Blu Med ramblings

Notes from blue Med journeys

                           1

I left Livorno in a sapphire dawn.
White mountains, crumpled like a thrown back sheet
recede; as softly daylight fades to fawn
I sail alone into the sullen heat.
Last night, your dark eyes shone. I remember
reflected in a glass of spicy red,
yellow candlelight—a crimson ember.
You laughed. I conjectured—how soon till bed.
Noon: dolphins leap across the bow wave's foam,
Capraia passes, barren and treeless.
I think of how bewildered Ulysses,
captured by Calypso, still yearned for home.
Beyond love lies no cosy solitude,
just empty chaos, where dark matters brood

                                2

So you believe that at the end your whole
life might flash by; instead I'd rather cling
to one dear scene, some sentimental thing,
a talisman to fend my fading soul
from bland oblivion, not paradise
regained  but heaven in the here and now.
Across the smoke-grey limestone hills look how
the colours change as slowly daylight dies -
first golden, then peach-pink, now dusky mauve;
aquamarine, the eastern sky; the sea,
a deep turquoise. Amongst our wine and laughter
the first stars sparkle quietly; above,
a plump moon dotes on human revelry:
bliss is now - not desultory hereafter

                                 3

Beneath a Pernod parasol, chic blonde
in tow, a suave tycoon overtly lingers
over lunch; slim, exquisite fingers
caress his chubby hand. Now look beyond
the quay-side cafe's pastel-pink facade -
white yachts, blue sea, a sepia-tinted square
dissolved in heat - upon a wicker chair
an old man sits, a picturesque post card,
a snapshot of authentic St. Florent.
Not quite, below has battered black beret
he sports designer shades by Saint Laurent.
Each cultivates their sense of how they seem,
pursuing paltry paradise; today
forever, the axiom of their facile dream.

                                 4

Above Placa Reial the palm trees nod
like caged giraffes. Pubescent prostitutes,
dressed-up in ra-ra skirts and Lurex boots
patrol their pitch. As evening falls an odd
pink light pervades the patched Baroque arcade.
A girl steps from the shadows, face aglow,
like some doomed saint by Caravaggio;
her sallow beauty mocks the drab parade.
Across the faded square a duo plays
upon accordion and clarinet,
up-beat and strangely phrased, 'Those Were the Days'.
Absorbed within some lost bohemia, regret
becomes our shabby surrogate for blame—
pretending yet 'our dreams are still the same'.

                                 5

Five leaf-falls come and go – what now comes to mind?
A chalk-blue sky, dark olive groves awaiting
harvest, softly, the sirocco abating.
Now daylight fades - no stars, no sounds, no wind;
clouds part, the crescent moon, a lemon rind
above the dull slate bay, illuminating 
Afaia’s shrine; bar-room laughter, dogs barking,
beneath the harbour wall lovers entwined;
and how next day the rusty bus halted
at Mesagros. The goddess herself alighted
be-jeweled in patched denim, a slight figure
with soft brown ringlets; cinnamon-spiced
she stood before me. I felt exalted;
like she'd strewn gold before some old, blind beggar.

                                    6

And as today, did dove-grey islands float—
like wisps of smoke smudging the horizon;
at anchor, rows of blue stemmed fishing boats
knock and nudge in harbour? By dawn they’d gone—the dark destroyers—those fickle saviours.
Some soldiers wept, laid down their arms and sat
awaiting death beneath the bougainvilleas.
Instead, they found an eerie peace: a cat
curled up below a shadowy veranda,
a myriad of lemon butterflies,
shimmering amongst the oleander.
Oblivious to their futile sacrifice,
we eat our lunch. What violence was done
so we might feast beneath the Cretan sun?

                                   7

Dialectics

Was it the double of my dream
The woman that by me lay
Dreamed, or did we halve a dream,
Under the first cold gleam of day?

W  B Yeats

DREAMS of a city slumbering
Under a sallow, thunderous sky:
Beneath the pitiless neon
People live, love and die.

Dreams of pearl-grey islands
Strung on a shimmering sea;
Quietly cicadas chafe,
Amongst ancient olive trees.

And though our dreams grow distant,
Never utterly apart;
Drawn close by an inconsistent,
Ambiguous heart.

Such overt, desperate brightness
—Voracious need concealed:
Such deliberate reticence
—A stifled voice revealed.

You wake in the empty hours,
To the city's quiet commotion—
Hear traffic swish through a sudden shower,
Fear an overwhelming ocean.

