The Chasm

Some have held (regretfully) that when our god
(Or gods) turns his/her or their face
From the world, horror occurs.  Innocence is sod-
den with the blood of massacres, as fledgling nations are efface-
d and cast into that sudden, inexplicable chasm of aban-
donment.  Then, confronted by this negative theoph-
any, all the saintliest impetrations on earth
Or in heaven – even from a Jesus, an Isis, a Gan-
esh, a Prometheus or a Mohammed the Proph-
et – are (or so these exegetes maintain) worth
Not a jot.  I wouldn't presume to judge; but
I can say that when a nugatory father is lax
For a second, his child can be hurt – bruised or cut – 
That quotidian tragedy does happen behind our backs.

(19.6.1997)

“to proto alouminocarto”

“You will already know 1002
Other uses for Sanitas...” the wily
Hellenic marketing exec softly coo-
s.  And it is true: it did indeed prove highly
Handy in our London kitchen, that roll we brought
Back from the hillside flat in Kioni, and which cost
860 drachmas when it was bought
From the village shop.  But never will it have crossed
The mind of that modern teller of tales
The 1003rd: as synecdoche, reminding
Us how, at dusk, at the end of his toil,
Helios bent over Levkas towards the mainland vales
Of night, and turned the Ionian Sea into a blinding
Sheet, a fiery surface of shook foil.

(18.6.1997)

Centre Point

We sat, passive world-watchers, in the Touch-
down Café at the top of a litter-filled Tottenham Court
Road.  Opposite reared up the much-
bruited “modernist masterpiece” – thought 
By many to be devoid of inhabitants bar
A haughty CBI and a gaggle of homeless deep
In its unlovely bowels.  Between us, on the pavements, as far
As the falcon’s eye can see, teem the peop-
le: a blue-skinned African with passionate eyes;
A girl (half-Japanese), translucent in the sun;
A shaggy derelict, with a scab on his head like a prize;
A Latvian punk slouching around for fun.
Here is a turning-point, where the centre cannot hold;
But this time, it’s good, for we are so weary and old.

(16.6.1997)

In Transit

Arriving, I found a queue in the gardens, and so ob-
viously joined it.  A pasty, spotty, crop-haired youth
With a rifle (the special essence and limit of whose job 
Was to block admittance to the Vilnius consulate uncouth-
ly) gestured with a thumb towards an office.  Here,
I waited, before being called to fill
In some Cyrillic forms, passing on to a counter (mere-
ly to obtain a stamp) and then proceeding to the cashier's till
Where I would pay (outrageously) for the visa.  But first, what
I needed was a photo; so upstairs, past unravell-
ing electrics, to a babushka with a Polaroid who put the fin-
ishing touches to this epic of the Byelorussian state.  Not
That I was asking much: just to travel
Through a country I was already technically in.

(16.6.1997)