14. Paris: For All Unknown Soldiers (And Sailors Too) (36)

1.  He went to war,
mother stood right
beside the door.
Goodness knows what
saddened thoughts wore
her down each time
she saw this rite
re-enacted...

2.  Marching towards
the foe with steel
bayonets, swords
already drawn.
Metal rewards
now pin him down,
awards now steal
posthumous fame..?

3.  Such grief is borne,
rivers of tears
in time are drawn
away and lost.
A son is born,
widowed tokens
are worn in tiers
on a boy's chest...

4.	Then one by one
these emblems fall,
a darkened sun
in the soil lost,
by the soil won.
Such is our fate
to run and fall,
be re-interred...

  -*-*-*-*-*-*-

5.  Like a frail reed
lost in a swamp!
Histories need
the perfect text
but who can read
this perfect score
must bleed this swamp
those few drops more..?

6.  Each soldier sees
death in battle,
or through disease,
or through old age.
Great deeds will seize
the moment while
mem'ries battle
forgetfulness...

7.  Trumpets declare
the victors loud,
in final prayer
the fallen find
the field is clear,
declaring its
graves there allowed
to disappear...

8.  Forgotten friends;
all neatly laid,
don't stir soil tends
those graves alone.
Decay befriends
the earth, its charm
then rends the laid
all comrades one...

  -*-*-*-*-*-*-

9.  Memories sore
assault the earth.
Beside the door
that mother no 
longer stands, saw
instead someone 
else scorning earth
her lasting peace...

10.  Their name, their fame
forever lost,
seasons will claim
such ambitions.
Even the aim
of epic tales
remain long lost
recitations...

11.  Erect a sign
so triumphant?!
Pour out the wine
and bless this site,
arched in designed,
tomb with no door
each fine infant
just passing through..!

12.  Bless that statue
too, that gilded
dome; white winds blew
shrouded kisses,
the avenue
swallowed the breeze,
reviewed gilded
troops on horses...

  -*-*-*-*-*-*-

13.  Looking ornate
young troops in pairs
with staggered gait,
soon on parade.
Is war innate
I'm wondering,
too late time pares
back such excess..?!

14.  Those souls proving
they are heroes
in this moving 
panorama.
Out improving
their fighting skills,
standing in rows
like chopped fodder...

15.  Duty obeyed
deserves our praise,
such works then aid
the winning side.
Such laws obeyed
when commanded
will aid who preys
upon such deeds...

16.  Some troops resign,
some court-marshalled,
on the grapevine
rumours abound.
Some troops re-sign,
at attention 
in line marshalled,
just paid to stand...

  -*-*-*-*-*-*-

17.  Ordered to break
soldiers return,
their camp remake,
soon called to arms.
And then no brake 
upon their fears, 
forsake return 
rushing forwards...

18.  A hungry band,
frozen stalemate,
churning the land
into porridge.
All movement banned,
the pouring rain
demands checkmate
for broken men...

19.  The end of war,
or so they say,
for that day saw
a vict'ry march.
With pride they wore
their battle dress,
a poor essay
on such a dream.

20.  Long avenues
of wrought iron rails
re-adorn views
of fences lost, 
melted down, used
for armaments -
whose fuse derails
this urban realm...

  -*-*-*-*-*-*-

21.  Long cemet’ries
of soldiers fired 
on by armies
still living on.
Mute comment'ries
on walls; upon 
the frieze see fired
one, lone cannon...

22.  And remember 
those sailors too
found lost, enter
that wet bosom
as a member 
of a race twice
interred in two
unsigned coffins...

23.  "Attack," he yells;
the sailors told
in the cramped bowels 
of this warship.
Captain then yells,
"cease fire, cease fire,"
while bells are tolled
for them and thee...

24.  Programmed to die
these sweet lives wait
for that sad sigh
of that last cord.
Then memories die
too, what corpse could
deny its wait,
its `nameless' fete..?

  -*-*-*-*-*-*-

15. Les Trains A Grande Vitesse En France (37)

A seamless, silver, elegance
done out in pastoral tones 
and pastels, stylish simplicity, 
down to the shape and sound 
of the cleanly lowered toilet seat. 
Comfort without useless ornament,
a ride that becomes a blur 
through the windows except 
for the more distant fields
with their rolling hills 
and hidden villages thickly
enfolded in blocks of forest...

No clickety clack of railway tracks
from the past, only the slightest
suggestion of unruffled movement,
like a plane without air-pockets,
like a glider almost about to land...

Some of the travellers recline
in lazy seats outstretched,
others read their newspapers 
(that seem to reveal, without
prejudice, their political preferences),
a few thoughtful ladies review 
the same latest novel (its author just 
recently interviewed on television), 
some children with captured parents
play cards with a new-found novelty...

An unnatural calm and quiet pervades
the smokeless atmosphere of this 
long drawn out carriage, a short 
timeless zone, between stations,
in this version of a rural metro.
Without embarrassment, through
much practice, I open up 
and spread out the contents 
of those plastic bags that contain 
our cut salad lunch - a sharp knife
to slice the bread and tomatoes,
a finer knife to spread the butter 
and cheese, plastic plates for 
lettuce and chunks of cold meat,
disposal mugs to pour the clear
`mineral water' drunk with relish
as if it were some precious white wine.
As if this was the cue for mealtime
many of the other more respectable patrons
now retrieve their portable lunches
in the same spirit of fiscal egalité...

Elsewhere diners in the bar drink drinks
standing up barely aware of their 
rapid progress across the countryside, 
a few seated patrons sample 
a cuisine quite in keeping
with a more modern timetable:
Paris to Lyon - 1 hour 59 minutes;
putting down almost to the second...

Halfway across France in 2 hours,
alas, five more hours through the Alps
to reach that Italian frontier.
Forget the Orient Express, instead
sample the contemporary pleasures
of Les Trains A Grande Vitesse...

