Penelokan

Out of Ubud the long straight road
To Penelokan is a good fifty miles of up,
Until the town itself, precariously stowed
On the lip of the huge crater’s deep cup.
In the centre, the still-smouldering cone
Of the live volcano; to the right, a blue cres-
cent moon-shaped lake, and to the left, black stone-
cold lava in a sheet.  A site of paradise, no less.
I gazed; and could have gawped more, had
A local boy not tried (“Only look...”) to eke
Out a life by selling me his gew-gaws.  I cussed
Him away, rude and imperious.  This was a bad
Move: clouds fell over the valley and peak
Like a circular shroud.  The Balinese gods are just.

(29.7.1997)

The Tragedy Of...

Since it brings ill-luck to name it, let’s
Say I am like the monarch of the Scottish Play:
No matter how fair (or foul) it gets,
I pace out my life from day to day,
Happily revelling in each present and motley delight.
I should be weaponed up on my battlements, scan-
ning for the wood that will come, the great might
That may prevail.  Yet I’d be more than a man
Had I the mettle and valour enough to see
Off the ultimate army – a fearsome, ancient en-
emy that affords us neither hope nor mercy – composed of three
Hateful witches called How, Where and When.
In the end, I can only wait, an impotent Macbeth
(Whoops, I said it), to be toppled by that varlet Death.

(23.7.1997)

Surabaya Johnny

Surabaya airport, Java.  The date
Doesn’t matter.  I first noticed the man
As he puckered and sucked his smouldering Havana with a great
To-do, sat back and proceeded to fan
Himself with an battered old copy of the thoughts of The Great
Helmsman.  He wore a linen suit and tan
Shoes, had hair en brosse and a face whose state
Flickered between weariness and wiliness.  But this is a sham.
What I saw was an Asian woman, aglow
With love as she dropped water with undiminish-
ed patience into the eyes of her stone-still child.  (And so,
- Ta-da! - the sonnet’s obligatory couplet to finish:)
In the light of that mother for whom her son was so bonny,
What am I, but some Surabaya Johnny?

(21.7.1997)

Golden Oldies

It’s a sure-fire hit with the general pub-
lic when the bug-eyed monsters descend from their improbably rough-
looking flying saucers and proceed, not to rub
Out the primitive earthlings, but to take the very stuff
And essence of their minds and to convert it into a small,
Friable icosahedron to take back
Home as a witty souvenir.  And it isn’t at all
Far-fetched.  As a mundane routine I stack
Up every digital word I have written, and the data
And tools I need for those I one day may pen,
On a single, shining CD-ROM.  Greater
Compilations than mine galactically man-
y have made; but I’m over the moon that when dull and old
A young, alien me lives immortal in gold.

(20.7.1997)

Herd And Scene

Did Herr Foreign Minister Wolfgang Schüssel really
Call the Bundesbank’s boss a “right old sow”?
The leading Austrian weekly magazine spent nearly
Ten pages going royally (and imperially) to tow
-n on the subject, as it weighed this, and pondered that,
In an orgy of Viennese navel-gazing.  Whether you
Know about the bores in question is simply a matt
-er of herd: ours (oh!) or theirs (who?).
This is yesterday’s News, nothing less
Than history – itself just grubby local tittle-
tattle where meaning is farrowed only later, when the mess
Has cut its cord to the past, and been cleaned up a little;
Then base “Did you hear?”s and “Did you see?”s
Become, behind the scenes, pigging Thucydides.

(19.7.1997)

In Mozart’s Garden

Act four, scene three: a rich,
Intricate landscape.  Figaro enters in a cloak,
Bearing a lantern.  Dark is the night in which
All find themselves, when, to the sound of a broke-
n chord, masks are dropped, hands touch
And hearts are mended.  After the torments of this Mad
Day, its folly and caprices, the confusion of much
Else besides identities, it is time we bade
Farewell and lit the fireworks.  Let us hasten 
Then, friends, to the dance, to the game, content
In our hard-won knowledge of the need for mutual pardon;
For thus we shall be cherished (if chasten-
ed), as we follow the beat of the march transcendent-
al, at eve, in Mozart’s evergreen, D major garden.

