Volume Seven

Silent Words - Spoken Thoughts:
A Poetic Record Of Travel In Europe

N.K.Tointon

1994

This volume is dedicated 
to the following people
in grateful recognition 
of their thoughtful comments
and words of encouragement.

Paul,
Hany,
Patrick,
David 
and 
Tony.

Volume Seven
Silent Words - Spoken Thoughts:
A Poetic Record Of Travel In Europe 

N.K.Tointon

............................................................

Index

No.P.iii.	Introduction: Simulation Through Repetition.
0.	0.	Prologue (And Epilogue). (0)
1.	1.	Beautiful Naples. (1)
2.	4.	On My Way To Venezia. (2)
3.	8.	Six Grecian Cantos. (3-8)

i.	8.	An Oft Repeated Odyssey. (3)
ii.	11.	From The Acropolis To The Academy. (4)
iii.	15.	One Long Street In Athens. (5)
iv.	16.	Taking A Tour To Mycenae And Epidaurus. (6)
v.	19.	Seeking The Oracle At Delphi. (7)
vi.	21.	Final Thoughts On Leaving Athens. (8)

4.   23.	Six Roman Satires After Horace. (9-14)

i.	23.	Charity. (9)
ii.	25.	The Fashion House. (10)
iii.	30.	Churches, Museums And Ruins-One City Of Cats. (11)
iv.	36.	Young Soldiers Forever On Parade. (12)
v.	38.	Travelling To The Vatican By Bus. (13)
vi.	41.	Eating Out In Rome. (14)

5.	42.	The Wildest, Wild Flowers Of Spain. (15)
6.	50.	Dreams And Memories Of Vienna. (16)
7.	52.	Like Orpheus In The Underworld? (17)
8.	54.	In Sicily: Fragments Of Fragments. (18a/b, 19-24)

i.	55.	Catania. (19)
ii.	58.	Agrigento. (20)
iii.	59.	Selinunte. (21)
iv.	60.	Segesta. (22)
v.	61.	Palermo. (23)
vi.	66.	Syracuse. (24)

9.	69.	Some Churches Visited In The Ile De France.
									(25a/b, 26-31)
i.	69.	Notre Dame. (26)
ii.	69.	Sainte Chapelle. (27)
iii.	70.	Chartres. (28)
iv.	71.	St. Gervais. (29)
v.	72.	La Madeleine. (30)
vi.	72.	The Chapel At Versailles. (31)

10.	72.	London: Convention Center For Eccentrics. (32)
11.	79.	An Apparent Pilgrimage To Canterbury Cathedral. 												 (33)
12.	83.	The Return Of Industry To The Palace Of 											   Versailles. (34)
13.	86.	On The Riviera. (35)
14.	87.	Paris: For All Unknown Soldiers (And Sailors Too).
											(36)
15.	91.	Les Trains A Grande Vitesse En France. (37)
16.	92.	Saint Anthony Of Padua (Padova). (38)
17.	95.	An Invitation To A Tennis Match. (39)
18.	96.	Some Souvenirs From Florence (Firenze). (40)
19.	102	Tivoli. (41)
20.	107	The Miracle Of Lourdes. (42)
21.	108	Swiss Chocolates: An Ideal Day Spent Travelling. 												(43)
22. 	112	Some Post Cards From Malta. (44 - 67)
23.	119	The Flight Home: Simulation Through Repetition. 												(68)
	121	Appendix: An Interpretation In The Form Of 					Footnotes - A Commentary On Poem No.7 (17).

