The Scripts of Summer

Educational note: Makó is a Hungarian town 30km from the Romanian border. It and the towns around it get the most sunshine in all of Hungary, and it gets very little rain. It is famous for its onions and garlic, and has been growing onions since the 1500s. The mud in its river, the Maros, could be some of the best in the world (its top looks like the top of a Mars bar). This poem is set from the side of our campsite, which was in a few lovely fields in between the river and the railroad tracks.

Makó

I sit at the side of the tracks
and wait for the last train to come.
I sit in the mud and the grass
feeling the wind passing over my waiting head
and I know that it will come.
This track’s run for one hundred years or more;
you can tell by the rust and how it blends
so casually into the sparse suburbs around it.
How all the plum trees are pushed back towards the fields
as though they once cowered in front of the wheel.
The past pushes lines towards the now
and somewhere deep within Hungary
horsemen are stopping to allow my train to pass.
I can smell the straw being kicked up by steel feet
and the grease on a well groomed moustache.
I can even see the prints where wooden wheels
once pressed down on the ground,
bound for the border, just thirty kilometers further
past this old border town.
Once we’re moving forwards I too will catch glimpses
of horses leading old men back to their houses,
their carts laden with onions and garlic.
I’ll see the painted houses, red dresses
and candle lights in the darkness.
Like a Western movie seen from a train
in which I will ride the rails to a better day.
And here it comes. I gather my bags together and board,
taking a window seat by the door.
But close to the border the trains slows
and people jump off onto the platform below.
I see the station master in his office
reviewing the workings of the day.
Hear shuffling of papers and passports
in the hands of border guards
informing me I have to pay.
And I feel the pushing of people behind me
as they hand over plastic money,
walking on towards another country.
But I cower backwards like the trees
readying themselves for an industrial killing spree.
There's no progress to reality.


*


Romania in Sepia

I can see through my sunglass eyes
that the glass of my car window is shattering.

I can hear past my headphones
that the engine is spluttering

and I can taste copper in my mouth
and smell the blood in my veins
and feel the haze lifting from my brain

as he knocks on the window pleading for plastic change
and for the first time I see the men in the shadows
hiding in my empty gaze.

I take off my sunglasses as we drive away.
I’ll save them for brighter days.


*


Educational note: Sibiu is a city in Transylvania, Romania. The earliest record of its existence is from 1191. In the old part of town there are twisty backstreets which have walls on either side of them and massive wooden arched doorways which when opened reveal cobbled courtyards surrounded by houses and lights and music and laughter. The main square is surrounded by houses - the only front facing houses I saw in Romania. Posh men like to ride their big flashy cars through it. We sat in the square and ate supper.


Sibiu

From deep within the roofs
and high above the ground,
old, bewitching eyes gaze out.

Cunning eyes, with tiled eyebrows
and pigeons for pupils,
glaring down

Stony eyes, staring around
and doors for mouths
letting out psychopathic smiles…

These old lady eyes
have seen the tint of time
on a medieval town.

These Transylvanian townhouses
were once virgins on soft ground,
but now I see splashes of red on their walls,

black cloaks for gardens
and their once tall bodies bent
into ritualistic bows.

Try holding your mirror up to this country
and see nothing but blank spaces,
the houses lost in history.

See nothing but biro lines
arranged randomly on pages
and printed into maps

showing roads between centuries
connecting gaps to gaps to
more gaps.

But look into its eyes
and see the vampires hiding
inside the black.


*


Educational note: the Danube is the longest river in the European Union and the second longest in Europe. It runs into the Black Sea. It flows through (or splits up) 10 different countries, including Romania and Bulgaria. A ferry boat across it links Calafat in Romania to Vidin in Bulgaria. A bridge is planned, but I think that would be a shame.


Border Crossing From Calafat to Vidin

specks of brown scour the balkan mountains far below
before swooping to the ground and swinging back towards our boat.
the fish swim in spiral patters through the shining water
and the silky ripples they create are stirred by our rusty motor.
we stumble and sway towards the rocky bay that signifies another border.

the mediterranean breeze breathes lazily
cooling our sun stroked faces and flip-flopped feet.
a pristine haze rises coolly up from the deep
making our bodies dance free of the humid heat

the smoke sails across the starboard and into our staring eyes
as an auburn streak is shot across the darkening blue sky.
the other passengers sing out understanding sighs
and our boat bumps gently against the other side.


*


Birds over the Balkans

A large, dark bird
circles the Balkan mountains below.
Vulture or Eagle,
who knows?


*


Educational note: Kritsa, Ossa is known to be Greece’s only ‘cloud forest’, where the clouds hang low enough and the mountain is high enough that the trees get water from them directly. Greece now is cloudier than 20 years ago, but this is still the case.


Kritsa, Ossa

The green hangs heavily, draped over trunks of forest trees.
Deep roots gather water dripping from their leaves.
A single sunbeam shrouds the tops with golden brown;
a stream of yellow separating condensation from the clouds.
And the clouds hang heavily over the layer of green
covering the mountains which tower from the sea.
And the mist creates a barrier of white between the sea and sky
as though the Gods are on their holidays up in the mountain’s heights.


*


Koroni

the jasmine scent floats softly over the ceiling of the sea
but underneath the seaweed seeks a heaven in the deepest deep

the boats float softly over the ceiling of the sea
but deep within the rockpools coral creatures creep

bodies crash peacefully into the ceiling of the sea
but underneath apricot rocks crumble under crabs’ feet

the lights from the tourist towns illumine the sea
and violin strings shudder over changes of key

and baklava sits heavy in the belly
and baklava sits heavy in the belly

and octopus bodies hang from the quay
and the red light of the moon shines over the marquees

but underneath in the deepest deep weird fishes scream.
underneath in the deepest deep weird fishes scream.


