Cemetery Nature

 How any grass has grown here,

defying stillness, puzzles.

The birds dive, as if to warn,

unflappable. Their space.

 

Hoopoes, swallows own the air

swing low, go close

a breath away, dive you

back to the primal past, excavate

your fears.

 

Intruder.

 

Green reeds silently whistle-

line the ghostly Eridanos.

 

Yet still.

 

Demeter smiles,

 

seeing red,

red anemones popping up

fraternising with Canna lilies

orange high,

 

chamomile scenting grasses.

I Look at “Pretty Concrete”

Pretty concrete 

wet in its fresh newness

would shine a shiny wet

 

and acquire lines

and then lines of dots

before setting.

 

We’d lift the protective wood

and make our mark.

 

Initial the future.

 

(I look at this little detail of childhood

and wonder why

these small perfections

have assumed such importance for me.

Well, half wonder.)

Partial

A Mosaic of blinding sun,stipples the ground through diffuse trees.

 

Eyes squint, sweat swims in.

The summer sears and bleeds.

 

A flowery dress flickers.

 

The goose-bumped

cobbled

street.

 

Stuccoed walls, peeling skin.

 

Uneven existence

Thoughts half-formed in heat.

 

I am partial

to this.

Eridanos

dheiknumena (things revealed) 

Eridanos,

which coloured the clay

of the Kerameikos potters,

accompanied, rolled beside the Sacred Way,

here it is, gloriously,

still watering the earth.

 

Dhromena (things done)

 

You dig, discover.

Do the work.

 

Digging for the new Metro.

Uncovering a stream.

 

 

Legomena (things said)

 

I am Persephone gathering flowers now.

Eating pomegranate seeds.

 

The river always ran, forgotten,

underground.

 

It sank to the Underworld with me.

Now re-revealed.

 

Hiera Hodos.

Re-make, re-model.

A White Noise

This page with its blankness.

There was an honesty there,

 

its whiteness whirring.

 

My mind mirrored.

 

Unbeginningly wordless it spoke existence.

Its silence, no presumption of language.

 

Its consciousness being in front of me,

I love myself in its natural purity.

 

But then, I do what I do.

 

A word, plucked

fixes that,

fucks that.

 

And once you start

you can’t shut up.

 

So much so,

the best you can hope for

 

is white noise.

When Blood, a River of Roses, Runs

When blood, a river of roses, runs

and floods, a Phoenix rising red

and soaks your skin and cloaks you scarlet

rumbles creeks where sense has fled,

 

and rushes to your little head

as passion pulls and pulverises,

irises burst as dreams fulfil

materialising in all their guises.

 

When civility sheds its clothes and bares

desire in all its physicality,

surrender to your quickening pulse

accept the moment’s animality.