Introduction: Simulation Through Repetition

	In 1992 for three months I visited Europe for the first time. My observations whilst travelling these `western lands' and retrospective reflections upon those experiences are here revealed in a series of poems that also add to this mixture a considerable degree of poetic license. I have also tried to render these visions in as free a form as possible although I have let the nature of my subject matter also dictate what type of poetic devices and structural forms would best allow me to realize that objective. As a result I have a series of experimental `poems' that some people might regard as more pieces of prose. Such a criticism does not worry me. I recognize that some poems are more prose-like in complexion but for all that I would regard these pieces, individually and collectively, as `poetic' by virtue of the fact that there is introduced into their midst a greater density of provocative poetic devices. Let me elaborate.
	Since my return to Australia my philosophical research has taken me in a more hermeneutical direction. One of the themes of this overall research has been the role played by repetition in the transmission of textual meaning hence the sub-title to this introduction (also the sub-title of my last poem). In a number of papers I have argued that repetition plays an essential role in the communication of meaning and value. For a start I have argued that, relatively speaking, there are two types of repetition, namely, processes whose re-constitutional form and format are basically maintained and processes of reconstitution that are essentially non-conformist. Relative conformity is psychically experienced as uninteresting and background in gestalt orientation whereas non-conformity is psychically experienced as interesting and foreground in focus, taking on the role of that effectively experienced as `dissonant' to some degree or other. However, I prefer to use the term provocative instead of the expression dissonant by virtue of the fact that all non-conformist experiences actually straddle this territory between absolute conformity and absolute non-conformity (on the theoretical-experiential grounds that absolute conformity and absolute non-conformity are equally untenable phenomenologically). In straddling this territory between these two poles provocation takes on a dual complexion. On one hand there is experienced a sense of difference through non-conformity, but, on the other hand, that non-conformity cannot be absolute implying that a background element of conformity is also present. This background element implicitly suggesting avenues for the re-integration of that provocative segment of text. That in effect provocation likewise cannot be absolute implying that the relatively `dissonant' also has within it its own seeds of resolution and harmonization, its own means for the achievement of textual re-integration. That, even more importantly, the very being of the relationship under examination, whether it be a text or the textualization of a non-textual experience, is the result or `resultant' of an ongoing process of provocational- resolution.
	It is my argument that all forms of value, all forms of meaning, are constituted and re-constituted, and thence communicated, through this very same mechanism of resolution achieved through the experiential re-integration of the `text' as just briefly outlined. Re-living the inherent logic of those processes that replicate, through simulation and re-simulation, that sense of value originally experienced within that relationship. A relationship generated between the overall integration and harmonized resolution of those experiential processes constituted and re-constituted between these poles of relative conformity and non-conformity. Hence the subtitle to this introduction: Simulation Through Repetition! That in effect the simulation of meaning, and its re-simulation, is achieved through a complex process of resolution that is structured and functionally `performed' between various degrees and strata of repetitive conformity and non-conformity.
	In my opinion a poetic text is a text that, overall, has a relatively greater density of provocative devices than a piece of prose which in turn has a greater density of such anomalous textual patterns in comparison to a text that is merely descriptive, informative, etc. Moreover, it is our appreciation of the successfulness of these provocative features, individually and collectively, that allows us to intuitively declare a text, or a textualized work of art, to be relatively successful and aesthetic or pragmatic or ethical in complexion, etc, and to what degree it discharges this sense of `mission,' communicates through its essentially re-simulated `transmission' this overall sense of textual integrity. E.g., a rhyming poem usually walks a fine line between the use of exactly the same sound values and sounds that have no apparent common identity (and this type of repetitive/non-repetitive situation is explored experimentally in poem no. 14 where I use two iso-rhymes in each verse).
	In a similar fashion the use of (the) metaphor(-ical answer) and (the) rhetoric(-al question) can also be analyzed. Suffice to say that it is now my opinion that a text is understood when both its metaphorical and rhetorical features are properly understood, preferably cooperatively.
	With these various insights in mind I have deliberately tried to experiment with the repetition of metaphorical/rhetorical structures and functions through various kinds of repetition. E.g., in patterns of parallelization of text conformity eventually breaks down into a process of non-conformity. Repetition of words, and concepts, with the same or similar meaning eventually exposes a rift between denotative meanings, connotative meanings and/or inter-denotative-connotative meanings. Conversely the sheer juxtaposition of metaphorical/rhetorical material can also provoke creative forms of accommodational synthesis that can bridge this same sense of divide. The text being further enriched with the weaving and mixing of these strands of parallelization and juxtaposition between metaphorical and rhetorical features.
	Various philosophical themes accidentally surface in this volume. I have found the medium of the poetic text a very fruitful one in which to entertain such concepts, such images, etc. Their introduction is not entertained in the midst of some well designed philosophical argument but rather through forms of loose association that allow analogical and rhetorical features to surface and unexpectedly interact. This form of creative freeplay releasing in the better poem a greater degree of psychic energy and interest than that invested in the original reading of that text. In no way is a philosophical argument being presented, ideas are merely being liberated from the definitional strait-jackets associated with such expressions and allowed to more creatively interact. In the process, hopefully, enriching those texts entertaining such repetitive stratagems.
	A text in itself has no meaning. The appreciation of its conventional, meta-textual sense of genre allowing us to make the first few steps in its de-encoding. Inserted into the text these incorporated meta-textual asides can be recognized by virtue of their sense of commenting on the text in some form or other, eg., titles, announcement of intentions, asking questions, ironic over-riding of text, etc. Playing with this sense of `sense' I have also included words that demonstrate an unexpected difference between their aural reception and their written communication.
	In order to make some meta-textual sense of this set of poems let me in the form of a series of brief comments explicate some of the intentions behind their formation. In being at your elbow you in turn might like to place yourselves at my elbow and from there in turn argue for an interpretation whose apparent credibility is seemingly reinforced in the body of that text through the repetition of essentially the same provocative material. The discovery of the repetition of effectively the same provocative processes reinforcing for the reader the apparent intent of that author? Not that the mere presence of provocative features establishes the genre and value of that text but that our appreciation of the psychic interaction of these features intuitively allows us to re-live those values explicit and implicit in that text to some degree or other depending on the relative accessibility of that text as it stands before that reader. But, it should be noted that in my opinion, the phenomenological nature of our experience of this interaction of provocative features in a text is a region of the psyche that stands in need of much further research.
	Let me now complete this introduction with a few brief comments on each poem in the hope that my reader might find the task of their interpretation a little easier and a little less demanding. I remain with the hope that it is possible that some understanding of the poet's intentions can actually be found imprinted on those text. All forms of textuality, by necessity, are imprints of the resolved intentions of their creator. Provocative processes and provoked processes of resolution must imprint themselves, to some degree or other, upon the fabric of that text. The simulation and re-simulation of the meaning and value created and re-created in our writing and reading of texts, although never an affair under our complete and absolute control, is, nevertheless, a state of affairs that must take place under an adequate degree of control by that writer and/or reader in order for there to be a text in the first place. For how else could the writer `form' the nature of their text and the reader find themselves being apparently `informed' through a reading of that same text?!

