Natural Alchemy Read online

is handsome.

  Beware the sting

  indeed.

  STARGAZER

  She knew the names

  of all the constellations,

  whispered them to me

  even as I lay in the womb.

  She gave me a star name,

  raised me in dreamy days

  and stellar nights.

  She taught me to always look up.

  Together we explored

  the secrets of the stars.

  Side by side, gazing skywards,

  we found joy in the eternal search

  and in each other.

  She is long gone now,

  And I wonder if she knows

  that the day I laid her in the ground

  is the only time I have ever

  looked down.

  STEP FORWARD

  We take

  email

  and

  ecommerce

  so

  completely

  for granted

  I guess

  ehumanity

  is the next

  step forward

  in our

  evolution.

  Is everyone

  ecstatic

  about that?

  SUNBLIND

  The sun

  must have been

  in my eyes

  when I first looked

  at you.

  Bedazzled

  blinded

  I just didn’t see

  the secrets

  you kept

  hidden.

  I fell hard,

  breaking

  every bone

  in my body,

  only to find out

  it was all

  a lie.

  SUNRISE STILLED

  Sunrise stilled

  the morning mourns

  Shadows stand sharp

  like a devil’s horns

  My bleeding heart

  weeps into the rose bed

  luscious pink

  turns to radiant red

  There’ll be no breeze

  no cooling rain

  We’ll never see

  the sun again

  It will be forever dark

  so this is how

  we’ll make our mark

  Our bleeding hearts

  must weep ’til they’re dry

  We cannot let

  the roses die.

  THE FICKLENESS OF CATS

  I acquired her some years ago.

  He moved in a little while later,

  so him and me

  and Cat made three.

  He preferred dogs, he said

  but Cat soon won him over -

  it was a matter of feline pride.

  He likes steaks and hamburgers,

  I eat stews of lentils and herbs.

  Mouth full, he speaks freely,

  his grammar lively but inaccurate.

  I chew slowly, concentrating

  on my adjectives and verbs.

  Cat always sits by his chair -

  she knows whose plate

  to beg scraps from.

  In the evenings we sit side by side

  holding hands, watching TV.

  He loves sport and action movies.

  I prefer documentaries

  about things like GM foods, BSE.

  Cat leaps onto his lap, circles and settles.

  I reach out to stroke her

  but I think she senses my tension.

  He sleeps on the right-hand side,

  dreams sweeping away

  the minor worries of his day.

  I lie awake fretting

  about whether the bed

  meets the criteria of Feng Shui.

  Cat always sleeps at his feet,

  disliking my insomniac manoeuvres.

  We manage to live in harmony,

  living proof that incompatibility

  is no deterrent to love.

  But I know that if he were ever to leave

  my heart and my house

  would truly be empty.

  For Cat has shown where her loyalties lie.

  She would go with him.

  WAR & SOAP

  A wet Sunday afternoon,

  nothing to do

  but watch TV:

  633 Squadron

  and a cup of tea.

  Isn’t that the man

  from Coronation Street?

  The one that owns the factory?

  The theme music still stirs,

  I’ll be humming it for hours.

  Celluloid death still moves

  but I won’t lose sleep over it

  because it isn’t real.

  Outside it’s still raining

  so I’m not going anywhere.

  What is the name of that actor?

  He looks good in uniform,

  RAF blue reflecting in his eyes.

  If I’d been a rear-gunner

  shooting the enemy

  down in flames

  I would have wanted him

  to be one of the crew.

  But I don’t have to worry

  about things like that,

  war is professional now.

  Computer-controlled lasers,

  remote controlled soldiers.

  Think Kosovo and Iraq.

  The film finishes at five,

  I’ll have time to prepare dinner

  and pour myself a glass of wine.

  I’ve got until seven-thirty

  before Eastenders starts

  and at 9 there’s another film.

  Think I’ll skip the news tonight.

  There’s bound to be

  a real war somewhere

  and I don’t want to hear about it

  or see real-time pictures.

  They might keep me awake.