(18.7.1997)

“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)

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)

Ubi Sunt?

Where am I, then?  Pilies gat-
ve, Daukanto aikšte... broad, empty streets,
Delapidated rococo palaces, poor squat
houses (lop-sided and crumbling), feats
Of stucco-work hidden behind soaring white
Northern baroque facades.  Up on the Toom-
pea, down Kohtu and the long Pikk Jalg...tight
Cobbled alleys, walls of ochre, a dome,
Towers and turrets visible over gird-
ling battlements.  So where can I be?  In fact,
Vilnius and Tallinn, though in a way you’d not have erred
Much guessing Buda or Prague.  But, to be exact, 
These Baltic capitals lie centuries further back,
Offering all that the others – and we – sadly now lack.

(3.4.1997)

Maths, Murgatroyd And Murder

A Saturday.  Maths (of course) the first class
For VIc.  Multiplying the times he has done
So, Mr Kerman checks the roll-call, pass-
ing down the exiguous set of unknowns.  Only one 
Name has to be subtracted: Alan Mur-
gatroyd.  Off sick is the number he
And his mates have hashed together.  But with too-per-
fect rigour, as if a step axiomatic to the nth degree, 
I add: “Up at the Albert Hall, sir, queu-
ing for the Proms.” Decades after, I gather he’s died
In an easily avoided car smash.  I calculate if those few
Seconds and their centimetres had counted, if I was the divide.
For at root, however well or badly we behave,
The sums of our actions are those we will kill or save.

(31.3.1997)

Nostalghia For Bagno Vignoni

The Piazza d’Acqua.  Andrej Tarkovsky came
Here, rhyming with his creation Gortchakov (a poet
Like his father), who, in turn, would stroll the same
Time-worn locations, brought (and misled, so it
Seems) by the guide Eugenia, following in the foot-
steps of his compatriot, an eighteenth-century composer, un-
named.  The home-sick writer finds himself put
On the spot by the lunatic Domenico: he is the one
Who must bear across the waters a lit candle to save
The world – and himself.  The ersatz biographer at last
Traverses the almost-empty baths’ wet pav-
ing, and somehow regains Mother Russia, and his past.
No such tangled plot drove us to the square;
And unlike others we walked on air.

(29.3.1997)

Sailing To Tuonela

Arriving at the terminal hall of the western docks
In Helsinki, I entered into limbo.  I thought
I’d hop on the early boat to Tallinn, but flocks
Of Finns, obviously on the razzle, had already bought
Up every ticket.  Weirdly, they milled around
With empty suitcases and holdalls, rather as though
For a stay that did not require clothes.  I found
A place just before departure.  So
Lucky, it seemed – until I boarded what
Turned out to be a ship of fools, packed to the gunwhales
With merrymakers drinking like there was no tomorrow.  Blunder-
ing outside, I saw in the distance a dazzling spot
Amidst the morning’s night: a swan, circling over the funnels
Of a vessel – also full, but fathoms under.

(28.3.97)

The Distance

A lad, apt for nonsense and foolish acts,
I walked (alone) a new-found city, along a road
(The fifth) of Heaven and Hell – or so, when taxed
To name it, the natives had me believe.  Bestowed
(At first) with massy civic monuments
Of classic and rococo cast, sudden there came
A switch, as stark as white to black. Hence-
forth, a dismal view of dwellings, shame-
fully neglected, decrepit, the people poor, down-
Trodden, sad.  And as I passed among
Them, most fixedly at me nigh all the town
Did stare.  Then, a lady of pitying mien and young,
Said: “You do know you're in Harlem...?”  And I was much
Amazed: for I’d heard that day not a word of Dutch.

