(SR) SPIRIT-CATCHERS

Posted on September 24, 2025 Updated on March 4, 2026

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Hi Dear Damo

Such lovely news! The sea, camping, peace… sounds just perfect for you – But I’m sorry to hear about your gout — that sounds painful! I hope the medicine helps and that you can rest properly for a bit. You definitely deserve some quiet days by the sea.

It was such a joy to see you — I’ve been smiling every time I think about it! I’m really touched that you remember my voice and my smile

I miss you so much. I’ve been thinking a lot about the precious moments we shared, our conversations, our laughter, and the special time we spent together. Those memories have stayed with me and will always be very dear to my heart.

I truly hope you are doing well, that your mind, heart, and life are in a good place. Please tell me how you are —  know that I’ve been eagerly waiting to hear from you, to know how you are, and to talk to you again.

So, your Black Sea sonnet — I loved it! The imagery is so vivid, I could almost see the mountains, the sea, and the little encounters along the way. There’s such a gentle rhythm to it, like the journey itself. You really captured that mix of adventure and reflection beautifully.

Now, to your Atatürk.

I honestly don’t even know where to begin…

I am completely blown away by this poem.

What you’ve written is not just a poem — it feels like an epic, a tribute, a cinematic monument in words. The way you captured Atatürk’s life, spirit, struggles, victory, and vision is absolutely incredible. Verse after verse, I could feel his fire, his will, his mind, his revolution. It gave me chills.

As a Turkish person, I cannot tell you how deeply this moved me. You didn’t just write about Atatürk — you understood him. His courage, his intellect, his sacrifice, his modern vision for a free, independent and enlightened nation… You honored all of it in such a powerful, respectful, and poetic way.

Your attention to detail, the historical references, the rhythm, and the emotion… it’s on another level. It feels like something that should be archived in a museum or read in front of a nation. Truly.

I feel proud. I feel emotional. I feel grateful. This is one of the most meaningful and beautiful things anyone has ever written about our leader and our history.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

This is unforgettable.

Sending you healing thoughts and sunshine,

Halime …

(SR) 11: Hiking on Hisarlik

Posted on September 24, 2025 Updated on February 25, 2026

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HIKING ON HISARLIK

We will either find a way or make one
Hannibal

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BREACHING KAPALCARSI

O polymartic world emporium!
Where West meets East upon a nexus point
That are the grand bazaars, centaurean
Man-horse vaulting great continents, unjoint
By slender Bosphorus – Here, Constantine
Imagin’d his glorious, eternal
Bastion, confounding the grim design
Of Eastern hordesmens’ hoof-roads infernal;

I’d enter’d Turkiye by Pegasus,
This wondrous land becomes a nest for us,
Where prosper Sultans, kept forever young
By pristeen mausaulea, streams of birds
Appear, take perch – each immaculate dome
Agrees: “We’re more spectacular than Rome.”

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ISTANBUL

I plung’d into a madd’ning, labyrinthine
Megacity metro; sign-by-sacred-sign
Names shone like glow-worms sufi saints employ;
Thro’ Yenakapi, Mecidiyekoy
Then Kagithane, an office there I made
In the Ottoman Archives – wide walls array’d
Maps of empire, tow’ring oer – from the Balkans
To Persia, banners flew like falcons.

I hopp’d upon a boat to Büyükada ,
Whose serendiptous, fumeless, esplinada
Feels Turkiye’s Portmeirion – chateaux rows
By hillside verdure crown’d – the whole bestows
A sense of sweet oasis on the edge, sea-girt,
Of sixteen million people, & their dirt.

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COACHRIDER

What a relief, you made it chief!
In deepest Asian Istanbul,
The bubbling hub of Kamilkoc,
Serving Turkey, since 1926

I met Ozman on the coach,
His name means poetry in Turkish,
We sat there swapping DJ sets,
Heads nodding to the groove & the road.

I’m on the borders of being brilliant,
I mean, Mount Ida’s over there somewhere,
& across the Byron-swam Hellespont,
Anzacs died for England.

So, this is where the next adventure starts
The one that makes the blood pound in mens’ hearts.

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DOWNTOWN CANAKKALE

The Turks they are a gallant race,
Gallipoli defiant,
The Age of Empires met their pace,
Then treat them like a client.

Now laugh, they, off those global games;
Contented, them, to be
Alive & thriving round the lanes
Of down-town Canakkale.

I took my camera to the streets,
Compos’d so many photos,
To show to Haydyn & to Keats
I am the Silver Rose!

