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

i. Charity (9)

"Charity," they say, 
"begins at home,"
but what home is there 
for a poor monk seeking funds
for the church delegated
to his current caretaking?
I wander into one more 
splendid Baroque temple
richly decorated,
a cool place to be on 
this late, sweaty afternoon.
An obvious one more theme 
manifested in 
one more variation,
a large rotund space
modelled on one more 
Roman bathhouse from the past,
a ceiling much like the
hemispherical orbit 
of the Pantheon.
Inside, eager to greet me,
and quick to entertain 
my inescapable attention,
was a cheerful brother
with a very generous, overweight, 
well-rounded disposition.
He left his half-smiling friend,
another august monk 
like his all too humble self,
and ambling right up beside me,
engaged me in conversation.
"You speak English?"
having divined my language 
but not my origins.
I nod my head.
"A Catholic are you?"
I smile at such a question.
He beckons me to enter
further into the church,
leading me to one 
of the many side altars,
alas, in a sad state 
of crumbling disrepair.
I quickly noticed
that the cheap faulted 
and flawed marble,
forming the table top,
had on the sides
fractured into chunks 
now left sitting 
on its dusty surface.
Before this particular
piece of religious furniture,
now suffering from 
an obvious lack of use,
he communicated 
the following message.
"Would you like to make
a small donation
for the repair of this altar,
some small token for 
the upkeep of this house
designed for the 
worship of God?
His slightly shaky hands 
unclasp and disappear 
into the simulation
of pockets amid the folds 
of his flowing habit, 
the clouded look 
of a sincere need
crossed the red, 
puffing visage of 
a pale, sweating face;
his brotherly colleague,
in the distant background,
slipping quietly 
into another room;
one of a small number 
to the side of 
the main altar.
"I cannot," I answer,
signalling much regret,
"It is near the end 
of my holidays and I have
very little money left,
barely enough to pay 
for both my accommodation
and find some food,
find a few more meals
for the next few days, 
those days I must spend 
here in Rome
before flying back
home to Australia.
"Duemila lira, come on,
2,000 lira for this altar."
"Alas, I am almost
totally broke,
Rome is so expensive,"
and before I could finish
my repeated apologies
the same line got 
an instant re-airing.
"Duemila lira, come on,
2,000 lira for this altar."
Again I shrugged my shoulders,
revoiced my now 
well rehearsed reservations
and with a vague smile,
hiding my true thoughts,
took a slow exit from this 
`poor' house designed
for the worship of God...

ii. The Fashion House (10)

Rome, that ancient city,
is but one house of fashion,
a city with style, 
a marble wedding cake,
layer upon layer,
an exercise in form
disguising the sweat
and the smell 
of the human condition...

We must thank the Gods
that all people
in their humanity are
all too human, all too human...

It takes quite some panache,
and more than feathers
and costly silks
and flashy designer gold,
to hide the flabby shape,
to gild the furrowed brow
etched upon the mask
of the person, 
the citizen on the street...

We must thank the Gods
that all these inhabitants,
all these urban gentry,
who walk those thoroughfares 
in elegant camouflage remain
all too human, all too human...

What know they, 
we might well ask,
of the countryside;
what could they ask for,
we might add, if they 
know not the charms of its 
well seasoned delights,
the changing aromas
and odours of the fields,
the dashing splashes
of colours bright
swiftly replaced by 
another apt palate
of tints and hues
that would delight
the marbled walls of 
any papal palace,
or, this merchant's hall
redesigned as a
house of fashion for 
the big time spenders..?

We must thank the Gods,
be grateful, that civilians
don't mock their 
country cousins, 
in humility remain
all too human, all too human...

Why should the denizens 
in these  undulating,
vibrant hills even 
care to glance towards 
this eternal city,
this forever slowly 
accumulating dung hill
that passes itself off
as a civilization,
as a center of civility,
as the caring heart
of Roman religion,
of chiselled sentiment
immortalized in pompous
petrified sediment,
edifices too many to count,
too many to conserve
before the day of judgment,
if it could be bothered,
casts its seal of approval
on this or that sculptor's
traffic-poxed boxes
of Baroque magnificence...

We must thank the Gods
that the humble countryfolk,
in their lack of profession, 
remain so silent,
forever working for the cities,
remain simple slaves,
all too human, all too human...

Admire the fanciful pediments,
be dominated by the soaring domes,
be inspired by the extravagance,
question the hoards of angels
consorting with naked putti
put to work at such a tender age,
be overwhelmed by frescoed
ceilings tension stretched
into higher heavens 
pushed straight through 
and past these painted rooves.
Such pride, such puffed up passion,
so emotional and all so theatrical,
vivid scenes in make believe,
to delight the most naive...

