass this way
Is all of it.

                   August 2019 

The Time-Being
“For the time-being the earth and sky.”  Dogen, The Time Being.
“I want dramatic summer to tie me to its chariot of fortune” Rimbaud.

For the time-being
The golden lap of summer
Lying among
June wreckage
Explosion of butterflies
Swifts falling south,
Red Antares, Scorpius,
Lost from the Solstice.

The axel-tree shrieks
Screaming falcons circle above the gorge,
O Herculean clouds!
Heroic season!
Being is time unfolding,
Summer is
Autumn, Winter, Spring.

                      August 2019

In the Penal Colony
“Guilt is always beyond doubt”
 Franz Kafka, In the Penal Colony.

They are killing Julian Assange
They are killing Chelsea Manning,
Slowly, relentlessly,
The torture machine that Kafka saw
Is cutting the names of crimes into their flesh
Deeper and deeper:
“Collaborating with the Russians”
“Hacking” “Rape” “Failure to answer,”
Wheels turning, cogs on cogs,
The inscriber cutting like an ink-jet printer
In a news factory
Elaborate shapes of guilt, overwrought,
Baroque, insistent….
They are killing Chelsea Manning and Julian Assange
They are torturing them to death before our eyes
In the Penal Colony, in this hot valley
While we look on.

                            July 2019

Flame of July

After the solstice, silence;
The year wanes now,
Darkness seeps slowly in.

The woodland paths are marbled with hard sunlight,
St John’s Wort, flame of July, assembles
As summer advances like a plot unfolding:
Marjoram, pale as cloud,
Devil’s-bit, blue as the wind, blue as ash flame,
Bird’s-foot, hawk-bit, colours of fire and darkness,
Thyme, purple as the lap of God.

Where light coagulates to mass,
The bellies of June roses swell,
Pink and white to rose-hip-scarlet;
Among the grass… knapweed, thistles:
The violet haze of spring
Deepens to a purple glow.

                      July 2019

A Magical Light

This cold, dark June I have been recalling
Other rainy Junes, forty, fifty years ago,
So that this dark weather is made beautiful
By its association with youth,
By its association with the sensual delight of being young
And the present is enlivened with a magical light,
The cold, the wet
Made precious again.

                                               June 2019

I Have Come Through

Grown old now, I know
That I have come through,
That lost time turned always towards this magnetic pole,
Inclined to this moment, like a lodestone,
And with purpose, with feeling,
Coupling those distant summers, that ancient blackbird song,
That wild rose, undaunted,
With these blooming and singing now,
With this open horizon…..
Without injury or retreat
I have come through.

                         June 2019

Steep Night

Steep night
I quaff the moon
Sip stars
Sail among
Ecliptic archipelagos
Spice isles
Atolls of turquoise, coral,
Of scent-dazed lazuli.

                   May 2019


Skylarks are singing over the mowing grass
With the sound of diamonds rubbing together
Rising like champagne bubbles
Out of sight,
Falling again
Like fallen angels.

             May 2019

A Mayday Night’s Dream

Day’s eyes, sun’s eyes,
Drifts and constellations of daisies
Flower of birth

Her eyes like the sun, like stars, O my lady!

A dream within a dream,
The sun in white, Freya,
Flower risen from the earth
In green and white
To do observance to a morn of May
Risen from a dream to ask
Is her virtue in the flower or the leaf?  

                           May 2019

Summer Stars

Orion down, the summer stars are more distant,
The stellar sphere expands,
Deneb and Vega,
The white and ice-blue stars
Of the Swan and Lyre, are high overhead
Slowly circling up from their midwinter stations on the northern horizon
To cross the zenith at midsummer
With Regulus, the tawny star in Leo,
Arcturus in the Herdsman, like sunlight,
Antares like a ruby
Just above the southern horizon in Scorpius
A glimpse into Africa on the solstice.

                          April 2019

A Few Moments Only

Mixing bitter roots
With sweet wine
Small rain
With new green.

To see
Is to grasp
A moment
This brilliant leaf
Like a flame
That cold blue
Like a word.

Old age,
These flashes
Of April mind,
A few moments only.

April 2019

Orion Passes Behind the Sun

Orion melts into the thin air
Of a green April afterglow,
Follows the sun below the horizon
As night brightens the stars;
Like Oedipus he walks blind into the light,
Steps down beneath the earth.

He passes behind the sun,
Returns at the end of summer, faint
In the first light above sunrise,
Climbs slowly, night by night,
Away from the sun
Deeper into the night sky,
Returning widdershins in sidereal space
Back in diurnal time
From dawn to midnight.

                                           March 2019

Political Violence

Bullet-head bourgeois
Bland as a ram
Bunker-suburb boyo
Votes for war
Lives in the real world
Calm as a smart-bomb
Burns house-price rocket fuel
Runs the program
Shuts his face
Like a bomb-bay.

            March 2019

Asphodel Fields Forever
On the occasion of Richard Branson singing Imagine
at his concert in support of the Venezuelan opposition.

Puer Aeternus
Nothing on his face
But teeth
“Imagine no possessions”

“Imagine all the people
Living life in peace”

For Death Aid
For war
Civil strife…..