	In the Epilogue (and Prologue), no. 0, the idea is suggested that the cultivation of our dreams is one way to see out their realization even if one disbelieves to some extent that that option-choice or path-choice is effectively not open, or denied, to that particular person. It is suggested obliquely that if we want to travel we should at least dream about it...
	In the first poem we visit Naples and re-experience the sense of poverty and frustrated despair that can be experienced there by both traveller and citizen alike. 
	In the second poem we travel to Venice, partake in an essential description that hopes to capture something of its historical background and current social geography.
	In the next set of six poems we travel to Greece. 
	The first poem makes a comic allusion between the author's trip there and the Odyssey. 
	The second poem is an exploration of the nature of political patronage as symbolized by the relationship between the Acropolis and the Academy.
	The third poem is a short comic piece.
	The fourth poem is both a satire on organized tours and an account of my visit to Mycenae and Epidaurus. 
	Seeking The Oracle At Delphi is both a travel monologue and a dialogue with myself over the nature, or spiritual status, of this religious site.
	The last poem in this section is both an account of present day Athens but also a prophetically oriented attempt to see into the future.
	The next section is a series of six satires on the city of Rome with some allusions to Horace. 
	The poem titled Charity deals with an alcoholic, over weight, well rounded monk in a circular shaped church trying to con money from an unsuspecting public.
	The poem titled The Fashion House alludes to Horace's comparisons of the country and the city, along with a specific satire on the fashion industry, and a general satire on the nature of the human condition (with allusions to   Nietzche).
	The third poem in this series is a satire on the city of Rome where in every odd numbered verse references to cats by analogy perform a series of implicit comments on those surrounding sections of text.
	The fourth offering is an anti-war poem conducted in a light hearted, humorous spirit.
	Travelling To The Vatican is more a prose-poem where each verse represents a segment of a trip on a bus to the Vatican.
	The last poem in this section is a short, humorous satire on eating out in Rome again with some allusions to Horace.
	The poem The Wildest, Wild Flowers Of Spain is a series of seven tableau that attempt to paint an essential picture of Spain. The first and seventh sections repeat a similar refrain that by the last verse has undergone some transformation of meaning. The wild flowers could well be shepherds? The second and sixth sections deal with shepherds. The inner sections dealing with various impressions of modern Spain set in the context of the continuing influences of its historical past. The pastoral second and sixth sections suggesting respectively that the farmer and his wife are still, virtually Jewish (or Moslem) in an overwhelmingly Catholic country, and, that the two shepherds lads intend likewise to devote their lives to the company of each other in a defiance of social forces and historical trends?
	Dreams And Memories Of Vienna is a satirical account of my stay and impressions in Vienna.
	This next poem, number 7, is a philosophical text with allusions to the myth of Orpheus and is structured with an alternating verse-like refrain. I have written a commentary on its philosophical ideation in an appendix to this volume.
This is my first `French' poem and essentially describes my impressions of my first day in Paris.
	In the next poem, on Sicily, I use the idea that because a poem is genre dependant in a sense it can have no real absolute beginning nor ending as a `text.' In this light the poetic text is treated as a fragment of a fragment, neither having a definitive beginning nor an definitive ending. It is basically structured in six sections sandwiched between a philosophical prologue and epilogue. Note in the section titled Catania the presence of Mt. Etna is analogically mirrored in certain verses (much in the same manner that Hokusai does pictorially in his 100 Views Of Mt. Fuji). Note in the section Agrigento I use for the first time (?) a repetitive sequence of words/images/ideas held in parallel - `line the route,' `long viaducts,' `lined the pockets.' This same process, along with a mixing of metaphor, occurs in the section Palermo in the visit to the Convento dei Capucchini - `vertical,' `upright,' etc.
	In the next section six churches are visited in and around Paris. Note the word `spoiled' in section i). has two meanings and for this reason is italicized. Similarly note the parallelization of the word `lies' and `fabricated' in section iii).
	The beginning of the tenth poem on London has been influenced by my studies of the Sanskrit language. Sanskrit poetics often revolves around the use of words that repeat the use of one, two or three identical cognates hence my repetition five times of words cognate with circular. In the next six sections we have six humorous tableaus on the subject of eccentricity. The final verse is in the form of a philosophical conclusion ending in a series of double meanings and puns, etc.
	My `pilgrimage' to Canterbury Cathedral records my impressions of that religious site, a text situated in about thirty different frames of reference, e.g., historical, architectural, personal, etc. The poem ends with an allusion to a song sung by Vera Lyne? The central verse in five lines describes the former resting place of Saint Becket.
	The twelfth poem is a humorous account about the Palace of Versailles. This text is very rich in places with parallelization, juxtaposition, a mixing of metaphor and rhetoric and a miscellany of puns.
	On The Riviera describes the hour and a half I spent there before catching a train to Rome.
	In the fourteenth poem I resort to a tightly controlled verse structure using the doubling of two iso-rhymes at the end of the first and fifth lines, and, the second and seventh lines along with a general use of rhyme in sympathy with the end of the first line at the end of the third line and on the second syllable of the seventh line. There are four syllables to a line. Repetition of the same sounds but often different words also gives an opportunity for a deconstructive difference between the aural and the literal. This is quite pronounced at the end of the poem where a different meaning is suggested aurally and literally. This text is very rich in provocative poetic devices despite the intensity of its structural formalism. This is a serious anti-war poem that progressively deconstructs myths associated with valour without denying the value of such self-sacrifice.
	Saint Anthony Of Padua is a poem about this pilgrimage church in Padova.
	An Invitation To A Tennis Match is an erotic poem with double meaning that can be de-encoded by looking at the first two words and the last two words of this text.
	The next poem is dedicated to Firenze. It is a series of tableaus. I enjoyed my two visits to that city. The first and last verses give a philosophical frame to this particular text centered on the image of memories as like beads strung together.
	Tivoli is a series of verses on the site and environs of Tivoli.
	The Miracle Of Lourdes is a satirical account of   Lourdes that in essence finally deconstructs its own deconstruction. That in essence the natural expression of religion as performed by the Pagan is still in evidence today hence `the miracle of Lourdes.' Such an affirmation of the human spirit, regardless of its Christian clothing, being ultimately seen in a positive light? In this sense the poem deconstructs its own deconstruction.
	Swiss chocolates uses the theme of its title to begin this poem (and also ends with it). The verses of the poem are roughly divided between travelling by train and sight-seeing.
	Postcards From Malta is a series of pictures complete with impressions of Malta. I wanted to convey to my reader an essential, sympathetic picture of these two islands.
	The last poem is an exercise in repetition, a repetition of similar sounds, images, concepts and meanings. I will let the reader decide to what degree I have succeeded or failed in my account of what was seen from the plane (despite my not having a window seat both going there and returning).

	I ask my reader not to be too harsh on these highly experimental `prose-poems,' to read between the lines when and where relevant and to travel in the comfort of their own arm chair through the pages of these descriptions and impressions of my recent trip. Hopefully they will enjoy the play of images shaped therein and also want to travel to those regions depicted in these rather insignificant texts. It is my simple wish, therefore, that my audience more read this work rather than merely hear it, hence my title of Silent Words - Spoken Thoughts, and that, in being read a few pages at a time, they will come to savour the flavour of these `western lands' as narrated, a region of the psyche that constitutes a considerable proportion of the recent roots engendered in the establishment of our overall culture here in Australia.

						Noël Tointon, Sydney, 18.2.94.