We must thank the Gods
for giving us such 
textured relief,
giving us such diversion,
such visual sport
perspiring in flighted motion,
inspiring our recognition 
that we are earthbound born 
and must earthbound die 
and for all that must remain
all too human, all too human...

Why, the city has 
its fancy fountains,
its surges of flowing waters,
and, the countryfolk
have their streams
and thunderous waterfalls,
villas for the more
richly discerning.
What difference in the end
could there be
betwixt the natural 
and the artificial;
between the fruits of nature
and those decorative trifles, 
those polished re-creations 
designed and signed by 
those masterful artisans,
those artful courtesans..?

We must thank the Gods
that those heavens portrayed
are not inflicted 
on simple souls,
on all these Roman folk;
whether from the country 
or the big city,
and so obviously
all too human, all too human...

The big day has arrived,
the latest parade,
one more step for mankind
exquisitely displayed,
the garment industry
all sweetly modelled,
costumes coutured,
cultured so elegantly,
crafted so individually
for madam and the man
brave enough to sport
such gear for daytime wear,
spend some time
in the musical evening
forever looking so debonair...

We must thank the Gods
that some people in their 
natural perversity, in their 
pursuit of good taste, are
all too human, all too human...

Alas, the day arrives,
the show must go on,
but the sewers outside
the posh, signposted door
have again gone on strike
with the rising pong of
long fermented poo,
a nasal commentary 
upon the city
that can never 
quite get things right.
Send two more waiters
to the entrance, quick,
use a bottle
of the latest scent,
toss it all about,
spread its virtues
around their necks,
advertise the perfume
in the foyer well away
from the swinging door,
hurry, before the guests
arrive, chase away
that awful smell,
replace it by what we sell,
always, always the sign,
the surface signature,
the hallmark of true design..!

We must thank the Gods
that thoughtful people,
in their thoughtful care,
can manage to massage 
their thoughtful countenance, 
recreate the facts, 
have a provenance 
all too human, all too human...

I am sure a week later 
the council will find 
the source of the leek
known by all the citizens 
who walk this street,
now perfume is no more
such necessity, a scented 
signpost signalling 
a designer labelled elite.
Thank goodness such fine folk
don't supervise the sewers,
could you imagine 
the cost of their 
symptomatic intervention,
an inventory of esters
and essences, pertly
shaped glass dispensers
on the corners of every street,
mixing such unburnt incense
on colourful trendy pavements,
each paver designed and signed
by the winning house
contracted to act on our behalf
in such a silly display
in pleasant surface presentation
and engineered deportment,
no doubt their solution 
for this department's
lack of properly dug drains 
and well maintained 
infrastructure deployment...

Yet we must thank the Gods
that people don't simply 
consent, accept such a 
careless carte blanche,
letting the wise seek
simple bandaids as solutions,
solvents for all our many problems,
letting those corrupters 
of good old common sense,
those `specialists',
all too human, all too human,
run amok on this strange,
stark, darkly lit stage 
that passes in the half-light
of the floating night
for a divinely crafted humanity;
a mosaic figure with horns
that passes to and fro 
in its bizarre passage
forever searching for 
an absolute sanity 
dictated by the laws of reason, 
traces of an intellect found
all too human, all too human..?

All fashions like 
the seasons must change,
even permanent household 
dictators must fade away,
arbiters of taste
go on sale, become
specials subject to 
supply and demand...

Again we must thank the Gods
that dwellers of the city
and of the countryside,
in their mix of opinions, 
give endless appearances 
in endless performances 
of a true tragedy,
tragic in its emptiness;
in the shattered silence 
of an awful laughter
heroic postures posing
in one endless comedy;
painted, painful actors
delivering their mournful 
lines in a pitiful manner,
sometimes elegant and  
proud in their demeanour,
yet thankfully, thankfully,
through humour becoming
all too human, all too human;
at long last becoming
all too human, all too human...

iii. Churches, Museums and Ruins - One City Of Cats (11)

A tribe of feline fighters,
scrawny, streetwise cats
eking out a city existence,
scraping by as scavengers,
scrapping among themselves 
or just content to congregate
among these sun drenched ruins
soaking up the pouring sun
and the stares of passersby...

In the Forum the tourists
cluster in tours of clones,
like slowly moving microbes,
or wander in smaller groups.
Remnant pillars re-erected
stand in shattered rows,
looking the worst for wear.
Proud arches peeling,
their tableaus flaking, 
fallen red-brick enclosures - 
only suggestive outlines 
in space, rugged steps 
in stone minus their marble -
only fragmented and cracked
pieces still remain,
the rest now recycled
in shabby Baroque temples 
around the edges, looking
just as worn and torn,
in testament to a time
that knows only a passing,
the passing parade of folk,
always the same, never different...