Invokes the shade of John Lennon
Who is Hermes
Guide of the dead

Let me take you down
‘Cause I’m going to…..

Parasite privateer
Rash, hubristic
Calls down….

Hear them!
The Eumenides
Daughters of Nyx
Night-running Furies
Hear them whistling!

No luxury private island
Will ever be far enough now…..

                 February 2018

The Wrath of Demeter

Erysikthon, earthbreaker, tyrant,
Desecrated the forest of Demeter,
Came with twenty men, warriors in their prime,
When the People of the Sea lived in Aeolia,
Felled the ancient trees for a hall to feast his friends,
In praise of gold, too, and wealth,
Reckless, arrogant.

Some say he was deaf to the dryads,
Didn’t hear their cries,
See them flowing like black water into the earth
When the oaks fell
Until Demeter herself came,
Gentlest of the immortals,
In the shape of her aged priestess Nikippa
The great temple key slung from her shoulder
Poppies in her hand, grandmotherly,
A protector of the forest, pleading as if to children,
And the tyrant threatened to cut her down with his axe.

Then Demeter grew tall, towered over him,
Her face a second sun, her robes
The pyroclastic flow from a volcano
And she cursed him while his men ran.

What is a soul if it is not a story?
The soul of a god, a man, this age of iron?
She cursed him with insatiable hunger, starvation
That consumed without satisfaction,
He ate and grew skeletal, made a wasteland of his world,
Sold his daughter into slavery,
Mestra the shapeshifter who learned the art of Nereus from Posidon
Who was stolen by the thief Autolycus, ancestor of Odysseus
To thieve for Erysikthon.
What is a soul if it is not a story? The soul of this world:
A desecrating tyranny that makes slaves bought by thieves
To feed endless hunger and consumption…..
The poets tell us that in the end
Erysikthon ate himself.

                     February 2019

Hesiod on Mount Helicon.

His father came from the Aeolian coast near Lesbos
A country of soft air and harsh poverty,
Sailed the sea for want of a livelihood,
A poor man’s Odyssey,
At last came ashore in Boeotia,
Settled in a miserable village under Mount Helicon,
Freezing in winter, foul in summer, good at no time,
Broke some virgin land to the plough,
Gathered possessions and fathered a son. 

The old women said the boy sang like Apollo,
But he grafted like his father
Tended the lambs on the high pastures
Haunted by wolves and lions that ranged
Through the mountain hollows, haunted
By the immortal gods of wild places,
Until one day, singing alone near the spring of Hippocrene
(Struck from the rock by the hoof of Pegasus),
The Muses of the place, aroused,
Encircled him unseen like hungry beasts, loving his song,
And pounced, overwhelmed him, seized his mind,
Breathing powerful voice into him, singing:

“Shepherds who camp in the wilds
Low-life, mere bellies, who conjure up
Lying tales and fantasies,
Learn better than any
How to reveal the truth!”

And they showed him where to find a branch
Of springing bay to cut for a staff, told him
To sing of the family of the gods who are immortal,
And most of all to sing always first and last of themselves.

He enlarged his father’s farm
Avoiding the judgements of a parasitic nobility,
Built a fast ship to export his harvest,
Crossed the sea to Chalcis in Euboea
Where he won a bronze cauldron,
Some say in competition with Homer,
And dedicated it to the Muses of Helicon.

From him we know of the triumph of Zeus in the war against the Titans,
Of the birth of Aphrodite from the sea 
And all the lineage of gods and mortals:
The daughters of Nereus who live beneath the waves,
The nymphs of springs woods and mountains,
The lovely Meliae who inhabit ash trees,
The night-running Furies, descendants of Nyx,
The birth of the world,
The Gold, Silver, Bronze and Iron ages of mankind,
The rebellion of Prometheus who stole fire from Olympus
And brought the curse of work upon mankind….
And so the Muses prompted him also to sing of works and days,
The rising stars when it is time to prune vines,
To plough when Arcturus appears before dawn,
And when to go to sea in safety to ensure your prosperity.

                                                    January 2018  

Water is best

An old man who looks back to his youth
Looks at the gods, it’s said.
                                              Back then,
Under Olympus on the road south,
A broken-down Skoda, a wrestler (Heracles)
On the way from Prague to Athens for a fight;
No jack, he lifted the car up
I placed rocks under it
We worked for an hour,
Did something right I suppose…..away he drove.

“Water is best” sang Pindar,
(Brighter than gold, more useful)….
Just off the road
A spring in the shade of old plane trees,
Fast water flowing,
Written there
“Spring of the Muses.”

No man escapes death.
Violet-haired muses!
Don’t hesitate
Give my words the same clarity
The same life!

                            January 2019


There were lions in Greece until 100 BC
In the dry oak forests that still grew then, hunting
Red deer, fallow deer, wild boar, the roe.

Back in the dreamtime of heroes,
Cadmus killed a monstrous snake deep in such an oak forest,
And sowed its teeth for warriors…..
There, centaurs and dryads settled,
There Actaeon wept in the shape of a deer, cursed by Artemis,
And Thisbe fled from a lioness bloodied from the kill
Dropping her scarf for the beast to worry.