16. Saint Anthony Of Padua (Padova) (38)

In distant, far off Padua (Padova), 
in one of its many suburbs,
they celebrate the demise 
of that saintly saint Saint Anthony,
surely one of the most blessed.
In this pilgrimage basilica in brick 
and distinctive oriental domes 
the faithful come in their thousands 
seeking his blessing, 
seeking his all foreseeing favour, 
seeking some relief, 
seeking some small grateful, 
gracious signs that they too 
had been noticed and not lost
before their release from the woes 
of this dim, dark world 
on continual fire...

Side chapels when opened court 
a faithful public in preparatory prayer,
oblivious to their excessive frescos
imitating Giotto, just down the road,
but with little of his flair for style.
Near an ambling courtyard stands the museum 
dedicated to the life of this old man,
filled with relics and documents,
charts and photos, models and cast off 
works of peasant art, letters commemorating 
his healing and helpful ministrations;
directions finding their destinations,
delivered from afar...

Entering this cavernous cathedral
near the front door see a nun 
outfitted in an ethereal blue habit 
with a white, cloudy veil
worn like a breeze speaking softly 
speaking swiftly in the staccato 
of an ecstatic voice 
punctuating an intense angelic smile
(artfully simulating in life the more 
baroque-like statues that surround her, 
as she recounts the life 
of her most favourite saint;
Il Santissmo, Sant'Antonio di Padova).
Her audience of elderly listen 
once more to these tales of yore 
as if they had happened that day, 
or two, just before that morning mass 
as said today, as said yesterday...

More further inside, under a dimly lit
set of star-studded domes, I espy
a nice young man in monkish attire,
his soul-task in life, it seems, 
done with keen dedication and devotion,
is to delicately and discreetly guard 
the sacred jaw-bone and tongue 
of his most saintly hero (Il Santo).
Bidden not to speak, like his 
effeminate friend, even after death 
this relic of the saint must wait 
for that eventual re-union 
with the decayed, near naked 
remains of its bodily corpse
now carted off and interred, 
safely immured further down the nave 
under that most precious of altars.
There the saint now resides 
bedecked and clothed in the finest 
of marbles and alabaster, 
jaspers and ormolu encrusted designs
that hide his dusty, cracked wooden 
confines that encases this vessel 
thought far too valuable and precious
to be able to compare and contemplate 
the true cost instilled in the expense 
of this much laboured expanse...

In this final chapel, the most holy of holies, 
I find a sanctum designed in the thrilling 
overkill of full baroque exuberance. 
The scented air hangs heavily, draping itself 
over two semi-circular arcs - two massive blocks 
of colourful stone highly inlaid and polished,
ornately carved framing a central 
well-lit altar in the scenery 
of this dramatically focused sight-line, 
in this cultivated theatre of the absurd.
On this balcony, forever hovering on the edge 
of these two grand showcases, a multitude 
of angelic host collectively gesticulate 
in the vague direction of this rather plain, 
less operatically styled and relatively
unfigured tableau consecrated with
the holy presence of this person himself
if in subtraction what remains 
is counted as not being absent.
But my sight becomes transfixed 
by this impressive vision  set in solid rock.
On either side in this double choir 
a certain number of these venerable, 
youth-filled personages are seated, 
others are left standing or almost in flight
frozen in a slice in time for all eternity.
But all are portrayed entranced in the deep 
painful-delights of this cosmic group-orgasm, 
putting putti to work filling in the gaps 
in this sexual throng of sex-less figures,
in this dissipation of seminal force,
this misspent tour de force in frothy, 
over sculptured effervescence...

Outside under the bright, white light 
of the sun, holding their breath 
before the sweet, liquid life of the night,
a row of cafes line the square 
catching tourists waiting for buses 
with the locals not so keen to hurry 
in this flurry of old world charm.
Fading echoes and shadows point towards 
the East as seen through the lens 
of that still vigorous merchant 
tramp and trader, that whore,
that influential nearby neighbour, 
that lovely, old lady that still wishes 
to be called la belle Venezia...

Returning there by local train, 
enshrined in this rather antiquated glass case 
I see myself looking at my reflection 
in the window looking out at the passing world,
this strange, still semi-antique land,
thankfully still left alone, unnoticed,
like one more rambling pilgrim-traveller
							in transit...

17. An Invitation To A Tennis Match (39)

Cheeky cherub,
still sweet sixteen 
going on nineteen,
a Greek-Turkish lad
in complexion
born in Alexandria,
speaking French,
an office-boy
working in Paris,
now on holidays
walking the streets 
in the south of France,
in this city of Nimes...

A few words spoken
in friendly salutation,
just a tennis racket 
held in his hand,
looking for a 
playful match...

Bouncing balls,
a perfect pair
in staggered 
synchronicity
on either side 
of a thin, tight line 
that passes for a net
dividing this court,
a floral field,
his dancing with shadows
still catching 
my admiring sight...

He looks back,
casts a love sick
glance my way again,
a lost innocence
in all but name.
He offers me 
an invitation
to work up some 
healthy sweat 
in competitive 
competition,
a conquest, alas,
already equally lost
in this unequal contest.
I smile and with a sigh
profess my non-acceptance
with the greatest
of reluctance, 
confess I'm too old 
for that game
but just happy 
to watch him play...

Happy to see
that my guardian angel
blessed me with his sight,
spoke to me,
so heavily impressed
was I by his
heavenly presence.
Till death 
I remain ordained, 
touched by this vision;
forever faithfully remembered 
this request delivered 
that late, hot
fateful afternoon
whilst on holidays
walking the streets 
in the south of France,
in that city of Nimes...

That ancient Roman town,
that for me still sleeps,
is still locked, embraced
in the sweat washed arms 
of one, long, wet,
siesta dream...

18. Some Souvenirs From Florence (40)

Some souvenirs from Florence,
or should one say `noble Firenze,'
that centerpiece of the renaissance?
Here some textual fragments
sedimented, poured into moulds
freshly re-impressed, freshly repaired,
receptacles of scattered memories,
miscellaneous translucent beads
run together and then re-threaded
one more time becoming through disuse 
a little worn, a trifle torn;
some sequences seemingly lost forever 
but always keeping their essential pattern;
coming alive, inspiring, reliving,
and breathing life back into 
their self-animated self-recollection...