0. Prologue (And Epilogue)

Dreams dreamt about
and then dreamt about 
once more, again,
through the powers of simulation
unwittingly can, in time,
become more real.
Who then would be unwise enough
to dismiss the substance 
of our longing dreams
for what we seek, in truth,
in an equal measure, 
we soon become?
Be it travel, love or money,
wisdom, adventure or poetry 
our loss becomes our gain
and in such resignation
we must suffer out
the inescapable fruits
delivered through association
with the nature
of that research.
Little distance then between 
the thought and the action;
so let your reverie more closely
mirror your vision of reality,
and in reward let fate
have you travel in ecstasy
on that same path together. 
Retwisted and intertwined,
restrung from bare threads 
re-spun, filaments that began 
in the unravelling of 
that thinly woven fabric 
found within and founded upon
those revisions re-formulated
from the merest fragments 
of dream worlds 
that become the whirled 
through the re-turning
of a self-enfolding,
self-fulfilling re-cord
fabricated
through fantasy...

	************

1. Beautiful Naples (1)

Ah, Beautiful Naples, 
where were you that day 
when I left your railway station 
when it stopped raining?
One vast zone of scrungy activity,
desperate sidewalk traders 
more probably selling to each other,
or raiding from everyone else.
Sadly I saw things that 
were not meant to be seen,
little packets passing hands,
being sold, although I doubt not
that they cared too much
that such self-advertising 
would bust their businesses.
Who would bother to do such
a thing in this dirt ingrained city?
All such demands must be met,
manipulated by middle men
in suburbs on the hills,
above the water somewhere else...

The bus crawled slower 
than a half squashed snail
down one of the main streets.
In the heat the people fainted 
or lost their cool, packed in
like tinned sardines and 
starting to smell the same. 
A bath in this town 
would make little difference.
In the summer's heat all sweat
blended in with the bubbling sewage
just boiling beneath the street,
seeping through the soil,
melting in with the piss 
and peelings, the paper 
and droppings, ephemeral 
calling cards of last week 
posted everyday 
in a timeless way.
To the bleating sound 
of whole blocks of cars 
in constant communication
passengers either patiently 
vented their verbal anger 
in shared commiseration,
or, gave up and walked;
in the end, near the terminus,
everyone had to do the same
except the busdriver 
and his newspaper...

The old city has now 
lost its walls, although 
a trace here and there
can still be seen; 
a stranded gateway, 
a dislocated tower all surrounded
(now an old, strange looking house). 
Walking on I found thin streets 
becoming finer, little alley ways
all the more gloomy, canyon-like
as each upper story leaned closer 
across the street to chat
as the washing above dripped
onto the dingy pavement 
half-parked out below.
Through this clogged up chasm 
poured the desperate 
post siesta traffic back to work,
or, out to be seen; or at least 
out to be heard if that 
was at all possible 
what with all the hooting 
and honking of horns, screeching 
of breaks and reeving up
of old beat up cars and buses 
from another era or two.
In the swirling midst 
of all this hurried flurry
sweet cherub faced boys 
would fly on past 
on their mini bikes,
such sensible transport
taken to the extreme.
But have no worry, 
if you can overcome 
the drag racing roar,
such skilful hands will 
deftly avoid each pedestrian
and obstacle in their way.
The deaf and dumb 
need have no fear
these dainty faintly bearded angels
will wend their way around you
(as if you don't exist)
as they go on up, and down, 
these senile arteries, 
veins from a quieter past; 
yesteryears when only horses 
might kick you...

How Baroque this search 
for surface style,
for an openly displayed effect!
A fine tie or trendy shirt,
the latest manly deodorant,
liberally sprinkled, from those 
big perfumed houses in Paris,
those shoes from Roma
or strides from Milano, 
that dress from Venezia,
that top from Turino.
A hint of golden wealth
placed safely around the neck
just tucked out of sight,
one bold ring making
the perfect understatement.
A fine opera house 
sits near the harbour,
a palace that no longer 
sets the pace, all about
fine churches no longer
chant to the sound 
of ancient music
made all the more poignant
by an evening concert,
or, that prominent electric organ 
at one more ritzy wedding;
a pseudo-wooden box 
off-centered in this rotund space,
all the candles electrified.
Then up front, near its ugly mass, 
a retired tenor lead
the public congregation 
over fed, disco style, 
through well placed speakers...

O Beautiful Naples,
bella Napoli, bellissima,
in time we tourists
would grow to love thee.
Enchanted is your harbour,
heavenly those steep hills
above the city,
majestic that mountain
ready to smother thee
one more time.
A proud people without 
too much false pride,
a place that remains
eternal, changeless;
a soul lit up at night
dancing and self-happy;
whether in a year bc or ad
human nature has little altered.
Beneath the skin,
the fabric of this polis, 
below that very veneer,
sometimes fine exterior,
throbs a passion
unchanging with the season,
blending a harmony
of thrusting forces
that never waver,
perpetual embers
glowing darkly, smouldering,
yet never dying out...

Flowing down high walls
strands of scented jasmine
meet the strains
of local songs 
celebrated in festivals
loudly issuing forth
from a transistor radio.
On the cobbled streets,
in corners, little boys 
still piss, now behind 
the wheels of cars,
while more discreetly,
in the park or in the dark, 
adults will do the same; 
a city out relieving itself 
from a pent up past
with a patrimony spent
by proxy on its behalf.
In the air there is, however,
a promise of things to come:
churches in restoration,
a hint of prosperity,
one modern token underground,
better things to buy,
a population living in hope
too poor to want too much,
so realistic, so happy,
perhaps just content
to wait for a few more years
as an older Italy enters 
a more common market...

2. On My Way To Venezia (2)

Through one last tunnel,
half following beside a river,
pours the tracks 
onto the intimation 
of a distant plain,
a flattening of the vista,
a vast unending expanse 
of invisibly populated
agricultural activity.
The tree enshrouded hill tops
receding into the distance,
foliage relegated to the edges of
the many sided fields.
Through the blurred flashing
of the greenery the odd fragment 
of a tall thin church tower 
can be seen aspiring,
from time to time,
above the clustered roof tops 
of one more village unseen.
A field of sun flowers
all watching the train
rushes into unexpected view, 
for a few seconds
a golden glow of light
bathes the carriage.
The smiling stillness of the sun 
causing the heat of the day 
to rise up and dry out
those lifeless rolls 
of hay scattered upon 
the next repeated vision 
of this landscape. 
Bundles of modern hay making
deposited like dried up 
droppings left by giant mice, 
these packages evenly 
parceled out on these 
unrolled blankets of land.
The cut mantle of bleached hay
beneath these excreted pellets
looking more and more 
like the dry surface 
of some ocean of frothy foam 
left stranded on some 
half-dirty beach of sand.
In alternation other scenes 
pass us by, a succession 
of themes in juxtaposition;
rows upon rows - orchards,
vineyards, vegetables,
empty scratches left unharvested.
Found moving above some 
stripling corn a few lone 
sun flowers float into view,
and a few more beside the way
in turn dwarfed by 
the tall green water weeds 
clogging the irrigation 
and drainage canals. 
Only the odd railway station 
punctuating this revolving 
view of the land,
and so passes the day 
on my way to Venezia...