Forest of Metamorphoses,
Where wolves and lions once lamented for Daphnis
Frisked at the heels of Aphrodite among the shadowy combes
Until the forest started slowly to warp, to mutate,
The civil gods withdrew,
Dragons shrank to gilded snakes,
In Arden, where Shakespeare poached props off Ovid,
Where the wildwood encroached to the outskirts of town,
And Jaques saw Actaeon weep by the brook where Artemis once bathed,
The bloody cloth that bound the wounds of Orlando
Was Thisbe’s scarf, rummaged from the props box,
The lioness that wounded him, a little threadbare,
Half-starved so far from Greece.

                                                       December 2018

Were We Dead as Dodo

Were we dead as Dodo,
Nothing would be lost from all
That assembled us.

Artifice of natural forms!
Aphrodite’s coral sea-gown
Dresses the ocean,
Her cell-life breeding
Imagination, language, music,
The green world’s sudden glance.
Parrot tribes people the forests…
Their inherent making, their design
Their pattern, their emblazoned colour,
Their display, posture, ritual,
Their shamanic frenzy!
Elephant nation, buffalo nation,
Confederations of whales;
The lion’s sullen, outcast melancholy.
The long, gliding, circumpolar chaconne
Of the albatross.
The golden civilisations of the bees.
Cursed Arachne weaving, weaving;
The scorpion’s crooked vengeance.
Tiger! Imagined!
Syntax of sun shadow, bamboo shadow,
Word shadow.
Swarm of spots. Illusion.
Fatal suspension of disbelief.
The world
Megalopolis of beasts
Beast-shapes in the stars,
The bull, the bear, the swan,
The scorpion,
And Orion….. rising again.

               December 2018

Perdix and Oenoe

No moon
An Aegean island harbour in profound darkness;
In a dark tavern
A roast partridge is put in front of me, fragrant,
With a bottle of tawny Icarian wine
And an oil lamp set beside them
A gift to a stranger
Hermes at my shoulder
Starlight on the sea among the fishing caiques
Low voices outside from the unseen fishermen
They might as well have been centaurs.

Icaria, in the old days before electricity
Before the coming of the barbarians,
Evdilos harbour, once Oenoe,
Sea nymph, wine nymph, nymph of Pan….

Icaria, was on the edge of the ancient world then….
Wine-bringer Dionysus born on Mount Pramnos  
Where the first vines were cultivated on the heights of Icaria,
Pramnian wine, known to Homer,
Which Circe drugged and gave to Odysseus’ companions…..
Mountainous Icaria rising from a dangerous sea.

When Icarus fell from the sun
And Daedalus buried him on the island
And named it after him
A partridge called and mocked his grief:
Perdix, the low flyer,
Perdix, the pupil Daedalus threw from the heights of Athena’s shrine
In Attica, envious of his invention of the the saw,
The boy whom Athena, admirer of devices,
Turned into a partridge as he fell.

Island of echoes
Partridge calling all day among the rocks with a sound like laughter.
I slept that night on the table in my clothes
Head in the crook of my arm,
To the sound of Athena’s owls outside*
As Odysseus might have done, or any traveling stranger down the years,
Woke to see the fishing caiques putting out.
They wore the sun like a hat, those fishermen,
And the island like an old coat,
Like my host, setting coffee before me
Who picked a couple of worthless aluminium lepta coins from my hand
For the wine.

                                                     November 2018

*The little owl athene noctua.

Otter River

Otter river snouts the flood
A thin ream licks the banks.
Between what is known
And what is obscure
Lies a film of mere nothing,
A sliding pane of surface tension
Enclosing a bronze world
As hollow as a bell.

The trees drop their leaves upon the stream
Like losing hands thrown down
Jacks and hearts of autumn
Swept away.

                   November 2018

At First Bat and Owl Howl

At first bat and owl howl
The river runs.

At mouse creep and rat swim
The bent grass nods and bows.

At moon rise and wind creak
The night gulps down the stars.

At fox yap and owl light
The river snaps a fish.

At owl glide and bat blink
The vixen screams.

At worm cast and mole heave
The loam licks your feet.

At dew fall and moth fall
The river greets a ghost.

At blind dark and badger grunt
The otter dives.

At otter splash and fish ream
The greenwood thicks.

At owl foot and mouse squeak
The silence grips.

At last reach and ear prick
The bats hang down.

At last bat and owl howl
The river runs.

          October 2018

All Along the Wasteland.

A sort of naked Stone Age Tierra del Fuegans
Squat by their fires
Under a charcoal sky.

Dystopian litter mars the scene
He searches for shelter
A dry mattress under a tin sheet
Some place to stay,
There are flames along the horizon……

He finds a sleeping woman,
The colour of grey earth
A blunt, plain, naked woman beside a dead fire.

He watches over her tenderly
He loves her
She must be the earth
She is nature
And when she wakes she is wise
She is Sophia
Her eyes shine like obsidian.

They laugh
This tremendous comrade knows him well
All along the wasteland
The Fuegans build intricate wicker shelters.
He marvels at them.

