Cartographies
I
We create our own cities
in the sad spaces of the heart
for true orange is one of the colours of silence
and whenever you sense that hint of winter on a foreign day
you trust to memory
as: iron grilles along a whitewashed wall
sounds of fountains hidden from the long road
the scattered street sounds ripple through shade trees
that tang of joy
coming alive with this beauty
then reckoning the price
making time
(at all costs protect the workings of the heart:
“the thirsty man is the last to drink”)
there is no shortage
of work to be done
but no one
to pay for it
cracked bells
echoes
II
Jagged edge, black etched on blue night, silhouette against stars.
The death of a year in ice.
This north wall has never known the sun, cold rock cuts us off from the south; those mountains are gold, at early hours they stand up high into the pale air.
After weeks, the steel unlocks.
Thick fog weighs on the hills, the farms
float in and out of white darkness
waiting, the trees in patterns of glass
drips of light
breath of silence on rock.
First seen a hundred miles off, painted on sky, a hint of spring as the road climbs and falls. A thin line on the horizon, imagined snow through the trees, love slowly taking shape.
He remembers the tones of salads,
notes the structures of lettuce,
and eats slowly.
Every night in a new hotel
but no favourite,
every one his own.
“A palace of air…the King…
This time I must get it right.”
He moves forward uncertainly
“A water garden…”
- What about your job?
- This won’t hurt at all”
It is a small house in which he stands.
Each blade of grass, each broken shell
is minutely depicted, he calls it
the Kingdom of the Soul:
just feathers, leaves, things that drift.
A vision that recurs,
a Chinese garden of cork
carved in a glass case.
How many countries are behind his eyes?
The week begins with the bells,
the cathedral booms
and our street echoes with its bass drone,
treble peal up over the roofs.
A figure on the stairs,
do you know her name?
She sings a long song without words. At the end is a mirror. She stops dancing. Her hands are like marble, perfectly still. At a glance she could destroy all song. Look into the glass.
At the back of the sky
the sea thunders
behind the trees
The forest is quiet
a few birds silenced
by the ocean’s roar.
The march of pines through the night, black trunks against the blue light of dawn. Change trains at the border. The moon rises from behind a hill, sets again as the train moves on. The lights of a far town shift in the dark. We enter a new past, as bridges lean to adjust their angles to our line of flight. Moon sits in the window, blinking between trees, through darkness and patches of mist. A war is brewing beyond the horizon, early morning thunderstorms, strange breakfasts.
III
The dancing blue-green fountain of light reflects
swirls of tiles and immaculate stone lacework,
the plaster Koran’s mathematical play
marching strict round the walls,
the dark designs of cedar and bronze.
Every angle is patterned with Allah,
water and quiet. A paradise
for intellect and prayer.
Outside
the sun
filters through to a chaos
of alleys
donkeys and children
splash of mud
scarred faces smiling
secret eyes glint of gold
the air clanging
spices burnt meat and cedar.
The city
is on the edge of centuries, a dry sea.
Mud palaces stand over dazzling sands.
Midsummer hours burn into years
of rock and dead armies.
Sun sculpted stones litter the hills.
Spring is a thousand miles away.
(True orange
is a quality of light,
the sweet dew of dawn,
perfumed with flowers,
the laced play of water
on carved columns.
Deep sky and red earth,
a ghost of heat
on the tongue)
IV
Cracked bells clang at random
punctuate the dark
dog barking at its own echo
down a backstreet
trust memory for all you need
and so we create our own sad cities
for silence is one of the colours of winter
(of course, that again!)
and no fountains play behind the grille
the sounds of joy hidden from the long street
the costs reckoned
the time marked
protect us from the workings of echoes
no shortage of work
cracked bells
bark
that thirst again
poetrymagazines note: 'Cartographies' was republished in Border Disputes, 1995, University of Salzburg Press, Salzburg, Austria, 116pp,
ISBN: 3-7052-0430-0, £7.95
Page(s) 2-5
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