First impressions met in a provincial
railway station improvised 
on a more human scale in comparison 
to that terminus at Rome.
There the quays and concourses
seemed to stretch on forever 
in a fog of restless people 
hassled and herded by the schedules
entabulated in computerized timetables,
so much so that in sudden haste
I settled for a restful stay in Florence
instead, remaining for the next two days, 
later followed by one more visit.
Within those decisive twenty minutes 
I was on my way again, continuing 
my journey from one long neglected Sicily.
A tired sleeplessness now gave way 
to a re-awakening of my spirits, soft 
visual variations on the Umbrian landscape
giving way to more subtle shades 
of a less settled, less unsettled,
more civilized Tuscan tonality.
Quixotic townships riding the hillocks
above the bends in rambling rivers,
low ranges of rolling mounds and mountains
decorated decorously with flashy forests,
farmlands flourishing in between
rounded at the edges by the customs
of antiquity, footprints of culture
engraved, encrusted on a thirsty pastoral
terrain re-enlivened with just enough
regularity in the fair, fine seasonal
sprinkling of the rains; here water 
being still something to be treasured 
but not hoarded and hidden away
like the accumulation of credit 
dammed up and secured behind
the granite walls of some rusty bank...

Comfortable lodgings were soon obtained
on the third floor of a friendly hotel
not too far from that helpful station
liberal in its maps and the details 
of this city's fairly frequent festivals.
This gave me ample time to visit that nearby
Santa Maria Novello, an impressive edifice,
well before the imposition of the siesta.
A broad fronted church in a local style, 
banded like a flattened wedding cake, 
its empty insides outfitted with 
wonderful gifts arranged along the walls 
like some reception thoughtfully displayed
in artfully crafted artefacts artistically 
designed, in this chamber all discreetly 
down played in the spread out greyness 
of an even self-illuminated darkness.
One fresco by Masaccio left unpainted, 
unblotted out, absolutely free to see, 
unsafely unprotected from the flashing lights 
of uncomprehending cameras freezing 
this moment in one more faded photo.
An unexpected cycle of frescos by Ghirlandaio
lovingly adorns a central alcove:-
earthly figures in celestial garments 
dyed in a dazzling richness built upon 
a profusion of purified pigments, 
all enraptured in fabulous theatrical poses 
performed by `angels' portrayed behind 
thin disguises, crowded crowd scenes 
filled with such interacting figures 
passing themselves off as `persons'
behind translucent masks depicted 
wearing biblical passions in 
ethereally idealized, individualized 
renaissance styled landscapes.
Shattered fragments by Giotto treasured
in one endarkened corner, stained glass
and sculpture highlight another,
like illuminated pages in a holy book,
imprints that enrich this treasury 
with illuminaries that patronized 
our European past, that for us can still
be seen formulating its distinctive essence..?

A museum on every corner, or so its seemed,
the streets lined with solid stone palazzi,
formidable residences in well cut blocks,
mere facades that often hid a sheer delight
in cool, controlled, well displayed luxury.
No longer `princely' homes they now house
various collections - paintings, sculptures,
perfumes, the latest fashion maisons, 
modern classic furniture consciously 
self-considered a la mode, glossy catalogues 
advertising the well-designed signatures of a 
floating, spreading, cultivated international culture.
Like the pages of magazines in haute couture
citizens walk with a style that doesn't let on
that they still see you although here no longer
with the longing eyes of seeming thieves 
for what has the poor tourist to give them 
in this gilded town that could compare, this city
re-invaginated with inventories of such substance,
a cornucopia of such fashioned articles, 
an established elegance, or so it seems..?

Poorer citizens relegated to the suburbs 
but positioned not too far away, pleasantly
bound in leafy deans and vales, past gardens
that surround rich villas creating villages
with village greens without parks within towns 
whose newer streets radiate like the branches 
of the ambling river Arno not too far away,
crossed and re-crossed a few times each day 
whilst I travel en route to my preference 
in the menu of ritualized routines that constitute, 
for me, my modest vision of an ideal coffee shop...

Near by the pretentious Santa Maria del Carmine
with its priceless side chapel of the Brancacci,
now a partitioned gallery in the pay of the state
paying off the painfully painstaking restoration
of an integrated collective master piece 
in the genre of the fresco, the wonderful work 
of Lippi, Masolino and the incomparable Masaccio
whose soul psychologically entertained 
the true psyche of his watching watchful figures,
exactly calculating the stance of their rhetorical
gestures frozen in that metaphorical flow of time...

Defying death the wealth of the prince lives on
in one magnificent mausoleum, the official 
resting place of the monarch, their wives 
and other close folk deserving less fame.
An oppressive, austere rounded shell lifted 
to a great height, a text richly inscribed
in inlaid stone of many timbres attached
to a rather ordinary church whose vaulted crypt
now serves to immortalize one Michalangelo
instead, through the marbles of his manufacture. 
In the Treasury above, along with the lavishly 
relished bones in ornate reliquaries
of many, many saints, stands a crucifix bejewelled
with the filaments of thirty-two more,
each one with its own window upon the world, 
a symbolic object cast in doubt,
that hoped to get it right at least once,
turning precious left-over cash into 
discarded spiritual power...

David stands simulated outside around the corner
from the Accademia where his real shadow now resides
besides being impressed on the face of every 
third or fourth postcard hawked around this town,
or exactly compressed in an ever present row
of identical statuettes, marble dust set in resin
standing six inches high or ten inches tall, or,
bigger still should you be pleased by such a purchase;
an image further echoed on the fair countenance 
of a few tourists from a more northern clime...