For while art’s lust in me repeats,
Let’s follow! “Where?” “Who knows?

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TO THE FUTURE STUDENTS OF MY GENIUS

When travelling in Turkiye I kinda lost myself,
So put up some videos of me singing on mi phone
& realis’d I was quite a cool chap, actually,
Went out for a street-stroll, strut in my stride
On the hunt for the tent I’d be needing that night
But were searching for ages, I’m like dont worry,
It’s time to live off yer wits, you’ve done it before…

From the edge of town, thro’ the maze which hid my digs,
I found myself stumbling into the center of Canakkale,
Thought ‘why don’t I try that first place, just in case,
That were clos’d early morning, when all I’d observ’d
Were rows of flashy sports shoes’ – to my joy it had
A little camping bit hidden away – bought a tent, sorted!
So, I’m not really a genius, I’m a complete fuckin dafty!

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WHEN LORD BYRON SWAM THE HELLESPONT

As Leander, who was nightly wont the Hellespont to cross
Was thought a myth, so the deed was call’d a doubtful story,
No traveller endeavour’d, ever, Abydos to Sestos
‘Til Byron came – Leander swam for love, but he for glory

Upon a genial day in May, with Lieutenant Ekenhead
Of the Salsette frigate, after calculating the tides
They dove inside the icy currents that so rapid sped
No boat could row directly forth the stream that so divides

Asiatic from Europa, the waters chill’d by ices
From melting mountain snows, angular courses were forc’d
Forging four miles from one, but each a modern Dionysis
They swam like more-than-mortals, on reaching the other coast,

Emerge no better swimmers, of a feat on which both prided
Quoth Byron, “as Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.”

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GALLIPOLI

You can see what Churchill was trying to do,
Over in Whitehall with maps and busy brain,
The Central Powers would rely on, he knew,
The Dardanelles, & all that Turkish grain.

Besides, the Old Man of Europe was palliative,
Just one big sneeze and his knees would collapse,
But there’s not many Antipodeans who’d forgive
How one man’s plans would devastate the Anzacs;

& decimate and desecrate and blow to fuckin bits,
Malaria, & dysentry & endless runny shits,
Kitchener’s a cunt, the Abduls scrap like dingoes,
& all this Death is just to give the Turks a bloody nose.

“I’d rather be a ‘would-to-godder’ than die upon that ridge!”
“Come on digger, do your duty!” “War’s a privilege!”

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GOKCEADA

I am what you call a ‘Front-Line Sonnet-Hunter,’
With a need to be out tracking down the most excuisite
Of poetical experiences – & when we find them
We’re completely justified in answering the call of our soul.

So, there I was, right, right in my fucking element,
Scrambling arcane rocks, scattering bleating goats,
& as I climb’d those proper steep & bouldery slopes,
Every step became a pleasure, I was feeling fit as fuck.

But, seeing how landslide-precarious the summit was,
& having the preservation of this, the vital necessity
Of finishing off the Silver Rose, I forego the very peak,

To sit, high enough, on a much safer precipice,
Wondering & planning the wonderful walks yet to come,
Tomorrow, & the day after, on this heavenly Aegean isle!

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SCAEAN GATE

Stripp’d of world distractions by life’s timerats gnaw’d away,
To Canakkale sail’d back on a windy, muggy day
A coach fare bought for Afyon, then superglued my shoe
& set off marching south, Homeric questings to renew
The way was straight the sun lay west, bang goes the starter’s gun
A marathon of miles, so with a wave to everyone
Me watching whether in my times or ages yet to come
Feet eating up these meaty streets to the beat of my own drum
Foot sore I came on Troya, with delight I view’d that hill
Like Ataturk at Afyon, who, with an eager thrill
Lays out a map, leaps to his feet, hands rais’d to his Protector
Shouts loud & proud, now we, the Turks, have vengeance made for Hector
As joyous as the revelery cut short when out that horse
Leaps Odysseus, with twenty men, & open’d this gate, of course!

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IN HOMER’S WAKE

Hiking thro’ a series of small Turkish towns,
With the same old chay shop & the same old men,
Out came my laptop instead of a pen
& I began to write; well before light
I’d broken camp by Hisarlik, lost my hat in the dark
Hats come & go, but sonnets are immortal!

As I forded the Scamander, Zeus sent a rainstorm
B,y black pipers led, spear-legion of rain-shafts;
Quick-witted, pitching tent in a red & random field
Starts an hour of dry-waiting, trainers like mudblocks
But alive – I’m not just surviving, but thriving
As inside these sonnets my love of life maintains
Its fullest force…
…all along the Trojan plains
I march’d on Tenedos, a poet in Lord Homer’s wake.