Made strong now, uplifted,
He continues to search
For a dry mattress, a sound roof,
A place to squat,

                         October 2018

A lost fragment from Sappho

Cypris!  Goddess!  Come!  Be with us when we dance
In the meadow held sacred to you, crushing
Beneath our feet the flowering grass, girls
Who braid dill and apple blossom into the hair
Of the girl they deem most lovely. Come!
And let us feel your soft fingers at work among ours.

                                            July 2018

Otter II

Sitting at nightfall on the roots of the sprainted alder, among the bats;
Too dark on the river, no otter….just hushed intimations.
I get up to go home,
And there is otter jauntily crossing the grassy Leigh between the bridges….
He sees me of course.

Four fifteen next morning;
I’m cycling past the lake when a bat crashes into my face,
Hits the little rear-view mirror attached on a slender wire to my spectacles.
Not a hard impact.
A felt rattle of wings,
The small, vibrating mirror askew.

Down under the overhanging cliff I await the otter as it gets lighter.
A big fish, the size of my fore-arm, swims under me.
The singing of blackbirds and thrushes does little to lift a habitual dawn melancholia…..
Dawn. Time of the firing-squad and the noose!

The fish-splash waves that furrow the glassy river look suddenly a bit larger coming up from the weir.
It’s light.
The sun is in the tree tops across the Leigh.
Otter smell?
And he’s thirty feet away, swimming along, head up, chewing on a fish;
He seems unaware of me.

It feels like a reprieve!
He submerges, makes a ream, a swirl,
Slips up into the alder I was sitting in last night,
Out the other side….gone.

It’s mid-July but cold and misty.
The temperature on my phone is down to 13 C.

                                        July 2018


He’s scent-marking the same riverside alders
As he heads upstream in the uncertain high-summer dawn;
Always the same routine
You could set your watch by him.

Follow the rules of his world
Sit quiet as a shadow
Smell him coming
Sniff out the sharp otter stink of him
That clings to the cold air flowing up from the falls.

No bright water here,
A lowland river shouldering a limestone cliff,
Gripped, overhung with trees, a tunnel
Upstream of the Slaver’s Weir,
Drowning water, mud coloured, or old copper.

A shadow seems to flake off the night….
An owl perches, looks back at me, drifts away again.
The water-bats, flickering over the river like ghosts,
Evaporate into another indefinite morning.

He’s surfaced at the same place!
Stealthy as a submarine
Wet as a drowned tomcat
Wetter than the river
The soaked fur of his head and shoulders
Gathered into leaf-points
As he glides up-river, submerges,
The sliding pane of water closes over him,
Leaving a crease in its surface, a moving ream,
A wake without a source.

He turned his head and saw me before he sank…
A sudden small intimacy.
Another time, in pouring rain, the river roaring,
Crowding my feet as I sat in the shelter of the overhanging cliff,
A splash, and beneath my toes a tail went under;
He had surfaced there,
I could have touched him.

                              June 2018


“Ream,” meaning the wake left by a submerged otter, is a usage only found in Henry Williamson’s Tarka the Otter so far as I can discover.

Already the Year

Already the year has drifted into June
And we, eddying round, are torpid flotsam, lethargic,
Limp arms borne up, drowsily turning we have sunk,
Hopelessly drowned in the flowing fields.

Under the rose-briar in the shade
He makes eye-contact with the flowers;
Ancient man, in love with pink,
In love with the swiftly passing,
Don’t drop their gaze!
Wild roses, sweet and twenty,
They’ll slip away as quick as thought.

                           June 2018

Note: The first four lines of this poem were left unfinished nearly sixty years ago.

Sappho’s Death Poem
Memory of a lost fragment from Sappho

Sappho: It won’t be long now.
Gongyla: O Sappho, how can you know?
Sappho: Because Hermes came to me last night in a dream
And I said to him: “I can find no further delight in life
Nor pleasure in anything I have made
And only a longing for death possesses me,
I want you to take me down to the dew-soaked meadows
Where long ago you took Agamemnon and the flower of Achaean youth,
For I must leave this light of day.”

                                                  June 2018

A Rose in June

As evanescent as a blush, as transient
As the petals of the moon….
Sweetbriar, in search of lost time, like the moon,
Falling back in time, waning into the past,
Moving widdershins to sun and stars,
Dropping back into the night,
Its petals unwrapped, scattered,
No more than a remembrance of things past
As insubstantial as loss.

                                      May 2018

A Different Self

All I never owned
Now makes a space
For the May morning,
A different self,
The gap between then and now
That no one crosses
Crossed again.

Summer queen,
With a sound like the wind
The hive swarms,
It’s Summer…. arriving
The totality of Summer….
It’s all there is.

           May 2018

Across the Solstice

From Congo to the Arctic rim
Swifts pivot across the Solstice
Up in blue summer starlight
On the high edge of dawn
Cresting the midnight sun
The air pink with pheromones
Jupiter and Mercury
Hanging like lamps
And black wings, black arcs
Splitting the stars to shivers
To star spray, Solstice glow.

May 2018

Ice and Fire

Invisible above the cold clouds, Orion
Will sink under the western horizon tonight,
Deneb and Vega, rising in the east,
Begin their aimless cycle again,
Summer stars, of ice and fire, as beautiful
And meaningless as music….
Like the sough of the wind
Which is not the bear’s paw,
Not the ghost ancestor,
Just the wind, intimate and empty
As a touch of the self.

