O Antonis 2015

Two hands clap and there is a sound. What is the sound of one hand?

Hakuin Ekaku

What sound does one clapping hand make?

The craft of getting it wrong.

What do I know?

I was never one for riddles, anyway.

The hollowness of the absence yelling back at it?

A sense of hubris at the void – a debt from man

to the stars.

Remember me. I am the salt of the Aegean.

Her organs failed you, not me.

My memory lingers –

who are we?

A body once entwined says thank you

Or good night.

Or good luck.

Talking to angels

I suppose we all talk to angels,

in a certain sense.

The hand, hesitant. Reaching for

respite,

the soul searching: off in a puff;

the pain, diminished

the echo of it bouncing down

broken corridors of long-forgotten

memories.

Chasing dragons. Turning away,

if you can,

from battles never done?

Shinkansen: a poem for Charles

In fond memory of Charles Ramsden

Now, as you board your train

may you be met by

all the ghosts we have known,

those that follow us,

those that give us hope in our weary nights,

those that keep us together,

those who follow us, silent,

into the darkest reaches of our souls,

those who keep our forgotten memories warm

close to them,

may you be met by fellow travellers,

may you speed through the fields of England,

the heartland of Holland

 – which is not about

clichés like windmills and flowers

but a never-ending

fight to keep the devastating

sea of drowning

at bay –

the long rolling hills of Provence,

the forests of fall in New England,

the plains of Japan.

Fellow wanderer,

find your way home,

in the comfort of the Orient Express

at the speed of the Shinkansen,

find peace,

find the light,

while those who wait at the station,

queuing up to buy our own tickets

for that one inescapable journey

look forward,

with confidence,

as we bless that cross,

piercing forward,

into the starry night.

Philae

“May the troubled wanderers who have lost their way
Meet with fellow travellers”

Shantideva (Bodhicaryavatara)

Philae, my love,

fall with grace

into silence

while I wait,

riveted.

Ride on the surface

of the comet

and look back –

we are but dust,

reflected by the Sun:

see that blue speck?

we are there

where what has happened

will. Over and over;

some wait in the cities

some wait in the factories

some wait in the classrooms

some wait in the fields

some wait locked in their

endless regrets

where forgotten dreams

sleep – nothing new under

the Sun

the computers blip,

the coffee cups grow

cold

faces tense

what are they thinking?

What will they gain from the toil,

but the journey?

Some think of the data,

some of the food they

left out this morning

by mistake

some of their mothers,

their fathers or brothers,

their lovers

or the book they left

in the bus – by mistake

as you fall, my love.

I wait.

So long, Mister Leonard

“It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.”

Jack Gilbert “Horses at Midnight Without a Moon”

What will astonish you first is the singing,

the singing – no less than a Godsend, a seed,

a remedy or a boat,

a flood of crossings, a sacrifice

first hand

like a dusty garbage-bin:

an emptiness so hollow

the very fabric of it –

dead to the world.

I guess this is what is called

being blissfully lost.

Like when the morning rises

and still sleepy,

we feel the tinge of joy

at the possibilities;

our nightly quarters receding

into the spaces

where memories sleep,

the unrequited prayers,

sedated for a while.

The moment,

the here,

the now.

You are not God

You are not God,

you are the English I dare not use –

the humble whisper,

my frustration of the limits

I find in the fading light

of the afternoon,

just before secret words

are spoken:

You are not God,

you don’t speak.

You take it.

Published in Eunoia Review

Homeward bound

In memory of Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela (1918-2013)

Yes, the world has grown a little colder,

a rainbow-coloured spectrum

of light bulbs shedding a crude light

on the gated communities of our minds

congregating as one, in this hour,

this severest form of reminder –

the great man is no more,

he is no longer

present to guide, yet to be remembered,

like a shaken leaf of insignificant

proportions announces the echoes

of the future winters to come in which I,

the lighter brother, may also mourn,

the one who ate in the dining room,

but whose outstretched hands you took

out of the closet;

and allowed to stand beside you

without fear; rest gently, sir.

Rest gently, unconquerable soul,

homeward bound.