The Duomo - a beehive of action, its interior 
beneath the dome skilfully scaffolded,
a myriad of little lights lighting the sight
of busy workers re-stabilizing the cracks
in the massive weight of this now living home.
Below, are the bronze doors real or fake antique?
Certainly done in such metal, expertly crafted too,
artfully designed to hide the relative emptiness
on display in the darkness inside - the Baptistry's
mosaics richly counter-balancing this archival 
absence of a now treasury entrusted hijacking...

But then for safer keeping secular and religious 
paintings and works of art are now more kept 
behind the walls of lifeless palazzi;
uncared for and unloved, to be stared at 
for a few hours each day or blown away 
in the final dust storms of time;
like a slate the trace of intentionality 
is finally wiped clean, apparently
erased from all semblance of view, 
an inescapable date with destiny, 
only delayed and prolonged for a few?
The Ufizzi's long galleries looking 
more and more like the ancient wards 
of some modern hospital; two wings replete
with pictures stained with mottled, 
feather flaky pigments; only the odd 
portrait glowing with health, wounded 
marble torsos cracked and cancerous.
Rooms and passageways stuffed with terminal 
patients waiting for interminable 
life support systems framed in a faceless sea 
of entangled bureaucracy whose raison d'etre 
is not to be seen seeing unseen, unclean hands 
find those same hands in those pockets 
in those pockets of some other more elusive, 
pervasive fish fishing for more and more 
gaps through this same tightly-slackened net.
Where stood men of taste and breeding who once 
collected Greek and roman copies of copied statues 
ready to be once more re-sculptured again
now walk and talk officials who spend more time
closing innumerable salons of those lesser mortals,
those non-Italians who grace these fair walls, 
and those souls who should deserve less mention 
like the decadent genius of our infamous Caravagio.
Then, after transit through these many 
other doors I found, by chance, the exit 
more easily walked through, but, re-entering 
and re-climbing those flights of stone steps 
then experienced what had been sorely missed,
a roomful of Botticellis, alas, behind a wall 
of glass confronted by every conceivable 
illuminated reflection pin-pricking, pointing out
and overshadowing these truly brilliant 
and, for us today, still moving canvasses...

All that glitters is not just gold 
or silver or some polished jewel 
when sold on the Ponte Vecchio,
even the labels and price-tags glow
in the darkened confines of those small shops.
But collectors of such fine baubles take heart
these dealers take Bankcard or Visa, Diners,
a cheque, or cash, but no trade in, please,
however smart, unless that is, an unseemly 
obscene profit is not seen and heard by 
other cliental who might then, instead, 
wish that they too, in turn, could buy 
and sell...

You shall know them by the books they read, or,
better still, the libraries they keep company with.
The Biblioteca giving free entrance to all 
who come to admire the tomes on display 
from the collections of the great and mighty, 
magnificent princes, curt courtier with quick wit 
and sarcastic scholars of great wisdom and renown, translators the equal of their tracts in whose 
footsteps they have so faithfully re-mastered.
Here I saw texts well read and beloved by myself
of which the oldest copies were now on display
before me along with the illuminated pages 
that advertise the taste of such connoisseurs 
with the means to create and keep such unique 
specimens of their dreams for some of 
the care-filled time allotted to them...

A pleasant walk finds the late monastery of San Marco,
the usual courtyard and cells along with church 
and chapel, but with a treasury filled with Fra Angelico.
In oil and in tempura, in single scenes and multiple,
no mean fraction of this great artist's oeuvre,
only surpassed in exultation by his tranquil murals 
painted on the humble walls of the cells 
on the monastic floor above, this entire, huge 
section of building becoming one living volume.
An appointment with the mysteries of meditation,
a few moments spent in each small room by oneself,
obliging tourists leaving as you enter, your doing
the same in turn in this slow procession according
to this tacit, unspoken habit...

In Santa Croce filed away like locked up documents 
rests the remains of the once famous
and the famed still known by name.
There a portly prelate in a gigantic marble urn,
here a jealous zealot in a less spectacular coffin,
over there a scientist finally silenced through death,
over here a sculpture, a sculptor and an empty tomb,
more dead languish underfoot under tableaus worn down
daily by the shuffling disrespect of ten thousand feet.
On the wall resides that reputed servant of the devil,
Old Nick, Machiavelli himself, still embraced 
by mother church, safely interred encapsulated,
his provocative imprints upon the world still misread...

Here collected together again are some of my faintly 
recollected memories of this city of Florence, 
a Mecca for the pilgrims of Western Art, 
shadows that now find an exit in text, 
the excuse for the exercise of an exorcism 
that can only reinvest those traces of ghosts 
with the semblance of flesh, little touches, 
flashes of paint, echoing on the canvas 
of the imagination; a set of actors,
poor players playing for more time, 
for one more time, for one more day,
and before one more audience re-enacted..?

19. Tivoli (41)

My last two days in Europe
would be spent in Rome,
and of these the last full day
would be spent taking things 
in an easy fashion
in the environs of Tivoli...

...remembered taking tea 
in the Tivoli Tearooms; 
for such a meeting place
an oft repeated name;
such a genteel affair,
such a pleasant way
to quietly spend some time
relaxing in the unending 
company of good friends...

Well, I reasoned thus
that my last day should be 
spent peacefully, more resting,
seeing the sights from
the seat of a chair, or
in between short strolls
from the bus to the nearby view...

...taking things forever easily,
sampling the fine mountainous air, 
tasting pastries and sipping endless 
small cups of perfect coffee...

Or so it went in theory,
for in practice things took 
the usual twists and turns
and therein remained the same 
leaving me in the process
with a different tale to tell...