I walk on the darkening headland,
Through cool, moonlit pinewoods—
In the shiftless sea and shivering trees:
Hear restless multitudes.

                            8

After Auden - Paysage immoralisé

Hearing of children dying in parched valleys,
'Heretics' besieged on arid mountains,
The dispossessed adrift on dangerous water,
Marooned in squalor on picture postcard islands,
Living rough within our glittering cities -
We toss loose change to salve our burgeoning sorrow.

We, whose trite anxieties mask endless sorrow,
Sit by pools overlooking verdant valleys,
Or penthouse balconies in towering cities
With distant view of smog-smudged, snow-capped mountains -
Share Snapchat pics of migrants trapped on islands,
Feign outrage as we sip our sparkling water:

Big pharma commodified tap water,
Cyber gurus monetised our sorrow;
Watch C-list celebs shag on virtual islands,
Eden shot in lush, panoptic valleys:
Re-tweeted memes make molehills into mountains,
A smog of sadness spreads across our cities;

Watch super-heroes save imperilled cities,
Their magic powers holding back the water
Rising all around like shimmering mountains.
Strip-back the CGI, a world of sorrow
Overwhelms us, shadowing our golden valleys,
Inundating once hospitable islands:
Hopeless, these once hospitable islands;
Crumbling, these old imperial cities;

Forgotten, these empty, blossoming valleys.
No gods or heroes sweep across the water
To save us from our desolating sorrow
Looming before us like dark, impassable mountains.

Our future is an aftermath. Grey mountains,
Half submerged, shrunk to humid, swampy islands
Give beggarly shelter, but from our sorrow
There is no shelter. Couched in ruined cities
Ragged gangs skirmish over dwindling water;
Nearby, arcane cults skulk in sunbaked valleys.

And sorrow falls like mercurial melt water
From cloud-veiled mountains;  esconsced in bleak valleys 

We dream of cities as viridian islands.

                            9

Etruscan Places

1. Volterra—Twilight

Sunset fades; the golden citadel
now darkens. Dusty blue, the sky awaits
its first few stars. He places a lace shawl
about her shoulders, then anticipates
just how the evening might unfold—beauty
and cruelty finely balanced. 'You seem distant'.
She smiles, blows him a kiss, (he feels, from duty
or maybe misplaced pity). Still, persistent,
he talks at length of their museum visit,
then reads aloud from 'Etruscan Places'.
His voice trails off, as if to say—'What is it?'
Remembering the death masks' vivid faces,
trinkets stolen from a king's sarcophagus,
she says, 'the place reminded me of us'.

2. Peach Melba

The Texas matriarch three tables down,
her chosen subject—Michelangelo
explains that David's vaguely bilious frown,
big head, small dick, if viewed from down below
'look perfectly proportional.' Installed
discreetly in their corner, stifling laughter,
the couple listen in. 'Do you recall',
the woman asks, 'the line that comes straight after
"in the room the women come and go?"'
He smirks, then ordering dessert (Peach Melba),
leans back; it's good, he feels, she's in the know.
'Tomorrow,' she suggests, 'lets visit Elba'.
He nods, observing with suppressed alarm
the serpent bracelet clasped to her white arm.

3. The City of The Dead—His Sonnet

Now after dark they take the stony track
zig-zagging through an ancient olive grove
to reach the citadel, its ramparts black
against the gauze-gray sky. From high above
the shrunken moon rains down its tarnished light
upon the silent town. Though neither dare
disturb its brittle quietness, tonight,
as shadows drift like moths across the bare
chalk hills, they sense the silence's hushed scream.
The breeze is warm; the moonlight, cold as frost
illuminates a plundered tomb, a dream
of plenty, and ancient innocence lost.
They walk apart, she slowly moves ahead
enamoured with the city of the dead.

4. A postcard for mother

For Mother, the Etruscan figurine?'
Bea, prone in Savasana, hints—'Too phallic,
Mom might prefer the tacky vineyard scene.'
'Is everything you say some smartaleck
cliché?' 'Bullshit! Just tell her you're OK,'
she grins, 'it's not the Pulitzer committee.'
He writes, 'arrived Volterra, noon Sunday,
now 1.00 am. Too hot for sleep, tho. B.
can work, I cannot find the words, surprise,
surprise.' Unsure quite how he should sign off:
not 'love'—perpetuating well-versed lies;
'Your loving son'—too public schoolboy toff.
He settles for a stark initial Q
but vacillates between one 'x' or two.