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THE NEXT ISLAND

The Gods won’t halt my hike at Hisarlik
These Turkish sonnets set to delve on farther;
Yon Tenedos, rebranded Bozcaada,
O! Hanging basket blend of Grecian brick
& Turkish flavours! The next box to tick
In my lifetime’s island-hopping saga;
Malta & Sicily, Islay, Jura,
Gokceada, Büyükada – so fantastic
It is when mainland stresses left behind,
Purging life’s hectic heavings from the mind!

Above the town I sat, across the main
Mount Ida climb’d, the Muses use my brain;
“Where next?” I ask’d them, “somewhere in the snows
Of India, another Silver Rose!”

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PHRYGIAN VICTUALS

Itinerizing lately, there is one
More city left to visit, Afyon;
I’d met a pretty girl in Manchester –
Halime by name -, Allah has blest her
With beauty, ziki, sense of humour too,
Her feelings golden & her meaning true;
We breakfast on pekmas & tahini,
We drive to the caves of Ayazini,
At the lion stone of Aslankaya
Rock carvings, vaulting epic time, inspire
Ruminations on which hand had made ’em,
Which of the ancient king-chiefs had okay’d ’em,
What systems of belief, which rituals,
& what the offerings of Phrygian victuals.

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LORD BYRON NEVER GOT THIS FAR EAST

As cypress wood will sometimes need a laithe,
Even a poet sometimes needs to bathe,
Cleansing themselves before a change of scene,
These were the best baths I had ever been,
Presenting menthol-scented sauna rooms
& porcelain to lie on, with perfumes,
I’d had wood-heated hot-tubs back at home
& bath’d in Budapest like Ancient Rome,
But this was something else, some Muslim-style
Water, healing people; on marble tile
I sat, overheated, but ecstatic,
Staring at the ceiling with emphatic
Feelings – Great Gods of Poetry, leap inside
This spirit, keep on visiting my ride!

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BLACK SEA BESIDE

In training for tours subcontinental
Starts a fortnight’s hiking, camping nightly
Amid gorge-torn Ballica, Istanbul
Beyond; from Tepeoren, politely
Nodding to burqas, & with proud men press’d hands,
Finding this idyll such a privilege,
First sonneteer to see these sheer, green lands!

As, “may your path be clear,” heard ridge-to-ridge,
My shatter’d Turkish earning directions
To rest my gout at Cavuzagzi Beach –
Where, editing these sonnets, in sections
(This world of tours & beauties ought to teach),
From fishermen I bought their final beer,
& dreamt of Argonauts who’ve landed here.

(SR) GATES OF HELL

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 4, 2026

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THE GATES OF HELL

The Turkish gaze at me, unaware that I’m
Just an epic poet on my wanders,
Spirited amongst them by gusting rhyme,
To stand before the Cehennemağzı Caves,

Burrow’d out by giant anacondas;
This is Hell’s Mouth, a road below them paves
The way to Cerberus, t’where souls departed
From flesh decaying in disrespected graves.

I heard a voice whimper, “Have pity on me!”
“Are you a ghost,” I hiss’d at this man in robes,
“I am the shade of Virgilus of Rome,
Poet to Augustus & the false & lying gods!

The place eternal waits, the deep & savage way
Where shrieking ancyents wail for second deaths,
From there, a spirit fitter than mine
Shall lead you safely thro’ the spheres divine”

ABANDON ALL HOPE THOSE THAT ENTER HERE
THRO ME THE WAY INTO THE WOEFUL CITY
THRO ME THE WAY TO THE ETERNAL PAIN
THRO ME THE WAY AMONG THE LOST PEOPLE

Clapping Hands * Screams of Anguish
Haunted Sighs * Lamentations
Loud Scourgings * Strange Tongues
Horrible Lingua * Words of Pain

I saw a great crowd by a black & loathsome river
A demon row’d towards them with eyes of burning coal
“This is the Acheron,” said the poet, “& that is Charon!
Father of the livid marsh, watcher of its river crossing!”