Bedraggled pussy cats 
spend the hours of daylight
on ledges or in the open air,
in peaceful packs now 
segregated from the public,
in those sacred grassy parts 
forever kept barricaded.
Historic attendants saunter by,
in casual reconnaissance,
few cares have they for 
the day, coming alive at night 
in the living city outside 
this then forgotten site...

You pay your admission 
and then get left 
to your own devices,
the tours are already 
pre-arranged, don't like
the freeloaders who follow 
in the wake of poly-lingual
guides who think you
understand what you have
already understood, 
what you have already 
worked out for yourself.
All around the fences
another public stands and stares,
without paying at those that have,
monuments stage managed
in an egalitarian spirit.
The Sacred Way severed
by this same ramshackled fence.
This history also the canvas
for fascist leanings,
imperial tendencies driving
a course through the past
by Mussolini's heroic path,
a roadway that cuts things in half...

This city has a long time ago
memmorialized itself in stone,
immobilized itself in this home,
buildings new and old
stand side by side.
New migrants work the beats,
sell trivial things, 
hard working folk content 
to sit throughout the day
in the harsh light 
of a hot summer's sun.
Some coming from the South,
and others coming 
from further South
amid Gypsies out to play
snatching the trappings 
of tourists too polite
to scream "go away."
Eternal Rome - always the same;
perennial twisters and tricksters,
gangsters in every guise,
immortalize this city.
Around the corner
in the dust of uncut grass
sits another pack of cats
basking in the sight of 
museum guards paid to siesta out
the long hot afternoon.
Its now one o'clock 
and this shop was shut,
locked up tight, always
one quarter hour to the dot.
Two female attendants knit
in the doorway, they know
each cat by name,
have their favourites,
get adopted by their pets;
furry, feral creatures
only half-diseased,
too independent, too careful
to ever get caught 
and made to see the vet 
should that occasion ever 
cross the minds of those paid 
to likewise sit...

The museum stands empty,
a repository of faded labels,
signs designed never to be read.
Exhibits gathering dust 
in glass caged rows;
like mummies on display,
displaced cases gape,
empty exhibits under repair
lost in the bowels
of the building perhaps 
somewhere near here?
An accumulation of
collections without their owners
to love and care for them,
the dispossessed neatly
possessed in racks, 
numerically catalogued 
in rows upon rows
of displayed disrespect,
see displaced musical instruments
condemned on silent gallows,
discarded in lifeless galleys,
visitors trapped in interminable 
passageways between galleries
with see through windows
reflecting the faces
of the crowds that hardly
stir around these parts,
certainly not after this ritual,
well-paid for lunch...

Ecclesiastical bells signal
from somewhere near,
around the corner,
through the courtyard door,
that the time is nigh
as the church cats collect.
They don't need to beg,
expect the standards 
to remain the same,
only the faithful are let in
to the inner sanctum,
a small herbal garden 
left in sweet neglect.
Morsels from the midday meal
are re-laid out, in plastic
bowls quickly engulfed
by this four legged
feeding frenzy, in the rush
bits of pasta get licked up,
spicy tid-bits never tasted,
don't see the setting sun,
a congregation on the run
disappears into the fevered
air of the long hot night...

This church, this historic site,
should they pay to see over it,
it costs the state a lot, 
more than enough, to repair 
the forgetfulness of time.
The prayerful now never attend,
take the small chapel 
around the corner,
it too under repair and who 
would want to pay to see that.
No hoary temple tarted up,
just a few walls, a few poor
paintings to hide the cracks.
But, here, fortune itself
paced about, papal princes
often dropped on in by carriage,
the singing was quite a delight,
not tonight though, the choir
has long lost its voice,
like the organ in the loft above,
one faded facade 
that never boasted...

In the alleyways the cats 
keep company amid the rubbish,
forever waiting for tippings
or the one more passing rat.
From the dripping pump
they lap the sitting waters,
like the people in the street
sipping coffee into the late night.
On humans these specimens 
depend, through charity 
or untidy neglect,
either way their time is spent
hanging out, just hanging out...

Make way, make way,
as they hurry 
for an important date
as sleek black cars slip
into the Vatican
by the back gate.
A service is in progress,
a ceremony without an end,
throughout the calendar
rituals are repeated,
one way to tell the time
without a watch or 
shadow falling across 
the distant sundial.
Only grace can keep alive,
can infuse a service 
spent in repetition
year in, year out...