Some hours pass and then 
those bamboo-like infested 
ditches are found
transforming themselves 
into open water ways.
Little boats signal 
a hint of idle pleasure, or, 
the slow days of a fisherman.
Low topped beds of reeds wrestle 
with the pursuits of water birds
in an expanding spread of marshes.
Then, suddenly, I find myself 
seeing these sluggish streams 
meeting the open sky 
above this shimmering lagoon.
As if awakening into 
a world of dream I find myself
crossing over, riding 
this umbilical cord that connects 
these spire encrusted
islands of urbanization with 
these rather dismal bogs and fens. 
In the distance I perceive
a long thin grey-white streak 
of low buildings studded 
with transparent, unobstructed 
domes and other shapes of playful 
architectural inventiveness.
Looking behind me I see,
with some horror,
in matched harmony, 
another world -
a world of industry!
Chimney stacks that mirror 
this equidistant other world;
pennants of smoke 
of different colours 
flagging a contempt 
for an idealism that does not 
include a blatant desire
for the making of money. 
Closer to hand on the water 
bob small bottles of plastic 
and mangled pieces of paper,
others signs of modern debris
swim about, floating between
small uninhabited emerald islets 
collecting this shoreline of rubbish,
thankfully left to the birds.
With each ripple each material action
of these tiny waves leaves behind 
an oily slick of intent.
No thoughts, no actions
can be pure, ethereal?
Did not this goddess of the sea 
beach herself on these 
flat piles of mud to do the same?
Ah, but with such panache!
Tall towers too oft leaning
drunkenly in this direction
or that, precarious palaces 
on the water's edge
half hiding an opulence 
only revealed inside.
Churches of pride and promise
repeated like the plagues
that spawned some of them,
little shops that still underlie 
a passion for luxury.
Gilded edifices of style and taste
that knew how to transform
the crude rawness of power 
into something civil, 
something human, alas, 
often all too human.
Like our passing over 
the Bridge of Sighs 
must we leave behind
all hope for an industrial 
beauty and harmony?
O Beautiful Venezia 
how intriguing I found 
those winding narrow streets,
your pleasant piazzas,
those token parks,
those pavilions beside the water
impregnated with a history
that has roots beneath
these shifting sands and 
tides of fortune
that once strode across 
this brightly simmering lagoon...

In the sunset some ferries ply
a different course,
the tourists on board
happy to be there.
From a nearby church 
a concert song is faintly heard 
entertaining, singing 
to the people of this city 
as the moon slowly rises 
over this shiny silvery lagoon;
a world still breathing
in and out, chanting, 
muttering to the sounds 
of that same old tune.
This world of finance still
churning capital into power,
turning power into prestige.
A row of mute pillars
gives voice to such a testimony,
one more historic statement tinged,
stained with an inevitable decay.
Visible monuments erected
by the powerful, invisible moments
of loss memorializing
our ultimate powerlessness.
On warm nights just like this,
along this arcaded avenue,
what dark-lit lanterns watched
the passing passage to and fro
of families, friends and factions,
faithful servants, gallant lovers
on assignations, soldiers
and spies on assignments,
ambassadors and priests,
traders and raiders
all paraded in the service 
of this commercial god;
filling in, spilling over
this encircled lagoon?
An inescapable force is found 
lapping at the very edges 
of all those that must navigate,
must engage, live upon
such shallow sparkling waters.
One last canal to cross,
the sounds of church bells
echoing each other,
one more traveller barely seen
moving through these shadows,
highlights from a living past...

3. Six Grecian Cantos (3 - 8)

i. An Oft Repeated Odyssey (3)

In Brindisi a multitude of fishermen 
seem to have given up this profession 
and have instead become `farmers;' 
milking the steady stream of tourists,
mainly backpackers, making their way 
to and from Greece by the local ferries. 
A bit unfair, you might think, to make
such a comment, surely making a living 
from the money these `poor' foreigners 
possess can only be marginal 
when the south of Italy is now
no longer penniless in this Common Market.
Still, the old city does preserve
something of the noble Italian character 
from the past, a few baroque churches 
needing more than restoration, 
multi-faceted piazzas suddenly seen,
wonderful old streets better 
than any modern town planning, 
crooked, hunch-backed cobbles warn away 
but with more life, and tales,
than any friable patch of bitumen, 
and better preserved in the harshness 
of the pre-summer heat beating down 
						upon them...

Alas, the tourists these days go straight 
through this newer, off-centered city 
fabricated like any other, 
and just as dull and drab as any army camp 
that has out stayed its welcome, 
lingering in one spot too long without 
taking roots before growing.
Embarkation is now the main game 
in this transit town, and each evening, 
after the siesta, in long caravan queues 
many two-legged, colourful, human camels 
enter into the rectal bowels
of these big fat marine cows 
tethered in these custom house 
high, mesh enclosed padlocked docks.
A slow procession of packs and bags,
cars and trucks is eventually digested,
the ship's pleasure is finally signalled 
and like the restless Greeks of yore
one more generation is out upon
the high seas seeking an adventure;
fitful nights spent on forbidden beaches,
delightful parties keeping sleepers
awake all day long too, sight seeing,
monuments; rows of jagged teeth
where temples once stood, places
where animal life was spilt in 
bloody sacrifices, sacred spaces
where ritual meals were once had 
now replaced by fast food outlets of 
an increasing international complexion.
O what has changed is merely 
a matter of style, or a lack of it,
a different change in pace, in motion
people remain the same, these faces
a theme in constant variation, 
a flood of tongues migrating, 
seeking refuge or, otherwise, diversion, 
entertainment, self-affirmation.
In the midst of such chatter who wants
philosophy, a few lines of unsung poetry,
and yet today of all these many travellers
those few feet were the better remembered...