The Mantuan vates saw me shrinking back in fear
From all those angry tones, & with a sighing said,
“Welcome to Inferno!” – in-holding hot breath,
We plung’d on deeper thro’ a starless gloom…

(SR) 12: South India

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 4, 2026

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SOUTH INDIA
MUMBAI
THE EAR CLEANER
GOKARNA
THE INCREDIBLE INDIA CODE
FORT COCHIN
INDIAN RAILWAYS
KANYAKAMARI
ON IMAGINING THE SCENTED SUTRA
NALATIYAR
THIRUVALLUVAR
DEPARTING FOR ANDAMAN
CASTAWAY
AVATARAS

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SOUTH INDIA

After reaching India I spent some time on
going about the country
Mahatma Ghandi

37,000 ft

Across Europa we have both progress’d,
By foot, by boat, by tram, by bus, by train,
But this hour, from a cool & pleasant plane,
Sees me sailing air on a grander quest,
The scenes by cyan skies & soft cloud blest,
How seldom seen & varied the terrain
Of ashen peak, urban sprawl, verdant plain,
Gleaming sea, wastes of sand & wylde forest.

As soon as we abandon Europa,
I could already taste the eastern scent,
The sun was setting west of Syria,
The starry heavens singing its lament,
As somewhere yon the grey Arabia
My pilot was beginning his descent.

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MUMBAI

Our plane approaches as the ghostly wraith,
Thro’ nights black regions steadily she falls
Into this lab’rinth of a billion souls,
Vast myriad of language, race & faith.

So, I am come, come to this sultry shore,
First diamond of the crown Victorian,
Earth’s epicenter, an empyrean
Melting pot of empires to explore.

By eastern flair was western thought inspired,
I am recently led to understand,
With me I have fetch’d a mind of England
& all my love for beauty there acquired.

When, swooning ‘neath an infant urchin’s, “Please!”
How many times would I see sights like these?

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THE EAR CLEANER

Stepping out one golden Goan morning,
Drowsy with the sunken sun’s adorning,
Content, was I, to be in nature’s hand,
Soul-freshen’d as bare feet sunk into sand.

From out of nowhere stept a wizen’d man,
“Sahib! cleaning your hearing well I can!”
Shows Western praises in his little book,
Black blocks of wax from both my ears he took

I shook the hand that scrubb’d my hearing clear
Said fond farewells & watch’d him disappear
Round red & rugged hill flank’d by the view
Of Konkan coast careering into blue,

When first found I the profits of his fee
I’d never known how sweetly sounds the sea!

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GOKARNA

Lapsing on a ledge over Paradise,
Among my beads now glows a silver rose
The first one I had found, Italia
Makes sound as India, & as those pees –
Pisa, Portovenere, mark’d that find,
Me performing musica nel strada
& sleeping al fresco… up Palolem
I’d redefin’d myself a top DJ,
&, as the Gulf of Poets gave me peace,
This perfect bay has now relax’d my muse,
Enough to think that sticking too one’s path,
With all its little wonders, sets us free,
Composing songs thro’ bitter British snows,
But far away, where sea & beaches meet!

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THE INCREDIBLE INDIA CODE

1 Book your tickets in advance
2 Separate your money sources
3 Never trust a tout
4 Keep tabs on yer tabs
5 If they say they’re a masseuse – they’re not
6 Murder all mosquitoes before bed
7 Never trust a fart
8 Anything is possible in India
9 Check your room thoroughly before leaving
10 Picking up stones scares off dogs & monkeys
11 Eat with your non-wiping hand
12 “I was an Indian in another life!”
13 Plenty of change for journeys
14 Ask five different people for directions

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FORT COCHIN

Come share a second with serenity
Up in this lake of European rooves,
This crescent lamp’d oer th’Arabian sea
Lulls me thither, I hear the sound of hooves…

At once a sacred chime grows on the breeze,
Some teller of a thousand ancyent tayles,
Some from the world’s crop-fellers overseas,
Some cross the Karakoram’s lofty trails,
Some were seekers of immortal glory,
Some content to be husbands, to be wives…

Tho’ the vision all clutter’d & hoary,
With me a single memory survives,
Being extras in the global story
We are stars in the movies of our lives.

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INDIAN RAILWAYS

I found myself waiting at this train station,
Not for a train, it was just to buy a ticket,
Not even for that day, but eleven in the future,
The next one available from Cochin to Calicut;

So, I´m waiting & I’m waiting & I´m waiting nit-pick longer,
& the guy behind the desk´s on his third guy in an hour
& I was fourth, but the seventh guy´s hand starts waving
His reservation form as the third guy was about to finish;

So, I warned fifth, sixth, & seventh they´d be foolish for linecuttin,’
After all, I’d been in the sun all day like a mad English dog
& my legs felt like lead & I was definitely, definitely, goin’ next…

So, the third guy finishes, & just as I thrust my form thro’ the window
The fella behind the desk decides he needs the fuckin’ toilet…
Then, when he’d finish’d, the scoundrel closes the window fer lunch!