One pampered pussycat
with the proudest of whiskers,
all black and white 
with just a touch 
of reddened orange,
sits on a balcony
oblivious to the cars
that have parked out
the palace courtyard
in the cobbled square below.
Business as usual,
but on this ledge 
speaks a better commentary 
on the pulse of this city's life
brought to perfection
in the lived out life 
of this sample of a civil cat,
like all the rest
whether here or down below.
For richer or poorer,
whether in hunger 
or just well fed,
doing little else than naught,
leaving nothing undone,
seizing the moment 
from time to time
or some poor wandering rodent
or flighty bird just 
too careless for words,
it make no difference
this furry creature
weds a way, despite its lot,
in the grandest of styles
obtainable, looking slick;
whether sitting on the garbage
or housed in palatial chic...

iv. Young Soldiers Forever On Parade (12)

All nicely lined up,
another batch of
young soldier boys,
looking trim and polished,
their sweat sparkling 
in the sunlight,
on parade outside
the Quirinale Palace...

Such a sight, so innocent,
could God himself
have made such a choice,
send these creatures
off to war, forever chosen
to defend their country
from the manly novelty
pitted against it 
by some other set of 
geriatric talent scouts. 
The too young to question
finding final answers 
too late in the clash
of heated steel...

A perfect line-up
waiting in review
for the President,
the latest specimen
in a long list 
of the not incorruptible,
who now cannot be present 
to salute his troops.
Just too busy
shaking hands 
with the business men 
down the road
from the South
milking the funds 
given to them 
by the North;
everyone working hard 
to keep things quiet,
a slight price to pay
for the preservation
of the old order
in this so called
changing world 
of the new order...

An admiring crowd looks on,
family and other folk,
the ubiquitous tourists,
the many secret strands 
of public security 
that overlap, cross over
each other's shadow;
the army, the police,
minders in mufti,
those lost souls
who pepper the public 
in patient attendance,
pretending not to be seen 
looking, and waiting,
for the sneeze 
of potential trouble...

Ever present the terrorist,
the mad-man with a gun,
the fanatic with a bomb
the size of a car 
or as small as an ash-can...

Alas, what a mess,
the twisted wreckage 
of human carnage,
the lumps of human flesh,
the smell of bowels
vaporized and emptied
in that fiery second...

But today a different
set of saboteurs
congregate, bringing death
in their wake, an end to 
most of these pretty faces,
weighted explosions 
exploding narrow waistlines
lined up like targets 
at some provincial fair...

Mums and wives,
girl-friends and sisters
start to chat,
swap recipes for this 
or that creamier pasta,
what herbs to titillate
a well practiced palate,
secrets of the stew,
how to make an even 
thicker soup; one more
to stand the ladle
upright on its spoonbill
gullet waiting 
to fill another plateful
to its tidemarked brim...

The roar of chatter
reaches an almighty din,
snippets of advice
ricochet all around,
a litany of menus
echo from the walls -
don't forget those 
local delicacies, those
crusty, old-world breads,
those lovely wines 
from good old Tuscany,
that ample seafood spread, 
that most limpid of cheeses,
fried onions in the sauce,
slivers of olives 
in the batter, big slices 
of veal wrapped 
in the thickest of pastry,
one hundred and one
other treats waiting
in the pantry...

Alas, alas, who could 
survive such an onslaught,
how much resistance 
can a man put up,
what escape is there,
have we yet to meet 
one deserter who remains 
a true Italian..?

Alas, alas, such is 
the pity I feel 
for these young cadets
already fought over
and sacrificed 
to another god,
an early death of the new
made the more secure
with each passing moment 
of the farming year,
each successful harvest
driving one more nail
into this coffin 
of my despair...

v. Travelling To The Vatican By Bus (14)

The bus lurches to a beckoned halt,
another clutch of passengers,
mainly tourists en route to the Vatican, 
climb on board, standing room only.
The kind folk on the bus move a little 
closer, it didn't seem possible but 
before long everyone is able
to just squeeze in, find accommodation
on this much travelled trip...

Bus number 64 re-continues, threads
its passage through the congestion
that pushes its way through 
the narrow streets that criss-cross Rome.
"Mind your bag," whispers the lady
standing beside me, as she nods and winks,
hinting that the male person behind me
might be interested in my pack; 
all done without catching his attention.
Fortunately, only my lunch is carried
on my back; a few rolls of bread,
some slices of cheese and salami, 
a few leaves of fresh lettuce 
and one large ripe tomato.
The bus shudders to a sudden stop.

Some young, yuppy, fashion outfitted 
businessmen come on board, then,
without much ado, some more room is made for 
an elderly frail lady all dressed in black 
followed by the smiles of a friendly nun.
Sure enough as this vehicle turns 
the next corner this person who has me 
within his sights moves even closer,
bumping up beside me as the bus
then rights itself on the next short 
straight stretch as its growls 
its way through the traffic bypassed 
by the roar of innumerable motor cycles.
I turn some ninety degrees;
all done apparently in the process 
of trying to keep my balance.
I casually look at my light-fingered,
heavy-handed friend, from a more 
southern clime, somewhat unwashed, 
his long, oily hair is jet black 
and roughly parted on one side,
his skin looked weather beaten,
taken to task by the elements,
matching the part of a poor fisherman.
Discreetly watching, I find him carefully 
surveying the scene, thinking he cannot 
be seen, standing out in this crowd 
like a sore thumb, like some stunned 
and stranded week old mullet.
None of the locals being fooled
by his shifty, nifty footwork around `poor'
backpackers, dancing in a synchronicity 
with their cameras, back pockets, purses,
wallets, money belts, cheque books, 
video cameras, walkmans, and all 
the other floating paraphernalia that 
identity the usual, disoriented tourist...