  WATERCOLOUR

  Out of the darkness

  of a stretched canvas

  he paints his watercolour world

  The sky dazzles

  The trees astonish

  Nature could learn from him

  He paints a woman

  in a sea-green dress

  arms open wide

  scarlet mouth laughing

  I didn’t know it was possible

  to convey such happiness

  with a sable brush

  Now he caresses her hair

  with a tender touch of gold

  and I can’t help but sigh

  He pauses

  silent

  waiting

  knowing I don’t see

  what his eyes see

  Because the woman

  in the painting

  that beautiful

  laughing woman

  is me

  and I don’t know her

  at all

  WOMAN SCORNED

  Handy with a kitchen knife

  I twice tried

  to end a life

  Attempted murder

  but he survived

  Tried suicide

  but I’m still alive

  They decreed I’m far from well

  and locked me alone

  in this padded cell

  Mad and bad

  abandoned here

  Haunted by images

  startlingly clear

  Not-quite-snuff-movies in my head

  Stab and slash scenes

  Oh how he bled

  So much gore

  and blood and stuff

  that turned out

  not to be enough

  I wonder does he think of me

  imprisoned for life

  while he runs free

  I’m sure he thanks

  his lucky stars

  as simpering women

  admire his scars

  WRECKED

  You’ve always jumped

  without looking ahead,

  leapt into the void

  without a shred
>
  of fear

  One day

  the cord will snap,

  the canopy rip

  and uselessly flap

  above your head

  You will be buried

  deep in the sand

  and all we’ll see

  is your broken hand

  trying to wave for help

  Always reckless

  one day

  you will be wrecked

  YETI

  The footprints are not human.

  Pulling notebook and pen from his pocket

  He jots down the measurements

  and prepares to take photographs

  and plaster casts before the snow

  obliterates them and as he works he

  imagines the hordes of scientists

  and sightseers who’ll flock here.

  He thinks of fame and glory, until

  a sound makes him glance up.

  It is everything he thought it would be

  and so much more. Slowly

  he raises the camera and focuses

  on the fantastic face staring back at him.

  But no picture is taken, because

  something in the eyes stills his hand.

  A message is wordlessly conveyed,

  profound and desperate, before

  it is gone, lost in the swirling snow.

  Amazed, understanding dawns

  and he knows he has a duty to

  tear the pages from his notebook

  and rip them into tiny fragments.

  He must let it all go, even though

  it means there’ll be no fame, no glory.

  But if he were to die this very minute

  he’d die a very happy man.

  IMAGES OF GREECE:

  COFFEE & OUZO

  As the hibiscus flower raises

  its scarlet face to the sun

  he sits on the terrace and sips

  bitter coffee, long cold.

  In his kitchen dirty dishes

  fuel happy flies.

  A forgotten broom

  gathers dust to itself

  in a dark corner,

  and as the sun shakes hands

  with the twilight sky,

  he is still there on the terrace.

  A glass of ouzo now rests

  beside the coffee cup

  oozing aniseed his tongue

  no longer tastes.

  The hibiscus furls itself away,

  a partisan flag hiding its colours.

  Behind his milky eyes lie

  a thousand memories

  of treacherous mountain passes,

  of guns, of glory,

  of men made brave by circumstance

  and the common cause.

  He has memories

  of a beautiful face

  that grew sad and empty

  for want of children.

  Now she and his comrades

  are waiting.

  He is just biding his time

  with coffee and ouzo.

  DIASPORA

  Day after patient day

  she’d sat beneath

  the ancient vine

  shelling almonds

  one by delicate one.

  Now the aromas

  of vanilla and cinnamon

  drift from her kitchen

  and dance

  on the shady leaves.

  That vine has shared

  the secrets

  of generations past but

  will know little

  of generations future,

  for their home

  is another country.

  Today she bakes biscuits,

  a once a year ritual

  because her children

  are coming

  with their children

  and theirs.

  Each year more come

  from across the seas

  where biscuits are bought

  from convenience stores.

  Their faces bear

  familiar features

  yet they speak a language

  she doesn’t understand.

  She can hardly see now,

  but her fingers know the way.

  Her biscuits will be perfection.

  Just hours from now

  they will all be gone.

  And so will her children.

  KALAVRYTA (kal-A-vreta)

  The next four poems have a story that needs to be told before they are read.

  On December 13 1943, Nazi occupiers marched into Kalavryta and ordered all men and boys aged 12 and over to assemble on the hillside that overlooks the small town. Led to believe that they were going to be forced to listen to a lecture, they took blankets with them. In reality it was an act of reprisal for resistance activity in the area, and the soldiers opened fire on them. Very few survived the carnage.