                         April 2018

The Rider’s Song

Far away, alone.

Jet-black pony, full moon,
Olives in my saddle-bag….
Although I know these roads
I’ll never get to Cordoba.

Over the plain, through the wind,
Jet-black pony, full moon,
Death is staring down at me
From the towers of Cordoba.

Alas how long the road!
Alas my brave pony!
Alas that death awaits me
On the road to Cordoba!

Far away, alone.

Translated from Lorca

April 2018

Resistance at the Pyramids

“Until the reign of Rhampsinitus,
So the priests said,
Honesty was universal in Egypt,
And the whole country enjoyed great prosperity……”

A likely tale…..
(Herodotus, for whom all men were scoundrels)
A conversation through one hot, Nilotic night 
Two thousand years after the event,
Down river, beside the Mareotic Lake, silted up, malevolent,
Walled in with an ancient megalopolis for priests,
The river’s course changed over millennia
Shrunk back to the desert bluffs.

The stink of mummy guts all over,
Boys carting brains and entrails down to the bank,
Feeding the crocodiles,
“Keeps ‘em sleepy,” it was said…..
No man is a god to his embalmer.

In Rameses’ day the tomb-builders went on strike,
Occupied a tomb
Pelted the priests with rocks,
Told them whose wives they were fucking....
The papyrus goes into detail
“If you don’t want to build your own tombs, pay up!”
And they did.

The Great Pyramid of Cheops,
The scoundrel who succeeded Rhampsinitus,
(Cheops the strike-breaker)
Was already grown shabby by Herodotus’ day,
Its limestone facing decaying at ground level,
And it was hated by the locals…..

“In total, then, there was a period of one hundred and six years
When the Egyptians were put to every kind of misery.”

When Herodotus passed through
Two thousand years later, around 450 BC,
People still refused to speak the name of Cheops.
They said that to pay for his pyramid
The Pharaoh sold his daughter for a whore,
And they called it “The Pyramid of Philitus,”
Who was the shepherd whose land Cheops had stolen
To build his Great Pyramid upon.

                                               April 2018

In Memory of Anna Campbell
“Anna is with us. We fight on.”

Beneath the black waters of the dream
Horizontal tide-race avalanche, shoulder high;
And a contrail, way up in the blue,
Up in aerospace, a granular white filament
Spun out, lengthening, like a data stream.

No. Not wasted.
Although futility becomes a warrior
Fighting for dignity,
Not victory or power.
To walk freely into futility
Is a warrior’s grace;
All others are executioners, like the pilot
Processing data
Up above.

                   March 2018

Bare Weather

Hamlet in the wilderness
Fretted with elemental fire, strides
Like the angel of death
Down on Elsinore
The castle, roof blown off,
Open to the animal clouds, the storm
Heaving at the arras.

Lear crouched in a doorway
Begging from the Wolf,
Mad as the sea and wind, raging,
Raging on the blasted Mall.

The time is out of joint,
Helter-skelter catastrophe unleashed;
The Clymat’s delicate,
We are left to bare weather
Rain in the High Arctic.

            March 2018


Childhood….. bomb-site summers,
Nettle-stung, bloody-kneed, sap-sticky, wild
Under the bitter green wreckage.

And always, at midsummer,
Titania rides the creamy flowers:
Elder moon, white nights,
Puck, fashioning pipes from her hollow stems…..
Elder, ellern, “hollow,”
The flute tree.

“Never cut an elder” he said,
The old Somerset farm-labourer
Who remembered the funeral of Queen Victoria,
“My mother was a herb-witch!”
He drank elderflower tea
And laboured into his eighties
Forty years ago
When we layered hedges and let the elder stand.

In the Himalayas too,
I found it by the wayside,
The same witches’ tree
Hanging around the same scrubby land
Looking like it spoke another language
Harboured other ghosts.

Wood of the true cross in the Shires,
Gallows tree, hung with
Outgrowths of soft Jew’s ear
Judas fungus…..
(Puck’s hollow laughter).

Do it no harm 
And you will sleep deep under an elder tree
On a midsummer night,
Dream mysterious dreams;
So cram your mouth with berries
When the season ripens
She offers you
Hippocrene draughts
Purple-stainéd mouth, sweet lips.

                   February 2018


Everything you see is you
The surfaces you touch
Are your own surfaces
Beyond the horizon
There is nothing….
The world is shut out
When we dream.

In dream’s deathless kingdom
We are eternals. It is a drama
Where nothing falls apart,
Acts, scenes, imagined, performed:
We are the play the actors and the crowd.

This is what the afterlife would be:
An entertainment;
A willing suspension of disbelief….
Until the thatch is all aflame
Until the actors see onstage
That unknown player  
Standing beside Faustus.

          February 2018


“Then consider those petty self-indulgences
We call freedom.”

Kindergarten of Capital.
The goat coughs at night
In the killing-fields over the school-yard….
Coal-tip mudslide.

Conkers, hop-scotch, dead-leg
Hair-ribbon, AK 47, “fuck you n----r!”