The bus now alights alongside one whole family 
who view the complete absence of standing 
room before them as no one sets out to leave.
But the good natured inhabitants of this bus
still let them in, and what a struggle,
welcomed by this small migrating tribe
of kids and parents, and grandad too...

The bus shortly breaks again, in a crowd
two youthful friends get on as others 
get off in a one for one trade, a blow by
blow replacement of folk in an art that
becomes second nature to the Roman citizen.
They both nudge up beside me, certainly
a better swap for my now distant fishing 
companion, they seem to take a friendly delight 
in this foreigner; would love to talk, 
take notes, if we could, sip some coffee, 
walk around arm and arm along the street 
as is the civilized custom here, but alas, 
a few stops later, then start to disengage, 
for sadly such is life, some moments later
making their way towards the nearby door...

One more short hop, one more short stop
and in the stream of passing souls espy
a wealthy business lady, my age, elegant, cultured, 
making a fashion statement purely through 
her breath taking, captivating sense of style.
She gently manoeuvres behind me, a little
to my side, taking a half-secret, half-open
pleasure in playing a game in which all 
sophisticated Italians excel, bring to perfection.
No pinching of bottoms though, no uninvited openers, 
no chorus of whistles except by groups of 
acned teenagers, instead all subtlety itself, 
a simple smile, a nod, a furtive glance 
without offending, the chance to strike up 
some conversation if mutually enamoured, 
thoughts betrayed, all discreetly encountered...

A busy city bridge is crossed and, now 
re-oriented, know the Vatican must soon appear.
In the next shift we meet with some blue collar 
workers, all passengers mixing on this bus, 
all souls in transit, from the stars to the stars, 
from earth to earth, from dust to dust there 
can be no difference in this sense of humanity.
Among the crowd three more separate fishermen 
now work together, surround their victim,
distracting the snatch, protecting the quick 
successful exit with the loot, of course 
never having met how could these gentlemen 
have known each other..?

On the buses you meet the world of Rome,
a microcosm of the macrocosm; a living collage
of the good, the bad and the ugly; peasants 
and professionals, housewives and young students;
all ill-will undone by the concern and care 
shown by the many for each other; a great way
to meet the people minus the few petty rogues 
and villains; a picture of harmony inciting 
the right hand to undo and deflect the left; 
a colony of ants and rats working together;
forever watchful and alert, finding the right 
moments to strike a chord, sharing a few steps 
with the world at large forced to spend some 
time together; entertain a passing interest 
as like meet like and unlike; find the former
may potentially target you as their latest 
companion, or, find the latter may perceive
your luggage as making for a better friend...

vi. Eating Out In Rome (14)

Eating outside or eating inside,
in Rome do as the natives do,
inspect each site as if to buy
fresh fruit from the markets -
why this place looks too lean,
and over there the waiters 
look just barely fed, 
while those table cloths 
look only vaguely clean...

Here the pasta is `seven dollars'
a plate, a small recycled dish 
of foil, taken home hot or cold,
either way not enough to feed
a tourist out all day sightseeing;
dad behind the counter,
mum behind the till,
this family leaving the taxman
still quite dis-believing...

Now let us eat here upon the street,
or upstairs in a place 
far too posh and pretending;
the decor there is quite a treat,
still would prefer to sight
the passing parade of trendy things
dressed up to kill,
these day you never know
who's on the menu tonight...

Should we take the left bank
or should we take the right,
better fed than dead
so let's stick to those 
bright lit streets
where backpackers consume
while the local lads find 
the passing mossies let you know 
just what is eating whom..?

Just a short coffee,
for God's sake don't sit down
the service is quite a fright,
and remember to hang on tight
to your little cup
they don't wait too long
before its back in the sink,
don't linger, take it 
like a man, in one hit..!

Some simple chicken done
in an exquisite mushroom sauce,
or would you prefer
a dish off quail
where the flesh, I confess,
must be freshly hunted for,
or perhaps some peacock 
for the more expensive purse;
without the feathers of course...

A Roman banquet in a ritual drama
is served out each night,
dished out to the tourists,
but, I prefer some Italian wine,
a set price menu 
full of creamy pasta, 
just good value for money,
a warm atmosphere with 
some old friends for company..!