(27.3.1997)

No. 1

Serried ranks of smelly old men
In dubious raincoats had fingered repeatedly
The plastic cover of this by-now ven-
erable copy from the Epsom public library
Gramophone collection — or so it seemed
To this pasty and prim 1970s ad-
olescent.  A shot of the Hungarian Quartet gleamed
Weakly from the dust-jacket front, a bad
And blurred duotone; and on the back,
Ponderous pontifications — long,
Enjambed.  But when I heard the cello’s four
Rising notes to heaven, I knew I was smack
Bang in the middle of the cleanest, most lucid and strong
Classical music ever to hit a score.

(5.1.1997)

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.

(28.9.96)

The Legacy Of Odysseus

The famous ‘Cave of the Nymphs’, where Ulysses hid
His accumulated wealth on waking in Ithaca, we did
Not see.  Nor, in Stavros, could we locate
The remains of his palace (not that great,
By all accounts).  Laertes’ Farm we saw;
Basically olive trees, some stones and nothing more.
Polis, too, we found – a glorious place.
But of ancient sunken cities, not a trace.
And yet this was his isle.  Rocky,
And double-humped, every inch of this land
Is his, while a glance to sea always gives
The feeling he has just, at last, arrived.  His stocky,
Unmistakeable frame, and his crafty hand
Are manifest in every village.  Odysseus lives.

(31.8.96)

The Game

“Father, let us play.”  A fearful old
Potentate among dulling perfumes and fans,
I think of all that I had bartered and sold
To reap the acme and nadir of every man’s
Life (the sweat of bullocks trudging through the mud
Of the patchwork paddy-fields, the maiden’s modest blush
As ochre skin turns to scarlet flood).
“With what and how shall we play?” I ask in the hush
That has lasted too long.  “It is easy, my father:
Give me but something, even the merest toy.”
“But alas, my son, I have nothing,” I parry, “ – or rather,
What I had is already yours, my dearest boy.”
“O sir, I know that your mighty bullocks have ploughed,
And your fair maidens threshed... ” (my head bowed

Slightly, I wait for what comes next
As a condemned man expects the swinging blade) 
“Go on,” I say, as if reciting a text
Already written, a part that must be played.
“And so, my generous lord,” – here, he smiles – 
“All I ask are a few seeds of rice.”
Like a fool, I laugh, trying to fathom the wiles
That lie behind.  “And the game, my son?”  And in a trice
He says, “ – Just this: place one grain on the first
Square of a chessboard; two grains
On the second, and double to the end – a little thing.”
I assent, and order my slaves –  though fearing the worst –  
To begin.  The child sings, and such strange refrains:
“Checkmate, the shah is dead: long live the king....”

(31.8.1996)

A Classic

The problem, then, facing the Greek pol-
eis – those on the mainland, but excluding Sparta through its lack
Of appropriate traditions, on the islands, and among the col-
onies found to the far West and along the Black
Sea coast – was this.  Having created
The basic elements of the classical temple, it proved
Impossible to reconcile them completely.  Stated
Simply, either the extreme triglyphs were moved
Past the centre of the columns, or the latter stood
Proud of the former, leading to an ungain-
ly overhang.  Some said symmetry should never
Be sacrificed; others, though, held good
Design meant following function; all maintain-
ed the end-result should be a possession for ever.

(28.8.96)

The Greeks In The East

Nobody buys food in Venice: there are no
Corner shops or supermarkets in the city.
Nor do people live here: go
To a doorway and you find only hotels.  But pretty
Well the world is an artist, to judge at least
By the galleries and museums found at every turn.
Hardly moribund, each summer this carneval feast
Of non-physical nourishment must spurn
Its visitors for simple lack of space.  Could 
This be the sinking West’s future: to make
A glorious exhibition of itself?  If so, we should
Not talk of loser or coloniser, since this is a game of take
And mutual take.  Look at St Mark’s Square:
Half the Japanese nation is happy to be there.