“My mother said I never should
Play with the gypsies in the wood……”

Blue-nosed dame-school school-ma’am 
Hankie in her knickers-band
Doling out coloured counters, tiddlywinks,
Snot-daubed Bakelite
Smartphone touch-screen Nano-tech.

Kindergarten of Capital.
The goat kneels in the killing-fields
Under the radar.

“It’s easier to imagine the end of the world
Than the end of capitalism.”

Theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking
Thinks we should find a new planet orbiting another star.

It would take seven hundred thousand years to get there
At the speed of light.

“It’s easier to imagine the end of the world
Than the end of capitalism.”

Kindergarten of Capital.
An algorithm
Discovering all the things that matter
In YOUR world.

“In my life / I’ve loved them all.” 

                                January 2018  

Rabo de Nube

If you force me to wish
I’ll choose the tail of a storm
A whirlwind touching the earth
Anger, uprising,
Blowing away the pain
A downpour of vengeance
And when it passes,

If you force me to wish
I’ll choose the tail of a storm
That will take the ugly
And leave us the cherubic
The pain, blown away,
A downpour of vengeance
And when it passes,

Note: Rabo de Nube is a song by the revolutionary Cuban poet and singer Silvio Rodrigues.

                                  January 2018


Yes, I remember Languedoc,
One June, traveling alone,
Playing Thelonious Monk songs in the villages
For wine and gas; in love with the names,
Driving the old road
From Minerve to Château de Termes,
Up in the blue air of high limestone country,
Mudguards brushing the star-thistles.

The ruined Cathar castle was as silent as the sunlight,
Its past purged away, vanished into the light,  
Its rock outcrops, battlements, juniper scrub,  
Graced by patrols of big gold and black butterflies,
Aware and watchful, the particoloured  
Souls of the lyric poets of Occitania,
The minstrels, the courtly lovers, the troubadour knights.

                                                    January 2018

Kith and Kin                

Always Orion delights me
Like catching sight of kith and kin….
Narrow hips, massive shoulders
A Hercules from a black-figure vase,
Off balance, dogged by Sirius,
Tilting at the Pleiades.

Kinsman!  Fool on the Hill!
Of your bones are comets made,
Those are stars that were your eyes…..

                            December 2017

Idyll II Acis
After Theocritus and Ovid

“While you lie there in the heat of the sun, shepherd,
Gazing after Galatea,
The dog is taking your flock
Up to the Spring of Acis
Where the river rises in the shade of old plane trees.
Come, let’s follow them,
Galatea has touched your soul 
And like a bee that probes a flower
She sucks her sweetness from it.
Come away. I have brought you a gift,
A syrinx tuned in the Temple of the Muses
With scented beeswax.
Let’s sit in the shade
And I’ll teach you a song.

“The Cyclops Polyphemus desired Galatea
And mad with jealousy
He crushed her mortal lover Acis beneath this great rock 
Where now a spring flows
And these ancient trees work with their roots
To lift it from him.
The blood of Acis that once flowed here
Ran tawny, then silty, then clear and sweet.
She, whose home is in the depths of the sea,
Transformed him into water
And now he seeks her forever.

“Let’s rest here on soft fleeces in the shade
While I teach you a melody that will evoke
The god of this place
And your dog brings down those stray rams
That have wandered up there near the cave
Where it is said Polyphemus once lived.”

                                               December 2017                            

Idyll I Galatea
After Theocritus

“Look at that girl down there
Where the apple trees overhang the shore
And the sea hisses into the sand.
She pelts your dog with apples!
She drives him away, fearless of his snarling,
Because he went for her as she rose from the sea.
Whistle the dog off!  And keep out of sight.
Don’t gaze at her for too long.
Her name is Galatea,
A Nereid famed for her milk-white skin.
If she sees you, graceful shepherd,
Handsome as Endymion, your troubles
Will not soon be over…..the gods crave beauty above all.
Best choose a mortal lover!
There are many girls as lovely and as brave
As goddesses among us.
See where she vanishes into the reeds!
There, where the river enters the sea,
The place where Pan likes to sleep out the heat of the day.
The poor dog whimpers at her going.”

                                                November 2017

Dawn Chorus

I was Rimbaud then,
Waiting for the summer dawn at the wall of the park
Where a bay of the North Downs
Reached into the suburbs like an arm of the sea;
Misty island bowers, breasts of the Surrey Hills,
Blake’s shadow there; and soon,
The mermaids calling each to each; the Sirens
Yelping in the bustling trees, whistling
Like knives sharpening, keening like the Eumenides,
A furious racket, and all the leafy streets,
The lawns, the Tudor fronts and leaded windows,
Blind, absent, pale
As sleeping princesses.

                                    November 2017


Red fox
With yellow eyes
Your thin pupils
Like shards of panic
Trapped in amber.

Head down
Looking up at me
Waiting to jump.

On the run for seventeen million years….
Old fox of the apocalypse
Dystopian city fox,
What empty mind behind that frozen gaze,
What drawn-taut syntax of feints and hits,
What perilous chances,
What furious fortune brings you here?

                                  October 2017


Rapt, she walks on water,
In silken billows,
Her rosy feet, her touch,
Gracing the wavelets
With liquid gold, turquoise, ruby,
The undulating marble limbs
Of submerged facades,
Drowned halcyon domes.