5. The Wildest, Wild Flowers Of Spain (15)

1.	Alas, who is there left
to celebrate the wildest,
wild flowers of Spain..?

Upland fields painted
with explosions 
of powdered sulphur,
tinctures of iodine
amid splashes of blood,
passionate specs of purple
unsullied by pale patches
of white, crinoline
dresses of crimson,
thin frail cotton shirts
wrapped up in fragile 
packets, well rounded chests
dipped in bronze, 
smiling faces, quixotic 
headgear, capes and spears,
tufted topknots poised 
in aerial suspension;
holding their breath
before the return of
the gentle evening breezes;
still wanting to tell
your fortune...

A discarded artist's palette
in the past left unsung,
untasted except by
simple folk of a more
pastoral persuasion...

2.  The old shepherd,
pencil thin, sightly stooped,
agile and frail,
in his retirement tends 
the nearby hills.
His gait is well practiced,
a humble efficiency
in simple, repetitive motion,
a countenance steeped
in old, country wisdom...

Today's work is done,
happy to have finished,
thankful in the thought
that he can still labour
in the freedom of the fields.
His patient, faithful dog 
retraces a path well worn 
in its memory -
along the horizon,
down through the olive trees,
over the stone bridge,
between the rocky walls
that enclose small plots
for winter hay and the like.
In a leafy hollow
a thin line of smoke 
signals the preparation
of the evening meal. 
The old man's wife 
walked many miles that day
to the markets; no more 
leftovers tonight, he thinks,
that share now belongs 
to the dog wearily
plodding beside him...

In the dark light 
of a lonely candle,
on a worn, unadorned
wooden table this contented
shepherd and his shepherdess
partake a lengthy meal.
Beans stewed in herbs
with blended tomatoes
and ample onions,
a fresh sturdy, 
well shaped bread 
with a solid crust
soaks up the last smears
on the ancient bowl,
and tonight a mug 
of a better vintage wine
to help celebrate their
happy, fateful fortune;
their long time company,
their long time companion
in the overseeing 
goodness of the Divine;
an ingrained vision
shared in thought 
but rarely spoken about.
In the corner,
towards the East,
near the stove,
beneath the low roof,
a second candle flickers
in sympathy before 
the signs of old traditions 
faithfully handed down, 
now barely understood, 
never quite explained...

3.	The train rushes 
onward, or so its seems, 
as it bounces back 
and forth, up and down,
along the tracks...

We are going South, 
in the evening light 
the vegetation signals 
much drier weather.
Olives and oranges,
lemons and limes,
dance in long rows,
in square formations,
all half-flashing past
in a dull monotony.
Somewhere, near Valencia,
espy a lone dog on 
the smallest of balconies
barking loudly at this 
daily friend as it noisily 
rumbles and sways on past.
The surreal heat haze 
of the day turns 
the starry light of the night 
into a blurred, creamy 
blanket of dreams.
Travellers think 
of sleeping somewhere else, 
alas, not tonight though
for we are all trapped
in this long over congested,
rolling rattle snake;
passengers and luggage
only half-digested.
The young guard, 
on his rounds, the epitome 
of cute politeness,
in his naivete wishes 
everyone a good night's sleep,
with an ironic smile
in the vain hope, it seems, 
that he too might 
receive the same...

A long trip, many stops later,
get off in Cordoba.
In the old Jewish quarter,
signposted for the tourists,
find some lodgings.
Down the street visit 
that famous mosque;
a forest of pillars,
each and everyone different,
a cathedral embedded within
with ancient organs,
and altars steeped in gilt.
A long Roman bridge taking me 
across the river...

4. 	Well, I saw Seville,
although merely passing through.
Made a slow circuit around 
its central gothic form,
admired its Moslem tower, 
saw the river that takes people 
down and out to a distant sea,
across oceans to new worlds,
strange waters not seen before,
not yet seen by me, not seen 
from this old world except for 
those few seconds that morning 
when I left Spain for France;
an almost invisible edge 
to my European visit, a curtain 
of Atlantic mist not yet penetrated...

En route to Granada 
the train time tables
literally stop 
at Bobbadilo
for an hour and 
so many minutes.
The tourists must alight
in this tourist trap,
and you must not drink 
the local water, or, 
rather, the lack of it!
A sleepy town of just
so many hard working souls,
one rusty fountain, 
that hardly works,
two seats beside it,
now only one bench 
that can be sat upon.
A railway station
with contradictory signs,
just for travellers;
the locals don't need 
such modern things.
One public tavern,
a bakers shop with 
local breads and cakes 
all nicely scented
in a moist, hearty fragrance
slowly taking on a more 
international complexion.
A white washed town with
the flavour and variety
of freshly sliced bread, 
gritty to the teeth
and an old world smell 
like new school chalk, 
along with the incessant chatter
of slowly drawn out 
friendly village talk...