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

We took the train to Tivoli
and from our destination 
then took a local bus 
to the Villa of Hadrian, 
Villa Adriana, a place
quite misnamed for this `complex'
in effect was the summer palace 
for the government of Imperial Rome 
escaping the vapours of that
still congested, untidy city.
For three hours we visited
the baths, the ornamental lakes 
and island retreat, the remains 
of libraries, hostels, theatres,
catacombs for the servants,
temples, grottos, innumerable terraces,
high vaulted enclosures, etcetera.
In the reflected heat we were saved 
from this dazzling city by the mere fact 
that little marble cladding, 
in all its patterned perfection,
now remains having been looted 
and recycled for the decaying surfaces
of modern buildings dotted 
on the landscape for miles about.
One leftover stump of a replicated pillar 
for me symbolizing the intricacies 
of this artfully polished craft
and how well this site was preserved 
before the restoration of political power.
Waiting for the bus to return 
in the heated shade we now longed 
for a more sedate lifestyle...

...taking things forever easily,
sampling the fine mountainous air, 
tasting pastries and sipping endless 
small cups of perfect coffee...

The ancient township straddles
the damming of an ample mountain stream.
Some old churches adorn its wrinkled
quarters, in turn ornamented with
a fine deposition and the odd fresco or two.
In places streets became steps, elsewhere
hidden passage-ways created short cuts,
no one house ever quite the same 
as its neighbour; coats of arms 
and grand, crooked doorways signalling
the residences of the more wealthy.
The oldest market place presented
the finest of fresh produce;
juicy local peaches the current special
sold at mouth watering prices,
little shops selling spiced biscuits 
and many hundreds of other items
both small and not so small,
little laneways whose entrances 
remain bathed in enticing shadows,
locals and tourists mixing 
in the many, small bars...

...taking things forever easily,
sampling the fine mountainous air, 
tasting pastries and sipping endless 
small cups of perfect coffee...

But Tivoli is justly famous,
or rather, `infamous' for its gardens
like the Villa d'Este -
once the preserve of a clerical estate,
designed for some innovative cardinal
on the way further up and up
in that patronizing scheme of things 
and out to impress a distracted audience
with ten thousand more fountains 
and a thousand waterfalls,
and all manner of mythological devices 
for the spraying of playful water
abundantly refreshed and re-cycled.
He created a whole new style,
a new way of seeing nature, 
a formal machine pulsing 
to the breathing sighs of rushing water,
an organism integrated and organized 
in a series of terraced vistas 
harnessing pagan allusions as if 
these older gods were suddenly 
going out of fashion, 
now preserved for posterity
in this wonder-world of princely ambition,
in this underworld of papal dis-inhibition.
The ritual of entry is gained 
via a crumbling roadside villa, 
a frescoed palace without furnishings 
for a fee commensurate with 
the gravity of its now famous name, 
a cost no doubt too steep for 
the locals to pay who will
in all probability only visit here 
as school children discounted
in one massed orgy of a summer gathering. 
"So where does the money go," 
the tourist might well ask 
noting the innumerable fountains 
that looked as if they 
had never ever worked?
Perhaps those exorbitant fees were spent 
on the miles of mindless aluminium fencing 
placed in front of every working fountain, 
jet or simple spray as if such barriers 
would stop anyone sillier enough 
from going ahead and sampling the waters.
Perhaps those exorbitant fees were spent 
on that fine new tractor still left 
unworked upon the bottom 
of one uncleaned pond left emptied 
in the very center of this garden complex 
and forever visible from ten thousand 
scenic points of view, 
a machine waiting for a wash 
in the first decent splash 
in the still distant winter rains. 
Meanwhile sculptures crumple, 
grottos remain fenced off from 
a public wishing to be entranced 
by that fantastic make believe world 
of fairies and sprites; 
whose non-consumption is now sanatized 
by a few more miles of these mandatory, 
useless metal balustrades. 
No photo is complete 
without this compulsory frame,
alas, no photo can escape 
these obligatory rails,
bureaucratic encrustations 
on this landscape of fame!
Alas, a picture of neglect 
dissolving in a sea of debt,
hidden obligations spent 
chasing other criteria, 
a cancer without repair, 
without real care for the implicit 
trust of a public, a wider public 
that must now include international folk, 
and thus this lack of oversight
can now no longer remain 
merely one isolated simple affair. 
Easily I could imagine 
a more commercial life 
flowing back through the veins 
of this cultural icon,
giving back a rejuvenation 
to this garden currently suffering 
from such sore disintegration
and such rampant disrespect 
endemic in such disrepair -
discreet coffee shops 
tucked away in corners, 
or managed on terraces,
salvaging the sweet delights 
of this pastoral paradise, 
revitalizing the poor tourist 
who must pass up and down 
these infinite flights of stone steps
that mark out the progress 
of this constructed garden 
that should re-taste the spectre 
of these more earthly tendencies...

...taking things forever easily,
sampling the fine mountainous air, 
tasting pastries and sipping endless 
small cups of perfect coffee...

On the same hill, more or less,
stands the fabulous cultivated remains
of another famous papal garden,
the former Villa Gregoriana.
Here a steeper hillside ornamented
with lengthy paths and roomy grottos
and waterfalls with real pretensions.
A whole river dammed for such diversions!
A tunnel though the rock with more 
than enough water for many other visual 
delights to refresh this total vista.
Alas, many of these liquid follies 
now long since dissolved and departed
(like those organs hydraulically operated).
A more romantic landscape complete
with its own authentic Roman acropolis,
like a painting by Claude Gellée
(two small temples - one round and one square
now visited by the kind permission
of one perfectly placed restaurant).
In this park the poor tourist 
is set loose to wander all the way 
down these windy mountain tracks
to the secret glens and groves below 
and then re-make their slow ascent
to this ancient township above
waiting with those shops serving 
refreshments that really give 
this place the notoriety 
of its well deserved 
name and fame...

...taking things forever easily,
sampling the fine mountainous air, 
tasting pastries and sipping endless 
small cups of perfect coffee,
and, if you can find it here,
those larger vessels filled with 
a more civilized light black tea
that give these cool seated courts 
open to the shaded air 
that simple name of "Tivoli."