Ankle-deep at high-tide.
Green weeds wash to and fro;
Herculean slaves heft aloft a golden globe
Where dancing Fortune turns with the breeze.
The city seems to float on the sea
Conjured up on a sunken forest
By the founding Magi
Those muscular models
For painted saints and heroes.

                               October 2017

Blake’s Paradise

Two mothers with sleepy children at their knees
Sit under a curious mushroom-shaped oak tree
On a village green
Enclosed in an echo of saffron light.
Beside them are two old men
With long white hair and broad-brimmed
Eighteenth century hats, and at a distance
Some slender boys and girls play cricket
As if body-painted in Raphael greens and blues.

Looking into a Blake illustration
Is like looking into a crystal
And you see
That paradise is very small,
You can hold it in your hand
And watch the angels of moonlight arrive,
The lion weep jewels of guilt
The stars descend into the trees.

                                   September 2017


The central acroteria on the Parthenon
Were ornamental unfolding palm fronds
Like peacock’s tails
Sculpted in Parian marble 
That seemed to curve back from the roof in the Aegean wind.
They stood above the friezes
On the apexes of both pediments of the temple
And were a completing gesture by Phidias,
As subversive as stray locks of Athena’s hair,
That dissolved the hard Hellenism of the building
Back into nature again,
And whispered the place to ruins.

That civilisation may not sink
We have striven the world to extinction.
The babe upon the mother’s breast
Gone to war.
Honour, coin, empire, slavery…..
The wise tell us
It would be better never to have lived.

Phidias’ fragile marble palms
Were unlikely to have stood for long above the gods on the pediments.
The fragments that survive are unweathered.
He must have known
That the first slight earthquake would have thrown them down.

                                           September 2017

Villanelle for a Blind Horse 

Will you ride a blind white horse,
Get up, and ride behind the wind,
Will you ride the darker course?

And if you turn back to the source,   
Passing beyond both hope and time,
Will you ride a blind white horse?

When you the darkness start across
Leaving your self-worn life behind
Will you ride the darker course?    

When you birth and death rehearse
As men have done, time out of mind,
Will you ride a blind white horse?

And when that centripetal force
Grips your heart, what will you find?
Will you ride the darker course?

And will you then your time endorse
Or must you leave all time behind?
Will you ride a blind white horse?
Will you ride the darker course?

                         August 2017

“When you start on your journey to Ithaca”  C P Cavafy

When first you set sail for the Island,
Imagine another world,
Summon up into your mind, into your soul,
The Fortunate Isles, the Islands of the Blessed,
Imagine freedom, autonomy, a world held in common,
Imagine the Age of Gold.

Fear neither gods nor masters,
The Laestrygonians nor the Titans,
The anger of tyrants nor the pursuit of the Furies,
If you do not lose hope they will have no power over you.
And should you be driven onto Cyclops’ isle,
Do not give way to despair,
You and your companions will overcome him.
Remember that the enmity of the giants
Towards dreamers like you
Will only guide you onwards
If you let it arouse your heart,
If you let it awaken your courage.

Anchor at many old harbours on the way
In Ionia or the Cyclades, in Phoenicia and Egypt,
And bring to them the intoxication of rebellion,
Add to your crew
But do not seek rich merchandise
Bought with enslaved hours and days,
Turquoise, coral and amber,
Perfumes, jewels and fine silks.
If you are free,
The quintessence of their beauty will cling to you,
In mid ocean, or ashore on desolate headlands,
It will never desert you.

Always remember the Island,
Carry it in your soul, in your imagination,
Voyagers such as you are its truest citizens.
So enter Alexandria and Athens,                        
Cities of the civilisation that feeds on lives
To learn from those who have knowledge,
And to study all those books
Which, emanating from such cities,
Are like maps of lost Odysseys, charts
To steer past the Sirens, to sail beyond
The island of the goddess of illusions.

Understand you will gain nothing from the voyage,
For freedom calls,
That scornful song the wind has taken:
Everything for everyone. Nothing for ourselves.*
Pull offshore with joy and rage,
Knowing that where you are heading
A mysterious new island is rising out of the sea.

                                     August 2017

Note: After Cavafy, Ithaca, and Auden, Atlantis.

*Para todos toda. Nada para nosotros.  Declaration of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation. 

Sea of Dreams

Only consider how far down the beautiful islands go…..
Ikaria, thyme scented, forested Samos, pink Fourni,
Patmos, white on the horizon,
Falling steeply into that sea of dreams
Where Icarus sank
So inky blue you could dip your pen into it
And write what the old caïque-masters told
Of a drowned city:
How they hauled up their nets
And the sea poured off stone heads,
Sightless eyes, shattered marble….
How Ikaria was cast down from Olympus
To make a birthplace for Dionysus,
Took root in the sea,
A broken mountain,
Shaking with earthquakes,
Pine-crested, fractured,
Overrun with vines,
Its boiling mineral waters                
Upwelling in the sea caves
From Persephone’s wounds.

                                   July 2017

Note: The first line is taken from the Greek poet George Seferis translated by Edmund Keeley.