Above Granada stands the snows,
retreating in summer,
and the shadows of the Alhambra.
In its pleasant pavilions,
amid the smell of citrus,
one could forget 
the Christian world below.
But don't neglect
its cavernous cathedral
and other works of art
all neatly carved for show...

5. 	A red bellied snake
wriggles in a gentle 
ambling pace across a high plateau
connecting, collecting
urban settlements; 
gathering little villages,
draining little towns,
heading them off into cities,
satellites about even bigger
and dingier social black holes...

A modern world
draining the countryside,
simulating a sad procession
wending its way into one
enormous graveyard.
In the terms of this 
moral metaphor or analogy:
like ten thousand fleas 
on a plague of mice 
on the bloated carcass 
of a half-dead rat,
with airports of flies
highlighting a sky
soaked in a chemical smog 
caused by cars and factories
out improving our standards 
of living; a repressed decay
activating, at long last,
the marching footsteps
of a political consciousness 
with a conscience...

Sanity in small towns;
historic cities with 
impressive foundations
still lying near the walls
and other machinations 
that linger from the past.
Happy the habit
to eat in moderation,
to enjoy our meals,
to put on weight
nice and slowly
without growing too fat,
too quickly...

6. 	High on the uplands,
far, far away from 
the mechanical rituals 
of a society out killing itself,
two young shepherd boys pass 
the harshest hours of the hot day 
in a contemplative fashion;
sleepy actors in a play
that their folk thought 
would never see come to an end,
in a generation just fade away...

Unemployment is high,
they say, unskilled jobs 
are scarce, farmers
need less labour,
they are told,
have higher bills
along with subsidies
that only make things worse.
But in this part of the world
some old-time work 
is still called for
hence these two lads 
now work together.
No pensions nor benefits
on the political horizon
can keep afloat
their deep wish to be free,
free agents for hire
making their choice 
in work their desire.
So setting out one day,
walking on foot,
they left their village
like Don Quixote with 
his faithful servant Sancho
to trust their luck
out under the stars
and other elements, 
fiery hot or icy cold,
in hopeful pursuit 
of a simple steady wage
and an uncomplicated lifestyle,
without the look 
of a staring sneer
and painful scrutiny 
from their rural friends in
a now social climbing peasantry.
Both barely literate,
but quite numerate,
quick witted and intelligent too,
they knew what to do
from hard farm-work done
part-time between and, 
as is still the custom here, 
`in-between' the days and hours
of lifeless education 
in the official school year...

Under the partial shade 
of an ancient, half-stunted tree
the younger lad sleeps 
against the side of his older friend.
Inclined towards each other
the rounded brims of their hats
lie just above their chins
and all about the chewing sheep
follow suit while watching the dog
with one glazed, glassy eye wide open 
and the other still half-asleep...

7.  In the far distance
one more high plateau 
can be seen, an emptying
emptiness highlighted
by the black storm clouds
overhead that let
shafts of sunlight 
filter through, wash 
this historic hinterland...

Upland fields painted
with explosions 
of powdered sulphur,
tinctures of iodine
amid splashes of blood,
passionate specs of purple
unsullied by pale patches
of white, crinoline
dresses of crimson,
thin frail cotton shirts
wrapped up in fragile 
packets, well rounded chests
dipped in bronze, 
smiling faces, quixotic 
headgear, capes and spears,
tufted topknots poised 
in aerial suspension;
holding their breath
in the stillness
before the storm,
muted thunder sounding 
hollow and forlorn.
Over this now barren expanse
the four winds are quickening,
the dispersal of seed
now no longer waiting,
no longer finding someone
to tell them their fortune...

Once a repeated vision
of the landscape,
an intimate union 
with the voice of heaven,
now barely re-enacted.
The sweet soul,
the essential substance,
the beating heart
of this harsh land, 
this countryside now
left unattended, by-passed.
Parceled out pastures
with modern fences 
left deserted,
a memory fading fast,
left uncelebrated, unsung.
This disappearance 
slipping further away,
alas, facing inevitable 
extinction, this material
realm of the spirit
now no longer lived in.
Sadly, who will mourn,
who will notice the seasonal 
passing away of these 
the wildest of wild flowers,
rugged specimens once found 
in all the provincial highlands
of a now more modern, less rural,
less traditional Spain..?

6. Dreams And Memories Of Vienna (16)

Dreams whipped up by David's tales of yore,
Vienna holidays at long last,
nostalgia, prescience, that repast
of coffee, warm pastry and thick cream
in old world art deco elegance,
just off the Ringstrasse not too far
from green parks and gardens in flower,
a vision in waiting realized.