*


Igoumenitsa

We spend our evening eating and drinking in the border town of Igoumenitsa. The streets are lined with chain stores, the lights still on and the windows still shining although they are all closed. Holiday clothes scream to be owned, and my stumbling Greek informs me that Vodafone have abolished roaming charges this summer. We find an average looking restaurant and ask for menus. The Italian influence is obvious, and we settle down for a delicious meal of mozzarella salads made from ingredients that must have just come from over the border. Two hours later we glide back to the car and head to the port.

We are welcomed by incorrupt border guards and a massive expanse of tarmac signifying the end of a country and the start of a queue. We drive towards it, stopping behind a car with an Italian registration and next to a Welsh campervan. There’s a fair mixture of nationalities; Italians, Greeks, Turks, Brits. The people are tired and depressed and rarely talk to each other. Behind us is a large concrete bunker, inside which these people gather. The lights are always on, and although the air is warm there’s coldness stored inside the walls which makes you shiver as you walk through the large glass doors. The food is overpriced and undercooked and the cigarettes are foul. The toilets are reminiscent of Indian train stations 30 years ago, or so my father tells me. An electronic sign on the outside wall lists departure times for ferries, and is dated three days before. The boats are always late.

Outside, people are lying on the ground in front of their vehicles trying to get some rest. It’s ten o’clock of a pleasantly warm evening. The sun is has just set, and the last blushes of light are spreading out across the sky.

The concrete is beautifully cold, so I take off my shoes and settle down at the edge of the port. The clouds are drifting downwards and an orange crush coloured light is spreading over the water, contrasting against the blackness and collecting around the sides of boats as though protecting them from powers below. Behind me voices moan in tones I do not know; the drone of night time radio picked up skilfully by Iranian lorries, from some country in front of me. Siirt blankets lie between backs and the hard grey ground, as eyes move around in heads filled with dreaming. Ringed fingers clasp themselves loosely around red and white threads, worn away by the endless grasp of these same calloused hands. Hammocks are hung between cars, holding cold bodies filled with the warmth of sleep.

A silhouette appears on the horizon. Whistles sound. The people wake and engines splutter and stumble until they settle at a lively hum. The Italians come; emerging in their hundreds from the back of the queue to create traffic jams blocking the entrance to the boat, which floats towards us as though it were a whale waiting for plankton to rush into its mouth. Electronic horns boom across the port and a battle begins, every beast for themselves pushing towards the gasoline smell of the car deck. Our car becomes a blue blur, once again at the back of the queue. We head on board.

-----

The eating area is already filled with pillows and blankets, and walking down the outside deck involves stumbling over bodies and banging into hammocks. We retire to our cabin to sleep under other people’s sheets as the mechanics of the machine start to grind and we move towards Italy. I can see the moon through the porthole, its gold aglow over the whole of the sky. Comets crush the blackness behind the clouds, but we can’t see them from here. My sleep is clouded by the clarity of tears.

Wisdom Teeth

The air humid
with humility
dust scattered with
philosophies

I sit
and drown
in reveries

my dirt mouth
drowns
cacophony

but I'll awaken
tomorrow
with wisdom teeth.

Morocco

The sacred fire was cradling its last logs
before its sleep at the end of summer,
and night was settling itself into the sands.
Your eyes were milky moons
and your fingers danced through your dreadlocks,
holding each one alone up to the fire light,
blurring their colours in the smoke.
You told me what each of their stories were.

This red is the rock atop the mountains
and this orange is that of the dunes,
this is the blue of painted buildings,
this is the green of crops with their flowers in bloom,
this is the white of the stone in the cities
and this is the yellow green of the mint tea
and this is the gold of the stone by the shore
and this is the turquoise of the sea

We're leaving at the setting of the sun.
When the fire burns out we'll pack up the tents
and hitch back to the van.
We'll leave with the cool night
sinking into the silver of the roads
with spliff smoke in our throats
and blowing out of the windows.
If we drive quickly we'll be there by tomorrow.

And in the morning they rode towards technicolour dunes
and I rode through the metal highways, until England was in view
down a long black tunnel caked with gasoline smell.

I called her from a payphone
and through a thousand miles of cable
asked what Morocco was like in summer.
Through the high tones in her voice
the desert shone through.
She sang these dunes can dance;
they miss you.

thoughts on poetry and its critique

Try telling the thousands
all around the world
that 'I have a dream' wouldn't be
a poetic symphony
if the sounds of the vowels didn't drop
on each second syllable
and take the proverbial step-back
letting the concept take the forefront
of the phrase

Try telling the ex-slave traders
that that single wave of thought
skipping silently
into the mind of their society
wasn't scary
because it lacked a bastard 'b'
to blacken the occasion

And try telling me this
without a hint of poetic integrity-
no assonance with i's and e's intertwining
on the page
and the writer stepping back surprised
at the shocking twists of phrase,
the form and rhyme within the lines
that connotate and connotate

Or give me a just phrase
of nonsense poetry
that is beautiful purely
because of the writers sonical
and lyrical ability
skipping between the Tumtum trees
with no cognitive responsibility.

Please, just give me language,
a tool to connect minds.
Allow the words to breathe
and you might find
within them, a dream
of truth and rhyme combined.