On board find the little things neglected - 
no towels, no soap, no toilet paper, 
no hot water, even the individual urinals 
in their plumbing were disconnected. 
The poor red-faced Japanese guy 
might have well pissed upon the floor 
just as he had said on realizing 
his sudden embarrassment.
A crew too slack for words having 
sold those stores in the previous port, 
the purser's angry innocent face,
all too obvious, put that in print.
"Come and get your duty free." 
Well known perfumes and brand name fags, 
booze and poky things, electronics,
cameras and cheap fashion clothes 
already all well wrapped up.
"The dining room is now open." 
The salad looks sick, all pale and white, 
the coffee's too black for words 
let alone for longing lips to taste.
Pace about, wander, find some conversation,
retire into some below water cabin, 
read a book, take a look through 
the port hole window, in rumination
think `haven't we already passed 
those same vague rocky shorelines?'
One theme in faint repetition 
seen from the water's edge, 
skylines differentiating  in wave-forms 
those far off abstract expanses,
a setting sun putting paid to all such 
						thoughts...

The night time beckons, welcomes 
encounters of a different sort, 
an array of three dimensional
human activity, in living stereo, 
heard through thin cabin partitions -
card lovers in dispute, a disco raving,
a crying baby waits while the father 
is in hot pursuit of mother's 
quieter screams of contentment 
banging against the walls for all to hear;
hearing some passengers complaining, 
others shouting their hurried encouragement.
Waiting patiently the low thudding hum 
of deeply embedded motors eventually 
wears away the sounds of all such 
opposition, a ruffled whiteness glides 
through the night as the waters part
before the boughs like curtains before 
						  the dawn...

Azure skies, topaz islands, sapphire seas,
patches of lapis lazuli, the odd lost 
white cloud, a faint distant haze 
through which one bronzed sun 
is found staring, starting to heavily breath 
down one day long blast of scorching heat, 
searing all human flesh, sparing none.
Today I feel like Odysseus, that manly 
Greek portrayed so lovingly by Homer, 
a pagan Job adrift upon the known 
and unknown waters of the world.
What a laugh, this ship is computerized,
stabilized so well you would hardly know that
you were ploughing through the waves below.
I climb up onto the morning decks where 
the unshaved `sailors' lie, where women 
have not yet attended to their daily toilet; 
all these living wigs in a mess, 
a swaying field of seaweed suspended in 
the early harsh hair-drying, soft blowing, 
breezes; a bleaching sunlight tanning 
the hides of all these heroes and heroines.
On the port side and on the starboard 
I find an army of hands left idle, 
in no hurry, for many long hours remain 
to be served out unspent on this galley, 
waiting for shore, watching our watches,
no sirens to distract our course, 
this interlude a mere hiatus, a day 
forgotten, subtracted from the calendar.
A short time spent in passing, passing by,
in a passage back to that European homeland 
								Greece...

ii. From The Acropolis To The Academy (4)

Mounted on its rocky pedestal, 
perceived as white in the illuminated 
light of the night the Acropolis 
is but a ghost of its former self,
but, what is left, still excites 
some considerable degree of wonder. 
An image that has transcended
the travel poster and has burnt itself 
onto the over healed scar tissues
that seal our childhood memories;
one more picture of a far away place
we never thought in our power to visit...

But, now, in the unravelment of time,
we stand before this edifice,
climb the illusion of its many steps, 
pass through its portals,
walk beneath its shadow and 
let it open up to our imaginations 
a distant antique time well and 
truly now long past and gone. 
Still, the same Greeks are here;
look about you, over there - 
olive skins, dark hair, brown eyes,
a rustic simplicity lost in a city
still passing itself off as a town?
Or, are the people merely here
by proxy, only the resurrection 
of a common half-Christian dream 
that propelled these citizens 
into the tempest of the modern era,
some other race with only
a passing resemblance to the Greeks;
a modern mythology, fraudulent,
motivated by a longing for glory, or,
some sense of an awakened nationality..?

Once a mighty temple, a place of 
burnt sacrifices, political aspirations.
Later, reconsecrated as a church 
then superseded by a militant mosque 
(and where, might one ask, 
are the other mosques from the past
in down-town metropolitan Athens?).
Today a crowded open-air spectacle 
and below it, along the right hand edge,
one compact half-hidden museum 
where substantial fragments 
of pagan marbles are safely 
stored, restored and sanitized. 
In an unwitting anti-climax, 
as if looking into a distorted mirror,
I find this pale international icon, 
looming gutted above us, being recognized,
instantly, and so indiscriminately,
as the same image now immortalized 
in busy banks and parliaments, 
in the facades of art galleries,
in classical, fashionable palaces 
and grim-faced political prisons.
Alas, now, the mere shell of itself, 
a row of upright cracked ribs supporting 
the skeletal cage of a roof blasted off 
in a few seconds by gunpowder,
a Muslim magazine deconstructing...

Would I, if asked, prefer the earlier 
puffed up painted version,
the original working model so to speak? 
Without doubt - I would answer "yes!" 
In a rhetorical thrust I am asked 
"would you still prefer this gaudy, 
painted lady, such feminine artifice,
this butcher's shop in the sky
disguised in sweet incense masking 
political power plays in human misery
splashed in the purple blood of a civic
and aristocratic imperial splendour?
"Democracy," you might say was here 
personified, the goddess herself incarnate, 
but now a real lady improved with age, 
stripped to the essentials, mellowed, 
bleached under an incessant sun?
"Never, never, never," that would say I! 
Look carefully at a two coloured 
or three coloured painted grecian vase, 
do you not see a greater beauty 
than the mere form of a vessel
coloured a jet black, or a chalky white, 
or a rouge-roughened raucous-red..?

O marbled halls in echo tell me,
if you can, where might your 
ivoried and well adorned 
and decorated Athena be today, 
is not such matter indestructible? 
Perhaps now fragments of dust 
beneath our feet, perhaps bits 
and pieces parceled out finding 
residence in some old recycled 
church reliquary celebrating 
the reputed comings and goings 
of a tired old sinner cum saint 
more conveniently disposed off 
by the fading ministries of time..?

