Romanian River Candid

Romanian River Candid


Having no more film to fall back on
I revelled in the light’s temperature –
wasn’t sure if that blue look was cooler or
warmer than the Mediterranean –
twiddled for an F-number
to hold the great structure
of the water grove; and shutter speed
to catch the movement of the water;
and as the boat progressed through heat
into the arcs and haloes of the Danube,
I clicked away absurdly, sure that
each ingress of light would find,
in shape’s curvature and flight
of colour through angled lens,
a pause inside my Practika
to make a bright transfer

like the arched pavilion of the branches
in the wide pools our launch passed through –
a vision on the blank void
that, with no film to fall back on,
I would see, if not again,
then just this once.

Romanian River Candid

Romanian River Candid


Having no more film to fall back on
I revelled in the light’s temperature –
wasn’t sure if that blue look was cooler or
warmer than the Mediterranean –
twiddled for an F-number
to hold the great structure
of the water grove; and shutter speed
to catch the movement of the water;
and as the boat progressed through heat
into the arcs and haloes of the Danube,
I clicked away absurdly, sure that
each ingress of light would find,
in shape’s curvature and flight
of colour through angled lens,
a pause inside my Practika
to make a bright transfer

like the arched pavilion of the branches
in the wide pools our launch passed through –
a vision on the blank void
that, with no film to fall back on,
I would see, if not again,
then just this once.

Walking With Steve

Walking between Tea and Supper



The last year in the Sixth
was like the first year or the last man:

together they walked
through the Highgate Autumn
alienated, sick
of poems in school magazines
about treading down
falling leaves.

Crossed Waterlow Park
on slanting paths
towards the myna birds, rolling
a weed, studiously observing them
through rusty, spangled wire -
yellow eyes’ alertness
in a night of coal-black feathers,

and as the chill wind blew,
scrupulously
trying to teach them:
“Fuck off, fuck off……”
The wise birds
watched them, non-compliant
indifferent auguries,
and with the aloofness
the caged often have.



+++

Walking With Steve

Walking between Tea and Supper



The last year in the Sixth
was like the first year or the last man:

together they walked
through the Highgate Autumn
alienated, sick
of poems in school magazines
about treading down
falling leaves.

Crossed Waterlow Park
on slanting paths
towards the myna birds, rolling
a weed, studiously observing them
through rusty, spangled wire -
yellow eyes’ alertness
in a night of coal-black feathers,

and as the chill wind blew,
scrupulously
trying to teach them:
“Fuck off, fuck off……”
The wise birds
watched them, non-compliant
indifferent auguries,
and with the aloofness
the caged often have.



+++

Tour Guide '85

TOUR GUIDE ‘85

More than guide, our guide -
a leader who advises and, in
his young and handsome way, cajoles:
“Stay with the group and follow me –

Don’t linger, even for an instant,
I can’t guarantee your safety if you do.”
English spoken correctly with an accent
and with Romanian emphasis, panache.

With funny tummy, feeling groggy, must
Decide: should I get on the coach or not?
No looking back, we’re on, and being counted.
When we board the airy motor launch

with wooden slat seats on its deck,
“You can have a soft drink,”
he announces over the sound system.
“I recommend the beer.”

From the first sip I see why;
tasting that cool Moldavian draft
a new landscape opens up. After that
the stomach’s fine; the launch chugs on,

onto Danube’s wide waters
the sun turns to fiery ice;
and the rising notes of a young
accordion player accompany us

released with subtle and peculiar-to
-his region rhythms and flaring riffs;
as heat beats down on wood-hard seats,
the launch goes on and into Noon and lunch:

an old village on an island
where they farm all Summer for the frozen flood
of Winter; a pale place where chickens run.
The guide – now serious – explains, disturbs

the account of hardship is so grim –
and what he doesn’t tell us,
couldn’t tell us, though later on he knew,
the deprivation was both giant and wicked.


At last we reach the port,
the evening soft as feathers floating,
and we follow and do not linger,
reaching the upstairs restaurant by the water:

the harbour of Constantia where
we’ve stepped into a sea of good ions
and our guide has gone quiet, becomes
invisible, as here he knows we’re safe

being feted at the long wooden tables,
cared for by sisters of the revolution –
a meal that is simple, yet
amounts to a delicious nourishment;

the music entertaining, not too strident,
adds to the sense of the evening passing
full of light, and the wine, not exactly
flowing, is glowing with Arcadian life!


+++

Tour Guide '85

TOUR GUIDE ‘85

More than guide, our guide -
a leader who advises and, in
his young and handsome way, cajoles:
“Stay with the group and follow me –

Don’t linger, even for an instant,
I can’t guarantee your safety if you do.”
English spoken correctly with an accent
and with Romanian emphasis, panache.

With funny tummy, feeling groggy, must
Decide: should I get on the coach or not?
No looking back, we’re on, and being counted.
When we board the airy motor launch

with wooden slat seats on its deck,
“You can have a soft drink,”
he announces over the sound system.
“I recommend the beer.”

From the first sip I see why;
tasting that cool Moldavian draft
a new landscape opens up. After that
the stomach’s fine; the launch chugs on,

onto Danube’s wide waters
the sun turns to fiery ice;
and the rising notes of a young
accordion player accompany us

released with subtle and peculiar-to
-his region rhythms and flaring riffs;
as heat beats down on wood-hard seats,
the launch goes on and into Noon and lunch:

an old village on an island
where they farm all Summer for the frozen flood
of Winter; a pale place where chickens run.
The guide – now serious – explains, disturbs

the account of hardship is so grim –
and what he doesn’t tell us,
couldn’t tell us, though later on he knew,
the deprivation was both giant and wicked.


At last we reach the port,
the evening soft as feathers floating,
and we follow and do not linger,
reaching the upstairs restaurant by the water:

the harbour of Constantia where
we’ve stepped into a sea of good ions
and our guide has gone quiet, becomes
invisible, as here he knows we’re safe

being feted at the long wooden tables,
cared for by sisters of the revolution –
a meal that is simple, yet
amounts to a delicious nourishment;

the music entertaining, not too strident,
adds to the sense of the evening passing
full of light, and the wine, not exactly
flowing, is glowing with Arcadian life!


+++

Meeting House

HOP GARDENS


Here where the convent
planted hops to rival Kent’s
and brewed their own dark beer,
a company of trees keeps watch
at high windows.
Their garden shadows
mingling, intimate
a saraband of centuries
or an old tango
from the slow Atlantic –

Now the Meeting House has
bells for several skills
and Saturday morning crafts:
electric urns for sacheed tea,
coffee or chocolate from a jar.
The bell the poets ring,
next to Buddhist Meditation,
is labelled, Tango Club: a wait
for poet - or meditator? – to let us in.

From the ceiling a hanging arc
lights up the central table
and, not quite falling on
our latest typed pages,
necessitates a leaning forward,
creates a closer gathering.
Sequins that cannot be sewn
colder than quartz & quicker
than the song of birds,
each different mind coheres
in a temporary fabric: glass leaves
collected to reflect and listen
as the one voice steps forward
to trounce the half light
with a flare.