Twice I tried; bored waitress, ne'er a glance,
slovenly and fatigued, smock with stains,
blond, bound hair mirroring social strains,
face finding this patient customer
finally by passing accident:
Black coffee, warm strudel and some cream,
Please, clearly pointed out it would seem
that no child could confuse this request.

And back came white coffee all heaped up,
and the rest, just imagine, such service -
so perverse her pleasure, hit and miss:
Damn tourists who come and never stay!
So chasing phantom luck tried once more;
the same scene unfolded, one cold plate
delivered dead and squashed like its mate,
with one squat cup bitter as almonds.

		-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

The next day fluffy clouds soon lifted
revealing a swimming sun in flight
outlining the fairy tale delight
of an old abbey church and palace
rolled into one; above ancient trees,
hovering on this hill, the steeple
and ornate dome brought folk, and a mill,
floating on the Danube's silver foam.

In suburbs the largest mansion sat
amid its manicured geometric
hedges, all lit up by electric,
was once some grand person's royal home,
false country scene on the edge of town,
now needing more servants than ever,
that lived in look in constant repair,
surrounded by working class villas.

Then bright lights of the night descended
rebuilding this city's complexion,
one menu found cooked to perfection,
the food was foreign; and South German.
MacDonalds, so near the cathedral,
caught the crowds of window shopping smiles;
hostel guys with butter fresh hair styles
said Goodnight, so sweetly provincial.

7. Like Orpheus Lost In The Underworld? (17)

In the vast cavernous systems of the metro
this train flew through those tunnels
that honeycomb the ground under Paris.
Soon a series of well known landmarks
announced themselves on the placards
that signalled each new station.
Such recognition climaxed in a feeling
that I had `arrived,' but alas, only
the rumbling hum of activity greeted me
in this dim world of souls in transit.

Moving forwards, forever moving forwards,
all gaze averted, who is there to see me,
like Orpheus lost in the underworld..?

Am I really here, have I really arrived?
Stepping out I tested my luck in returning
to the world above, a simple task I thought
but undertaken with some slight difficulty.
Twice I have travelled through the wrong exit
trapped in the perplexity of this recycled circuit.
Then behind me a female voice addressed myself
in a well cultivated English, "if you are going
to the Louvre today you needn't bother,
they are still on strike and queues 
of tourist are merely waiting on the off chance
that they might be let in if this tedious
force of wills should ever break."

Before walking on, returning to where
I came from, I thanked this disembodied voice,
like Orpheus I had turned to look behind...

A succession of famous churches then followed,
or rather, more by proxy for my proximity 
to their foundations was now merely accidental,
my inner ear rehearing the wonderful voices 
of their organs, the thought of merely standing 
before them, even in silence, leaving me enthralled.
The earth offered no resistance to our passage,
from one side to the other of this invisible city
in the space of half an hour I went from one
free concert to another, a succession of buskers
entertaining me along the way, some good and
some dreadful, with a smattering of poets
reciting a verse or two too well remembered
to deserve an up front fee, people preferring
to tap their feet to the simple swing of a dance
with a glance at their neighbour from time to time.

The past continually re-presents itself,
the future unwraps each moment
like a gift standing out of time enraptured...

The poster reproductions from the museum above
seemed like old friends from the past,
animated by the shadows of the less hurried.
In the nooks and crannies lingered the living dead,
or dying, folk who, alas, must call this place 
their home; in the streams of people barely noticed, 
but, in passing, noted all the same.

What is not given cannot be taken,
yet never forsaken, always forgiven, 
never leaving the stranger someone completely 
								 unknown...

Fleeing the dimming recesses of my mind,
on automatic, taking the right reconnections,
I now long for the restfulness of my hotel bed.
Echoing in my footsteps follows the sounds 
of someone else, dare I look behind, alas,
in anguished philosophical trepidation realize 
I can never ever look behind, look back!
Are we not forever cursed to never see directly
what might truly stand and move behind us? 
Would our eyes be thought blessed if they 
could see just themselves, is it not our fate 
that only through those magic eyes of others 
can we then start to see ourselves, find 
ourselves already in the embrace of the `other?'

I thought the shadow of my shadow was my only friend, 
always to be re-discovered the scented promise
of the present that can never be returned only 
							 `taken (a)back...'

A smile, some other simple signs of recognition
encounter another guest from the same hotel,
finding safety in the company of each other. 
The warmth of our conversation speeding both of us
on our way through the bright grey, night-time streets 
of Paris, the sweet smells of fresh oven baked bread 
eliciting the promise of breakfast together 
and the prospect of some mutual sightseeing 
renewing the infinite ways we see each other 
seeing each other seeing ourselves...

All mankind, however, forever unlike Orpheus,
have yet to see behind themselves, 
for all time, in repetition, still left merely 
	finding themselves 
		finding themselves 
			finding themselves...
				"like shadows fleeing 
					the dissolving darkness..."