The paving stones are smooth 
and worn away, easy to trip upon.
In its shadow I take a seat 
with a view and share a simple meal, 
a celebration of this desire 
to see this famous historical 
footprint from the past,
one short page in the history of time.
Some moments later we wander away 
down the sparsely clad hill, 
passing through the agora, pausing, 
delighting in the relatively felt
fresh coolness of its arcaded shade.
Then I circle the Tower of the Four Winds
and sighting other simple monuments,
around the corner, move on later finding 
almost decapitated the grand temple 
dedicated to Olympian-Zeus, forsaken,
a monumental exercise in final emptiness.
Then, parting company, continue walking 
through these makeshift suburbs that 
mar and surround a less `older' Athens,
making my way towards the Academy,
now only a vague place on the map, 
a peripheral mystery walked around,
more a memory than a true location. 
More by accident than by design 
I stumble upon a simple sign in Greek 
that tells me, in translation,
here lie the shattered remains 
of a few foundations - a gym,
maybe the servants' quarters,
perhaps a kitchen; a few more lines 
of inscribed text yet to be written, 
yet to be found, who knows?
In truth a pagan repository silenced 
unsuccessfully by the Church 
for it has its real place immortalized 
in the living libraries of the world...

Trapped and tested under the blasting 
heat from the solar furnace high above
I long for a colonnade to wander along, 
and a gentle breeze, a few philosophers
and some earnest friends, some scrolls,
a simple repast of bread and olives, 
perhaps some vintage wine and cheese 
and a few questions to help expose the 
constitutional structures of this world 
as clearly as those gleaming self-standing
ribs on that `sacred' hill yonder...

Pausing beside some rectangular foundations 
of this once wealthy establishment,
now in rubble in front of me,
I perceive houses and fields no longer 
completely overlying this site.
In their untidy, recent displacement 
meet a few simple parks strung together 
where thoughts can be courted, 
conjugated among a few wistful trees.
From the sandy soil beneath pocket
a small piece of gleaming white marble,
comparing it with a dull weather chipped 
fragment of a fractured foundational wall.
Tokens of tokens, for what reason 
should souvenirs be souvenired,
would that such relics could speak..?

All about me a rumpled plane 
of dust to grit my teeth upon 
and in its debris filled midst 
some half-veiled vestments of shade 
to sit beneath and be grateful 
that nothing is ever truly lost,
lost without a trace.
Such monuments only go underground, 
into the psyche of humankind, 
eventually resurfacing, 
exposing, making a kinder person 
in the goodness of time.
Flowing from appropriate patronage
always a theme in variation, 
richer in every circuit...

iii.	One Long Street In Athens (5)

At number 57 lives Mr. Papadopoulos
proud owner of a shop selling olives;
black and white, red and green,
salted, unsalted, stuffed and plain...

At number 22 lives Mr. Theopoulos
above his shop with his family and two cats;
selling nuts and spices, delightful herbs
from local growers and the near-distant 
							Orient...

At number 36 lives Mr. Nicolopoulos
master baker of pastries and pasties;
up early every morning making dough,
ready for the office and factory 
						workers...

At number 107 lives Mr. Georgepoulos
and his three sons working hard in hardware;
selling all manner of metal wares along with 
nuts and bolts, tools moulded in coloured 
							plastic...

At number 210 lives Mr. Triantopoulos
and family in their new oldstyle restaurant;
they will fix you up a treat, fix you a `fixed' menu,
charge the smallest fee for the bread and 
							tablecloth...

At number 29 lives Mr. Manolopoulos 
rising each morn with the waking sun;
selling travel and cheap silk ties,
handkerchiefs and other fashionable 
						 novelties...

At number 37 lives Mr. Nguyen from Vietnam
new to this land of eternal sun; 
running a small delicatessen selling 
olives, and nuts and spices, breads and pies,
pots and pans, travel brochures, snacks
and a few simple fashion accessories
some marked Made in Athens, and in capitals 
					    good old U.S.A....

Or was it Mr. Spontini who owned that shop
employing Mrs. Brown from Britain part-time;
I am sure the numbers are correct 
and the names and the trades too but as 
to which goes where I am a little confused
taking poetic license as a humble trader,
setting the scene, describing in essential 
terms some long unnamed street in Athens,
a street whose `foreign' name I have quite
							forgotten..?

Would that I could be there peddling poems 
in the vocal dialect of passing strangers, 
tourists, call them what you will, this land, 
this world is now no longer `local' becoming 
`international', alas, one more state without 
								 style...

iv. Taking A Tour To Mycenae And Epidaurus (6)

On the road in a tourist bus,
like a flying Trojan horse, 
watching the scenery flash past,
on the way to Mycenae;
the center of an empire 
victorious at Troy.
An age on the very edge 
of prehistory, an epic tale
of lust and loot,
of tragic dissolution,
an heroic world coming apart;
polished, re-brought to life 
given shape in the lengthy tales
of a blind poet...

This beehive tomb is but one, 
the best, of a number 
in this area, you will have 
ten minutes to enter
and in the inner darkness,
after the deliberation 
of an endless text,
you will have five minutes 
to poke about, no flashlights
					please...

We then returned to the bus 
to climb the remainder 
of this lowest of crouching hills.
You will have half an hour
to see the Lion Gate and,
if you wish, to climb the hill 
to the royal palace on top.
So forget the commentary,
full steam ahead,
two other entrance gates
through these thick stone walls
can be found, and one dark, 
deep-sunk rock-cut cistern as well;
storage jars, storehouse rooms
in reconstructed outline;
circular tombs from a time
well before our hero Agamemnon, 
and Menelaus, Achilles and Patroclus
and their close knit warrior bands...

In the space of ten seconds
the fortified palace of Tiryns,
on the left, passes us by,
then lunch at Naphalion
beneath its impressive citadel...

The long road to Epidaurus
has now begun, out across 
this dry, rippling plane 
the bus wends it way
without too much pretence,
soon hemmed in and squeezed 
by rolling coastal mountains.
Fields of flowers unfolding,
interacting with the honey-bees
in sweet succession,
groves of olive trees 
in straggling profusion, 
a few tiny roadside
hamlets with their small
square, domed churches 
whitewashed brightly 
under the midday sun...