20. The Miracle Of Lourdes (42)

A rugged, charming, mountainous village
on the confluence of fresh, white-water, rocky streams,
supervized and fortified by a castellated rock,
the shambles of a frontier town re-placed on the map
through the celestial communications that firm belief 
declares took place in the visionary intercourse 
between two young venerable virgins, venerated 
for their compassionate intercessions discharged 
on the behalf of the forever vulnerable...

Here before me I witness the miracle of Lourdes...

Thankfully the long street of souvenirs sellers
is locked outside the gate to the park
whose church is crowned and anointed
with domes and spires and steps and arches
in an edifice that illuminates and illustrates,
in sculptures, paintings, frescoes and mosaics,
the powers of prophecy and spontaneous healing.
All is associated with that convenient spring seeping
beneath, beside the river, in a cramped grotto 
crowded with the continual movement of the sick 
and the lame; assisted wheelchairs for the old 
being afterwards joyfully traded for rested feet
by those folk just recently blessed by the touch 
of these now tap collected waters...

Here before me I witness the miracle of Lourdes...

Long queues of the needy and the not so needy,
those present and those sent by proxy,
every second a thousand prayers are petitioned 
and thought answered in some mysterious way.
Here no institutionalized machinations
of the medical model, an assisted `do it yourself,'
a recognition of one's dis-ease,
a re-cognition of one's disease,
naming these devils incarnate in human existence,
sending them on their way by nominating them.
Would that real life could be so simple..?

Here before me I witness the miracle of Lourdes...

How deep and devious the labyrinth that undermines
the superficial semblance of a rational condition.
Despite the indoctrinations of a massed, multi-media
internationalized, homogenized, that marginalizes
the enslaved audiences of this modern world,
we still note the sacred teachings of our ancestors -
a proud pagan folk who revelled in visionary voices,
in virginal goddesses pregnant with unspilt virtues,
in sacred caves dripping with healings vapours, 
in the force of contracts compacted in pilgrimages,
in the power of prayers enacted in sacrifices;
no gift too great or small to encourage the numinous
to suspend the odd law of physics, letting us 
at the same time forget that the sole course 
of corporeal nature results in one inescapable death...

Here before me I witness the miracle of Lourdes...

21. Swiss Chocolates: One Ideal Day Spent Traveling (43)

It was early morning 
as I entered Switzerland.
In the moonlight had seen
that Austrian valley
become deeper and deeper
and now the views and vistas
looked like those antiquated
boxes of chocolates with those
classic-romantic alpine scenes.
Soaring peaks, pine trees,
lakes with surfaces
like looking glasses, 
villages with sprinkled frosting, 
church spires, antique castles, 
falling creeks, rocky gorges
and jagged crags,
meadows forever green...

Nowadays boxes of chocolates
have a more Gothic, gilded look;
brand name in bold italics,
lids dipped in metallic ink
or perhaps minted 
on a subdued cream, 
tightly enwrapped
in a shiny cellophane,
a quality product 
proudly presented 
through slick packaging...

Swiss perfection,
everything in its place,
all neat and tidy 
with just the merest hint,
a misted tinge 
of a polished decay
in a worn patina
indicating a long,
ongoing history
spent restoring itself,
politically insulated
from the brutal wars
that raged around it...

The train speeds along 
the Zürichersee, the lake
upon which is situated
one very urbane Zurich.
Religiously mixed,
and architecturally 
an indecisive hybrid -
art deco, medieval,
tastefully modern,
a maze of little shops
selling antiquarian books 
and choice antiques
behind broad rows sporting
those great firsthand names
in fashionable chic.
One railway station
re-interpreted for the future
and functioning like 
those well-drilled timetables
that one could safely 
wager one's life upon...

Not far away, above the lake
and connected by tram,
stands one provincial museum
set in an established park,
the former grounds 
of a wealthy patron
who had exquisite sensitivity
and the means to gather together 
in style a collection 
of oriental art still 
tastefully presented.
Take a perfect specimen
and repeat five times
when and where possible
and then blend other artefacts
from the same era and culture
to tell a silent story,
re-present those elite voices
stated through the hands
of well-crafted artisans
steeped in the totality
of their mutual traditions...
 
Took the train to Basel,
let the countryside rush past,
an orderly succession 
of forests and farms,
townships neatly encapsulated
correctly within the ambit 
of their own boundaries...

Sweet Basel, meandering lanes,
broad avenues, a Protestant flavour
with a penchant for disorder
seeping safely through
those areas relegated 
for more modern fare.
On many corners fountains
for the distribution
of fresh, sparkling waters...

Attend the Museum for instruments,
then hear a Silbermann organ,
its clarified throat
vibrating in the flesh,
massaging those wooden, stiff,
straight backed pews,
skilfully played in a church
that now prizes above all else
the remaining fragments 
of frescos beneath 
fallen, whitewashed pieces 
of historically forgotten plaster...

Travel to Bern, engage
a physicist in string theory,
forget the scenery
for the intellectual delights
of a world pulled inside out...

An ordered, hardworking town,
the non-catholic cathedral
treasuring the remnants
from its catholic past,
its streets filled with
old fashioned, wholesome smells,
its market fall of fruits 
and vegetables from Italy
with prices to match 
the mountainous terrain 
not too far away...

Take an afternoon train to Lucerne -
a multi-faceted gem 
set upon a spectacular lake,
soaring mountains on its edge
clasping this fantastic jewel
of a town with a thousand towers
and spires all engraved on 
this horizon that spans a river
joined by a wooden bridge
wearing an all-weather roof.
Baroque churches internally
even more ornate, gilded
with fine marbles and granites,
carvings and sculptures
surmounted with modestly chested
organs blending in with this decor,
aurally celebrating a faith
without the visible signs
of an awesome austerity...

Return to Zurich,
and perceive its 
a Friday evening.
Working folk, more young 
than old, wander the streets,
entertain themselves
in street theatre,
all manner of displays,
juggling, music, politics.
A few brave same sex couples 
are found holding hands 
or walk arm and arm 
like their Italian 
brothers and sisters
without the import, alas, 
of their fine coffee.
But the streets are lined 
with restaurant and cafe tables,
the pubs are alive with music
and the sounds of laughter,
the entertainers do a good trade
and don't go home empty handed.
Take a simple meal,
with juice and black tea
rounded off with some 
added, smuggled chocolate,
the very best this very same town 
might make and trade;
could sell and buy...