An Alien Spaceship, Landed.
In memory of John and Jaki

It draws the warm night in
Like a faultless musical phrase
A walking moment
Scent of hay
Silent crowd blocking the road
A globe of light
A village bar in the south of France.

You said on the phone:
“We’re gigging.
Come along
Bring your horn”…..

And it draws the warm sounds in
Like an alien spaceship, landed,
A walking moment
A golden voice, closer, singing,
A brilliant interior, white light,
The spellbound earthlings crowding up….
And she’s the Oracle of Soul, no less,
Interstellar Sister
Singing for all uncorrupted dreamers
Sitting on a low stool
Hunched over the mic
Hair covering her face         
And she’s soaring….

Like a moth to the flame, I,
Over the heads of the crowd?
Levitated to the stage?
The sax on my shoulder
The ship’s drive notching up
My hands on the controls now
And you’re beaming at me, John,
Behind that synth-command-console,
Shining out of the light,
Head nodding
Like we’re sharing some ineffable secret
As I turn towards the mic
And the ship lifts off…..

You said:
“That was perfect!”
Twenty five years ago
On the solstice,
And you knew because you made it so.

And now you’re both gone;
Only the memory of a love beamed down,
Maybe a mysterious scorching of the grass?
Overhead…. the welcoming stars.

                           July 2017

The Lacadaemonians at Delphi

“Believe me,
Here at Delphi we saw just another Archon,
Sprightly, leaning on a staff,
Accompanied by the usual guard,
(Chosen, of course, for their beauty as much as anything)
Carrying finely-worked bronze spears
And silent, watchful,
Even modest….
Lacadaemonians from the south,
An intractable race, it was said,
Bearing an impeccable gold statue of Apollo for the sanctuary
And another senseless question to the Pythia,
Snake Sister,
Concerning dominion and honour…….

She sent them on some fool’s errand,
Something about laying ancient bones to rest,
A hint, to be sure,
Echoing the unsleeping horror of Atreus’ matricide,
A crime that has been laid at our door,
As they always are,
Pinned on us from time out of mind,
Who simply teach asking the right questions…..
We heard they rummaged the length and breadth of the Peloponnese
For years,
Having the excuse, you see,
But spies more like,
Those modest Lacadaemonians,
Until, as always,
Back they came with more expensive gifts,
Bronze tripods, cauldrons,
Looted from who knows where,
Cluttering up the place,
Seeking more information
To furnish their simple, upright minds.

This time she surpassed herself
Our noble kinswoman
Uttering faultless dactyls worthy of Homer herself
Describing a modern forge
‘Where two winds roar
And blow is met by counter blow
Grief piled on grief’…..
Evoking the never-ending calamity of war.

Eventually one of them thought he saw through it
Standing one day in an iron-worker’s smithy
In a town in Arcadia
Marvelling at the size of the bellows
At the intensity of the heat
At the properties of the strange new metal:
Do not the lords of men always wonder
At the artisan’s skill?
Of course he asked for bones,
And lo! bones had been found nearby:
Where is the earth not filled
With the bones of the victims of war?

So they carted them all back to Sparta
After doing a deal with the smith,
Without a second thought for the forge.
They missed the point entirely, you see,
And, to be sure, they did very well for themselves for a while,
Even here against us (although they respected the Oracle).
Yes, the ascendancy of the Lacadaemonians
Can be traced to the moment they seized those bones;
Without a doubt, they missed the point entirely.”

                                       June 2017


I walked up the dry river bed at Mycenae
Like a criminal, out of sight of the road,
Through a landscape the colour of a lion’s pelt;
Drowsed in the shade of a rock,
Drank brackish water from an army water-bottle
Dreaming lion paws in the dust……
Inarkhos, river of dust,
Dried up by Poseidon’s hatred of Argos,
Swallowed by the sea.

Even then…..on the outside,
Owning nothing,
Waiting like a fox for the visitors to leave
For the attendants to shut the great beehive
Tomb of Agamemnon and leave;
Waiting for the silence.

The cistern in the citadel was dry
The flight of steps into darkness
That terrified Henry Miller
Ends in organic rock
As if the wound had healed over.

O black night, you who nurse the golden stars!

Dog-like I lay in the dust
Of the house of Atreus,
The night occluded,
The roaring of the stones silenced,
No snake whispering in the dead grass,
Dead water to drink
And the red glow of a cigarette
My beacon-flare.

Seferis and Kerouac
Signed up for their bourgeois regrets,
In the visitors’ book
Of Hotel Belle Helene de Menelas
The furies whistling.

I brought no furies with me.
The stones were dumb mouths,
The stars turned away their faces.
The dust slept as well as I.

                               June 2017

Nostalgia for the Present

A dark, momentary summer
Ten or fifteen years ago,
Listening to the piano music of Ravel
In the garden
In days of sudden heat….
Miroirs, a reverie,
Awakening a drowsy nostalgia
For the eternal hour
While the bees stumbled in the lavender
The blackbird’s song
Dreamed time away
The swifts tilted about the sky;
A nostalgia for Summer
As if that present moment
Were somehow also
Deep in the past…..
And now, so soon,
It’s a long time ago,
Almost forgotten.

                     May 2017