(19.8.96)

The Greeks In The West

Back to the Palazzo Grassi, this time
To see ‘The Greeks in the West’.  At first, I’d not
Intended to go: it hardly sounded prime
Viewing – some sandstone fragments, a pale pot
Or two.  But there, re-oriented, it dawned on me
And my muddled, senescent brain what a colossal show
This was.  It supplied, through a lucid exege-
sis in the best tradition, a sense of how what we know
As the Classical was forged – from the origin of the Doric
To the perfecting of the temple’s majestic hexastyle.
Moreover, each room directed my attention
To the inescapable fact that much of this historic
Achievement was the work of the margins: while
Athens fiddled, the colonies burned with invention.

(19.8.96)

Odyssey

The saga began at an unspeakable hour of the day
When we left London and took a taxi-cab
Down to Gatwick.  From there, half-way
Across Europe to Cephalonia airport, to grab
An oven-hot coach and begin a journey straight
Out of fable.  First, the city of Argostoli,
And its impossibly narrow streets.  Undulat-
ing like an eel, our bus moved on to worse folly,
Negotiating the goat-track roads that cling
To the curves of the unsayably beautiful head-
lands and turquoise bays delimiting the isle, to bring
Us to Fiscardo.  From the quay, we gingerly thread-
ed our way along the ship’s gang-plank to embark
On the short last leg of our voyage.  But hark....

(16.8.96)

Echt Oder?

Download audio file read by Glyn Moody.

I linger in the Rosenkavalier restaurant,
Eat goulash soup and Wiener schnitzel, sip
Hundertwaßer’s mineral water.  Want-
ing are only the strains of the marvellous yet mindless trip-
le-time lilt of Johann Strauß’s Blue Danube waltz 
To make me feel rather too close to the heart
Of the unbearably kitsch in Österreich, of the cloying and false.
Yet just here really is the barycentre, the start
Of all the Gaßen in Mitteleuropa.  This place,
A mezzanine in the Südbahnhof, is station-
ed between the east and south platforms; deft
Migrations of peoples across this anonymous space
Route them back to every ex-nation
Of the Royal and Imperial.  Austria is what is left.

(10.8.96)

Lake Look-alikes

Download audio file read by Glyn Moody.

In the depths of the summer doldrums, when the atmosphere
Hangs heavy like an old, bedouin blanket, then
It is skin-still.  Often, its waters appear
To seep upwards, infinite diffuse ten-
tacles that suck down air and soak in light
Until the other shore is quite smeared away,
And what was a lake, to the too-credulous sight
Seems a boundless sea.  Sometimes, on a day
Of clouds and wind and rain, its back rucks
To jagged-edged waves, as if, in jest,
A thousand weather gods a million tucks
Had made, tugging tiny wires with nary a rest.
These are among the faces of the Lago di Garda;
As varied – and unsubtle – as a neophyte actor at RADA.

(28.7.96)

In Grodno

Download audio file read by Glyn Moody.

Five o’clock in the morning.  First they took
My offending, visa-less passport, then they came
For me.  Hauled out, politely but in a manner that brook-
ed no discussion, I abandoned my Polish couchette shame-
facedly, as if already admitting to crook-
dom before the People and the comrades who in their name
Guarded the ultimate frontiers.  Perhaps I shook
As I left the Vilnius sleeper (though I blame
The cold spring air), and gave a vague look
At the concrete block which made up the place’s fame.
A city that, found in any book,
Would be deemed too unlikely, so starkly the same,
So bleak.  Except for a square of amber light
Where a man stood obliviously, and shaved away the night.

(25.7.96)

Strange Manoeuvres

Download audio file read by Glyn Moody.

Stop a moment, and think how much easier it is
To pull off out of a car space
Than steer back in.  You’re the bus-
iness if, with a deft, single wrist-spin, you place
Your jam-jar smack plum in the middle
Of the waiting spot between the sodding eternal
Cortina and naff BMW.  Fiddle
And faff, trying to find the bloody infernal
Angle to get the vehicle parallel and the wheels
Hard to the kerb (rather than on it) and you’re marked
As a loser, he (or she) to whom Life deals
A duff hand.  Yet all are unparked
On the Greatest Road, stuck in fast reverse
Through Time, after a big enough spot for a hearse.

(11.2.1996)