The air cools only a little
and to a nearby hotel,
on a fourth floor
above the muted sounds 
of such mirth, end the day 
in the warmth of a shared bed
pleasantly dreaming 
of trains and travel...

22. Postcards From Malta (44 - 67)

1. Let me send and deliver
some postcards from Malta -
silent words - spoken thoughts,
impressions of a rocky isle, or two,
under a hot Mediterranean sun, 
now on its own feet, now finding
its own way in this world,
out celebrating the temperature
of its own, heated, home-grown,
fiery brand of publicity
that advertizes its own
version of a televized 
parliamentary democracy...

2. Sicily is only so many miles away
although the ferries charge quite a fee.
From its higher, southern parts 
Malta can even be seen on those rare days
when the Mediterranean is without
the blur of its near ubiquitous heat haze.
But the contrast is now even greater:
a noble race ruled by corruption,
down trodden, poor, powerless and trapped
versus a noble corruption in a race
playing hide and seek with 
the cost of those expenses
that must never be made too public...

3. Stone walls, walls of stone,
dressed or left undressed,
old or new, whitewashed or left
to weather back to the rock
from which they came from.
One vast acropolis, multi-layered,
contoured with domed churches
proudly advertizing the existence
of their village, suburb or city;
the magnificence of such an edifice
standing in direct proportion
to the reality of the relative poverty 
present in that part of town...

4. Valetta is nearly an island peninsular
wrapped and fortified behind
the formation of high battlements.
Straight, steep streets criss-cross
at right-angles, tall apartments
with narrowly enclosed balconies 
and shutters regulate and confine
the real width of these well paved roads.
Little shops punctuate their foundations,
more frequently on the higher parts
of this courteous, chivalrous town,
a city built by desperate knights 
out defending a faith translated 
into the loud silence of a testimony 
stated and re-stated through
the towering presence of 
such taunting stone...

5. Other ramparts followed suit -
Three Cities, Medina-Rabat, 
coastal forts, the capital of Gozo;
inhabitations with a density
that only later spilled out 
into the configuration 
of tight-knit suburbs woven 
around church and village square,
a theme and variation 
repeated without relief
but with a subtlety that defies 
the monotony of all modern belief...

6. The cathedral from the outside
is rather low and austere
but inside is elaborately decorated
with a row of connecting 
national chapels down either side.
The patrons forming the apparent
congregation are requested not to be
undressed like the tourists
who have their visits politely curtailed.
The double organs look authentic
but are propelled and played
from an electric keyboard
like the lighting.
The singing of the small choir
was most tasteful and beautiful.
Hanging suspended above 
the central steps to the altar 
and lowered from the ceiling
floats an ornate silver lamp
inset with cherry red venetian glass,
exquisite and quite transcendental.
In another series of side galleries
the well filled museum 
is displayed with some style.
Alas, the one enormous Caravagio
is too well varnished,
is lit too darkly 
and is too far distant
to be properly seen.
Sometimes we are more impressed 
by the small or the sudden
or the perfectly appropriate
rather than the conveyed magnification
of that intended to be seen 
as magnificent...

7. The round, open air bus station
before the travesty of Valleta's modern gates
likewise leaves much to be desired.
The painted numbers for the buses
on the tar sealed pavement
are melted and twisted beyond recognition,
the conveniences are falling down,
the temporary booths for the vendors
look permanently dishevelled,
the telephones rarely work.
But the bus service is what you pay for
and the rickety, ramshackled vehicles
give good value for the small price
of the fare requested and on this island
can take you almost anywhere...

8. Medina-Rabat stands on a central 
rocky knoll, a walled city, 
a Maltese world in miniature;
cathedral, churches, convents,
mansions, museums, monuments,
grottos, Roman mosaic remains, 
fragments of saints, hard-working folk,
palaces and corner shops, 
even a dusty tennis court laid out 
on the bridged floor of the moat
along with an orchard growing
almonds and small furry peaches
still too green to eat...

9. Out in a gentle, dry valley 
among the fields the Roman sauna 
had communal toilets, civilized seats 
set out in a small room in the shape
of a square, a place to drop in
for a chat besides the hot rooms, 
cold rooms, a place to bathe,
a place for servants to scrape you down,
tables for a meal, a menu of gossip
and intrigue that, I am sure,
would here leave nothing new 
under that same sun...

10. Then came, a little later, the Arabs;
warriors also with a fighting faith.
But the returning Catholics 
left not a trace behind 
other than in the fact 
that in their prayers 
they still praise 
and pray to one 
almighty 
Allah..!

11. The second island of Gozo,
is more Maltese than Malta,
a microcosm of the tensions
that furrow this ancient terrain.
Where the rich inhabitants
have holiday homes,
in effect overseas.
Here, the best lace is sold,
near token beaches.
Further up, on one rounded plateau,
live model villages 
with the highest of churches,
heavenly edifices that can be seen 
even before you are transported
by that ferry heavily laden
with the locust-like intensity
of international tourists...

12. A local singer overheard 
spins out an oriental melisma,
the voice rises and falls
in an ancient pattern
rich in Arabic intonation.
For me these resonances
are hard to perceive,
but pleasant to grasp.
The song continues unaware
that its sinuous lines 
only faintly convey
the longing desires
it seems to so patiently
live with and bear...

13. On some summer nights
a mysterious mist
saunters over the pavement
with the passing touch 
of a longed for moisture.
The air glistens with a sheen
subtle and elusive,
a mere simulation 
of winter rain,
like the fleeting vapours 
in a bathroom here
after a modest shower...