5. Moon shot

In her element, crouched behind a tripod,
Bea points the telephoto at the moon;
'We'll need a timed exposure here'. It's odd
the casual way she seeks to importune
whoever is on hand to serve her process.
He thinks—what was it the New Yorker said?
“Eschewing mere depiction, Beatrice
demurs from taking photographs, instead
performs photography, and apprehends
the world that's taken her.” 'Focus!
for fuck's sake'. The moon obliges. He pretends
that Artemis, alone on Mount Olympus,
puts down her bow exclusively to shine
into the empty lens—a light divine.

6. Maremma Dusk—Her Landscape

Too hot for sleep. Observe Bea work; lips pursed,
brow furrowed, she sits cross-legged upon the bed
and stares into her Powerbook, immersed.
Maremma Dusk, umbrella pines, the Med
suffused in yellow light; black cattle graze
amid the salt marshes. She clicks invert;
the lime green grass, the gold, rococo haze
morph instantly to mauve; the earth reverts
to pre-diluvian blue. She pastes a row
of sunflowers from Yahoo; reversing hue,
flamboyant petals pale to indigo.
'It's finished, now let's sleep'. He thinks, 'Are you
a charlatan, my cool flirtatious thief;
and I your fool, naive beyond belief?'

7. Tragedy

He wakes her with a gentle kiss. 'It's late,
the Traghetti leave at noon'. She stumbles
towards the shower. Beatrice looks so great
half-naked in his torn T-shirt he mumbles
some obscenity. she squeaks
in Barry Gibb falsetto, 'the feeling's
gone and you can't go on;' the pop song speaks
their sorrow. Driving southwards, tyres squealing,
Bea flings the Alfa through each hairpin bend.
They squabble. 'Watch that Vespa!' 'Are we lost?'
'Well read the bloody map.' It's not the end
he'd drafted—bittersweet, yet still star-crossed.
Livorno docks—they part. He drives to Rome,
re-writes His Sonnet as he flies back home

                                   10

A road through autumn

Autumn stalks us like a jilted lover,

We flee south seeking impossible freedom -

a slow drive across Champagne's ochre plains -

russet woods fringing the mirror-still Meuse.

We flee south seeking impossible freedom,

on ancient roads - empty, poplar shadowed,

through russet woods fringing the mirror-still Meuse.

We hardly speak, but watch the wordless light

hush down ancient roads. Empty, plane-tree shadowed,

a crumbling square in some Burgundian town -

we hardly speak, but watch the wordless light -

le crepuscule’ as we sip our 'deux noisettes'.

A crumbling square in some Burgundian town -

it feels like weeks or months ago,

'le crepuscule' as we sipped our 'deux noisettes',

uncertain how each day slipped out unnoticed.

It feels like weeks or months ago

we chanced upon a verdant valley

uncertain how each day slipped by unnoticed,

time sauntering south with us in Autumn's shadow.

We chanced upon a verdant valley:

turquoise lake, sunlit pastures, ice streaked peaks,

time sauntering south with us in Autumn's shadow:

a herdswoman prods her clanging cattle homewards.

Turquoise lake, sunlit pastures, ice streaked peaks,

flowery chalets dotting valley fields -

herders prodding clanging cattle homewards

today as for the past four thousand years.

Flowery chalets dot the valley fields,

"Is this our earthly paradise," I ask,

"today, as for the past four thousand years,

to walk in peace within each seasons' pulse?"

No earthly paradise! We wanderers ask,

"What lies beyond this green Arcadian valley?"

Peace may dwell within each seasons' pulse,

but we flee south on sultry Autumn's heels

to seek what lies beyond these verdant valleys:

a slow drive south through Puglia's dusty plains,

ever south on a sultry season's heels,

stalking Autumn like her long lost lover.

                                  11

Elba (quanta of solace)

Remember - small is beautiful:

take these tiny, pearl-white pebbles,

chance encounters, quarks and gluons,

think on how they came to be here.

Take these tiny, pearl-white pebbles

borne within the wine dark sea,

think on how they came to be. Here,

lost amongst a billion others

borne within the wine dark sea,

spewed from some Triassic cauldron,

scrunched against a billion others

tossed through time’s relentless torrent.

Spewed from some Triassic cauldron,

chance encounters, quarks and gluons

tossed through time’s relentless torrent

remember small is beautiful.