  The women and children were locked into the school, and the building set on fire. They escaped, it is said, because a soldier took pity on them and opened the doors.

  But most of their men were dead, all their food was taken and the whole town was razed to the ground as the soldiers left.

  The hill is now a lasting and very moving memorial site. The names of those who died are inscribed on a wall, and there is a small room built into the hill where lighted oil lamps hang from the ceiling.

  Outside the school building (now a museum) is a bronze statue of a woman flanked by her two young children, dragging the body of her dead husband on a blanket. This was commissioned by the son of one of the men who was killed that day. He is, in fact, the little boy of the statue, reaching up to touch his mother’s arm.

  I have been to this site several times, and it never fails to move me.

  KALAVRYTA: THE MAN

  We didn't know what to expect,

  the townsmen and I,

  but we knew enough to be afraid.

  We were herded like sheep

  away from our homes,

  while our women were left behind

  to wait and wonder.

  We all helped the old men

  as they stumbled on stones,

  refusing to let them

  be humbled by the enemy.

  As the bright blankets

  were spread upon the hillside,

  as fathers and sons whispered,

  I looked across to where

  the group of soldiers stood.

  My eyes locked

  with those of a young man

  whose hands visibly trembled

  as he raised his weapon.

  Fate reached out and touched me

  with cold and sorry fingers

  and I saw clearly

  what was about to be lost on this hill.

  I pushed my son behind me,

  tried to warn the others,

  but my words were obliterated

  by the blast of the guns.

  I was just one of twelve hundred

  men and boys condemned this day.

  As my knees gave way

  I gazed down on the church

  where I’d prayed just yesterday,

  the church where I

  would be buried tomorrow.

  I could not shut out the dreadful sounds

  but I closed my eyes,

  screwed them tight against the horror.

  My mind's eye recalled with sweet clarity

  the faces of my wife and children.

  What will become of them without me?

  What will become of Kalavryta?

  KALAVRYTA: THE SOLDIER

  My eyes swept the hillside,

  taking in the blankets spread on the grass,

  the baskets of meager rations.

  Fathers and sons whispered to each other,

  asking the unanswerable question.

  I closed my eyelids, screwed them tight,

  but my mind's eye presented what was to come.

  An image to haunt me al
l my days.

  With resignation I opened my eyes again,

  felt them widen as they met

  those of a man standing on his bright blanket.

  The expression on his face was sad and knowing.

  They locked, our two pairs of eyes.

  He called out a warning,

  as I, with cold and sorry fingers,

  raised my rifle and took aim.

  The order was given.

  We both fell to the ground as the guns blasted.

  The man’s legs gave way in death,

  mine buckled with the horror of what I’d done.

  I thought then that when I got home –

  if I got home -

  I would remember this day with shame and rage.

  I would forever curse the men

  who dragged me to war

  and brought me to my knees in Kalavryta.

  KALAVRYTA: THE WOMAN

  Wolves had scavenged in the night.

  The sweet-sour smell of death

  tainted the December wind.

  We had to beg to be allowed

  to bury our men while there was still

  enough flesh to know them.

  How had it come to this?

  The search was dreadful,

  each of us trying to identify our husbands,

  fathers, sons, brothers.

  Each of us unable to imagine

  how we would carry on without them.

  Our homes and fields had been destroyed

  and all our food taken.

  We struggled to wrap

  the bodies in bright blankets,

  the cold and bloodied fabric resisted

  the contours of stiff limbs.

  The very air fell silent and still,

  the ice-flecked blades of grass saluted us

  as we relieved the hillside of its burden.

  I don’t know how I found the strength

  to manage the back-breaking task.

  As I traced the face of my husband

  with cold and sorry fingers,

  I wondered how I could possibly explain

  this terrible day to our children.

  So much was lost in Kalavryta.

  KALAVRYTA: THE VISITOR

  I stand on the hillside in respectful silence.

  Unbidden, the story unfolds itself.

  Bright blankets are spread on the grass;

  fathers and sons are thinking the unthinkable.

  I close my eyelids, screw them tight,

  but the images relentlessly roll on.

  They will haunt me all my days.

  As they must haunt the young soldier

  who says he was simply obeying orders.

  I see him now, his tired eyes widening

  when they meet the gaze of a man,

  whose expression is sad and knowing.

  They locked, those two pairs of eyes.

  The man called out a warning

  as the order was given.

  The soldier raised his rifle