14. In a series of corralled 
sacred stone circles
roofless under the sun
stands the Mother Goddess,
and all she does is stand,
thick and squat, chopped off
below the waist, a shadow
of her former self,
an impression of presence,
a numinous matron filled 
with warm foreboding...

15. In words and images,
in thought and 
through models,
through the open air 
plans of other sites
I visited by proxy 
the Hypogeum,
alas, kept closed
for that length of time
between my two visits...

16. Never take a taxi, I am told,
they might cost the earth!
Instead, look for a bus,
never too far away.
A mobile shrine on wheels,
an altar or an image
near the driver,
pictures of the saints,
some magical signs or amulets,
additional insurance for safety,
and sometimes a pin up or two
like the eternal image 
of one very sexy
Marilyn Munroe;
surely a divine star 
in that constellation 
of the cinema...

17. The rows of houses 
are individually quite narrow,
often only a front window and a door;
the latter always open 
with the lady of the house  
patiently waiting there 
in a rostered attendance,
watching how the neighbours
might come and go.
Although not too wide inside 
there is often ample space,
a marble staircase or two,
many long rooms and outside, 
at the back, a little dusty courtyard
with a lemon tree, or, sturdy foliage
that gives forth some other fruit.
Most of these residences are named,
baptized with some allusion 
from Christian mythology
and on the windowsill is often found 
an image of that said saint,
or a porcelain pair of pink pussycats,
or a lovely painted dish,
or some nice thing more exotic
like a four armed Shiva, or Kali, 
waiting for unwitting homage 
from some admiring passerby...

18. Cake shops are few and far between
but like the omnipresent corner shop 
will probably sell either
dry, sickly, artificial cream cakes
about to crumble on your plate,
or, a wide variety of soft biscuits
sporting the same universal flavour
heavily impregnated with the essence 
of almond, overpowering in the taste
of its forever lingering afterglow...

19. The Maltese never know a dull moment
or a quiet one for that matter,
any day and every day celebrates
the feast day of some saint or other.
Festivities in fireworks and local bands,
impressing on nearby suburbs and towns
that their saint has real prestige,
the citizens happy to reflect this status
as they disturb the dead for miles around...

20. Valetta still has an Opera House,
or at least the space for the same,
in the shattered shell of its former frame,
battered by bombs in the Second World War,
an excuse for a car park that might one day
come alive to the captivating sounds 
of a cultivated singing...

21. Parks here are simple spaces 
with a few trees and a few seats,
weed encrusted dusty places,
too hot by day but well visited by night,
with a few trees and a few seats
and a few lovers holding hands
while others in the shadows make love 
in the darkness just out of sight...

22. Wealthy people once had fields and cows,
now they have shares and fixed-term deposits
or semi-high rise hotels looking over 
that rocky beach around the coasts off Sliema.
People pretending to be wealthy wear
multi-bands of gold around their necks,
and around their arms and fingers.
Well off people seem to wear a different band
each day much to the annoyance of neighbours
who can only flash their paid up lay-buys.
The not so well off give tokens in gold
or ingot key-rings that look like the real thing
and drive custom agents beyond the realms of all sanity.
But the truly wealthy fly away, just fly away, fly away
and only come back home (to die) in the autumn or spring,
like those flocks of migrating birds happy to be only passing through, just passing through, passing though;
although forever longing to be passing through, 
forever longing, longing to be passing through...

23. The poor tourist, alas,
is wined and dined in town
on more international fare.
But with a local guide 
they might have been shown
those fried figs in heated waffles,
those special cheeses from Gozo,
those rare in house wines,
those hearty wholesome breads,
those soups both thin and thick,
those pastas with Maltese flavours,
those special honeys from the past
from the flowers and herbs that populate
the fields and tops of cliffs
and clothe them in colours of lime,
butter yellow and poppy red
and the lingering sweet smells 
of a heated thyme...

24. Memories of white-washed walls
flashing brilliantly in the sunshine,
the smell of a horse impregnated dust
on the meandering streets of villages
that would baffle the minds of town-planners 
and leave them green with envy.
Traces of history not given a second glance,
the embrace of modern baroque churches 
going for broke like temple mounds 
above an eternal landscape of houses,
walled cities from the past with 
widened gateways that permit the traveller
to enter, to rest, to wander and watch
the ways of a world not yet quite lost
to the blanket mentality of the West
going west, a half-proud realm 
without a sovereign, still half eastern
and too independent to slip too far behind,
to slip too far beneath this sea, 
this sea in the midst of pax Americana, 
this peace that calms this Mediterranean lake.
This piece of the Mediterranean
under a blue-skied sun that stuns 
all but the most restless of those tourists;
lost souls without those all seeing eyes 
that would let them see
how this culture breaths and sighs
to the distinct sounds of a different tune,
how this culture breaths and sighs
to the distant sounds of a different tune...

23. The Flight Home: Simulation Through Repetition (68)

Beneath the plane, below, a shrivelled world,
all space and time shrunken and warped,
the long horizon bent back like a bow.
Soon, the blue gradations of the Aegean,
indented coastlines re-outlined in white, 
then the rugged, cold mountains of the Turks
followed by the endless repetition 
in desiccated deserts, seamless joins
producing political frontiers, 
somewhere first Iraq, then Iran, later 
an Afghanistan still at war within 
itself, each eroded valley in time
eventually connected downstream
or lost in the dry dust of flat basins.
The plains of India now reappear,
a loose conglomeration of round moulds
spreading like a slow, lymph-noded cancer,
townships upon the twisted, shallow paths
of snaking rivers, each course postponing
its final cessation in that burnt sea
stained a bright, brick red by the lose of blood
from a wounded sun sinking in the sad
sunset out across the bay from Burma.
In the deep, purple darkness of the night
we land in Thailand, take some exercise
in the unending passageways that make
this locked terminal more like a sealed gym,
air-conditioned from tropical weather.
Then rush to make another connection
without our baggage, which we saw again
in Sydney two days later; an event
which signalled one last, final end, or reprise,
to our nomadically travelling 
those western lands, far, far away, overseas!?