A short walk reveals
one amphitheatre, famous
for its sound, even a whisper
is never quite lost 
when seated near the top,
added alterations expanding 
this plot for a few more 
thousand spectators.
But the guide wishes to talk on 
at length so forget the facts
and submit some simple 
observations made on the way
by the two of us...

Now time to disappear
for some twenty minutes,
the sacred town once stood 
just below this theatre here,
its festivals entertaining,
its hospitals incubating
patients in the wee dark hours 
of the night with profit;
getting sufferers to work 
it all out for themselves,
perhaps using their intuition.
The Gods told me such and such
in a vivid dream last night,
should this advice be followed,
only half-recalled by morning?
Past a seated stadium for the 
sporting contests of naked lads;
past a series of arcaded stumps,
now all that remains where once 
a more leisurely lot
could pace about beneath 
a shaded sun; ample hostels;
many small temples for prayer
and painful petitions;
bathing facilities for 
all the local residents 
and those pilgrims in transit.
Amid this classified rubble
stands one mysterious tholos 
that still defies commentary,
my guide book disagrees
with current trends in 
seeing in this rounded maze 
one sacred snake pit...

A few minutes left for the museum,
marbles lined up in pavilions
simulating the ruins 
just a field's throw away
left unseen by the unsuspecting
tourists driven here...

Back to Athens passing Corinth
never visited; one canal
given this second time 
only a passing glance.
Along the motor way,
past the factories,
passing Eleusian fragments;
now sign-posted
and memorialised,
all mysteries now concealed,
straight past Daphne;
its monastic church
in mosaic splendour,
and (amply) textiled frescos,
now only a shimmering patchwork
(pasted) from its precious past.
In the peak hour traffic
slipping slowly 
through the soulless suburbs
back into a modern world
reduced to sight seeing,
seeing only monuments 
			 from the past...

v. Seeking The Oracle At Delphi (7)

Ah, 
the heat,
for the day is hot,
the mountains are high,
and the four winds have flown away, 
slipping into the valley, far, far below.
All about unfolds the ruined slopes of Delphi
and situated in the middle are these sacred springs...

Partake gladly from these crystal clear basins
fed by a simple, unending stream;
a running, crooked cleft in the rock;
washing hands and face, sipping
the sweet purity of these hospitable
waters just as the ancient visitors
noted down in their well followed
						guide books...

Visit that most famous tholos,
enough still stands to delight 
the imagination, wander past 
the gymnasium and its baths,
then back along the modern road
past one mean museum stocked
with the looted marbles from
the historic park next door,
few tourists seeing the wonderful
mosaic of an early church floor
just outside the main entrance...

Did pilgrims from the past 
have to pay again in order 
to enter through this very gate?
But wealth they did bring 
and in a grateful abundance.
Fees paid for consultation,
for the advice given subject 
to expert interpretation...

Walking up the Sacred Way 
I identify the remains of once 
sturdy treasuries erected
by patrons from all around
the ancient Mediterranean.
The one paid for by Athens 
is the best in preservation,
or rather, restoration, roped off 
like every pagan sanctuary; 
to see and not touch, 
to watch and not enter,
to just look into and remember..!

Inscriptions all along this road,
one magnificent temple without its roof,
its sacred space inviting access, 
lined with wooden walking boards 
and of course that inescapable, 
inevitable, omnipresent, convenient 
psychological barrier in twine 
keeping out a curious secular world, 
a secular world that today 
is unsafely let loose upon
the world at large leaving
no place sacred nor secular..!

Further on one amphitheatre in reasonable condition,
then a short, steep hike up a hilly path to the stadium
with its many seats down both sides, its victory monuments
and stunning views of the mountainside stretching upwards,
the perfume of pines, and, the sight of a group of five
French lads racing, just for fun, recreating history,
recreating a history just begun...

In retrospection I believe the Oracle
must still be working, working overtime.
From all around the world the `pilgrims' come
no doubt finding what they seek,
hearing the voices of the past
in a babble, in the tinkling of a creek;
overcome by the heat, the soaring vista,
in just seeing the distant sea; meeting stones
that for each person must, somehow, in their own way,
							       still speak...

vi. Final Thoughts On Leaving Athens (8)

The cars are busy in Athens
driving a public to distraction.
Walking in the streets 
in the early morning, 
just before leaving,
in its medieval center, 
in its Christian quarters,
I found a number of small 
Byzantine churches sunk
beneath the level of the street. 
A haunting image of a time
standing still, in part,
but left vulnerable 
to the busy traffic...

Inside a numinous space
left unfocused, unlike 
the more Western World
and its lust for power,
parts lit up by the dark,
an infinity of space
created through repetition,
a complex of interwoven 
nooks and niches
filled with holy books
and antique objects.
A few mosaics still
remain, along with some
later frescos, icons
that glow, flicker 
in the candle light,
accompanied by angelic 
voices that chant the hymns 
in sweet recitations...

Never over crowded, 
despite their size,
they remain living 
fragments from the past 
out of step with 
the hassled present..!

What new space is there 
to cement the nation, 
to focus its most 
pressing concerns?
Colleges or clubs, 
coffee house corners,
cultural centers,
concert halls,
community venues,
reconstructed churches,
cinemas, political
conventions, academies,
computerized interactions,
who knows the tune
history calls..?

A passing peasantry
yearning for middle class
complacency, prosperity,
respectability, not yet 
yawning nor taking
a future responsibility,
reluctantly shifting
into a Europe
still too `European'
for this oriental land,
an old world mentality
rarely disfigured 
by dishonesty...

Around these busy 
crossroad intersections 
rolls an incessant 
traffic commotion
nearly connecting, 
from time to time,
just scraping past
these stone church walls,
just waiting for a 
collision, for a few more
golden tiles to fall,
transforming the past
without that intention,
leaving a world none wiser
when its wiser to
leave a world richer
in its inventory of 
songs to sing, 
cantos under creation,
without despair,
giving inspiration 
to new voices 
waiting to be heard,
on the ether,
	just out there...