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KANYAKAMARI

I stepp’d onto Vivikenanda’s rock
There paus’d, of situation took full stock,
Before me, some vast fan, India spread,
Behind, lay endless ocean, grey as lead
Above, & to the side, a statue rose
Some noble poet in his noblest pose
& I gazed I swear he winked at me.

Into my mind th’Orphean frequency
Sang, ‘Boy, wherever in the world ye be
Remember me!’….’Tis Thiruvalluvar!’
Says saddhu, startl’d by me, who had seen
Or sens’d a dream twyx poets, inbetween
A butterfly thro’ silver sea-spray flew…

…The boat-bell rang, I sprang to join the queue.

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ON IMAGINING THE SCENTED SUTRA

As I was walking pastel Madurai,
Booksellers by dust yellows caught my eye,
Two books I bought there; the Perfumed Garden
& the Kama Sutra, with firm hard on
I read them in the street, some gnarl’d old man
Sold me opium; ‘neath the whirring fan
Of my bare room, sweet tonic to the heat,
I gorg’d on both, thro’ moments rolling sweet
I toss’d & turn’d upon a lonely bed,
Full wishing there’s a women there instead,
When in a flash of inspiration gold
I knew these sexy texts must be retold –

Pleasant for the present & the future,
Spreads the essence of the Scented Sutra.

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NALATIYAR

Her
O lord of fertile land & everflowing waterfalls
O lord of cool sunshine warming ocean´s running waves
O lord of good country with beautiful ebony mountains
O lord of flowery hills with lush & sparkling waterfalls
O lord of honey-bearing woods in the good country
O lord of long seashore with fine, unfailing salt-pans
O lord of the hills with lovely sandal groves on
O lord of cool lagoons & bays brimming with water
O lord of prosperous vineyards & huge gem-studded caverns

Him
O beautiful lady with breasts like budding flowers
O lady of beautiful hair with fragrance of musk
O lady of long-eyed spears & beautiful bow-like eyebrows

Him & Her
O lord of bewitching victories, bring these beauties out in me

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THIRUVALLUVAR

As I rested on a fine, empty beach, by the Bay of Bengal,
In soft seconds of existence I was alerted to a flutter of birds,
From mile along the coast I watch’d the white robes of a man approaching,
& expected him to pass, but on coming within a few metres,
He veer’d towards me suddenly, leaving no footsteps in the sand,
“What is your profession?” he curtly asked, “I am a sonneteer, sir!”
His magnificent eyes burrowed into the heartlands of my soul,
“By any chance, are you carrying a pretty silver rose?”
Astonish’d, I shew’d him the bloom d’argent hung round my neck;

After humming an Upanishad he said, “I have been expecting you,
Ever since I felt the a shimmering flux, out to the west of Eden;
As seven words a kural make, seven kural form a sonnet!”
Confirming my epiphanies into the elegant depths of sonnetry,
He smil’d, then he departed, left no footsteps in the sand…

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DEPARTING FOR ANDAMAN

Gazing across exotic ocean stream
Shamrock musing drifts to distant Burnley,
Where for as long as breathing there shall be
My family, my friends, my football team –

So far away, for following my dream
I am a stranger in a strange contree,
Though slowly hook’d upon its cup of tea,
Darjeeling serv’d up with a Devon cream.

The sun has fallen & the ship has sail’d,
The last lamps of the mainland shrink & fade,
A momentary notion has prevail’d,
As Vagu & Varuna soft notes play’d,

Next time by solid ground my feet regaled
Into youth’s fleeting heart I shall have stray’d.

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CASTAWAY

Down southern Andaman lies Jolly Bouy,
Of rainbow coral, full of snorkling joy,
I spent an hour lagooning in a laze,
& fell astoned, then woke, to my amaze
The boat had left me, deserted, alone,
No rizlas, samosas, water, nor phone!

A mile or so across the sharky foam,
A trail of smoke show’d someone was at home,
I built a brushweed raft, but that soon sank,
So off I swam, my goddess I should thank
For showing me this was a wild riptide,
Young muscles haul’d me back, I’d nearly died!

Then, waving to distant boats, at sunset,
I’d be the strangest fish they’ve ever net.

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AVATARAS

At the back of the ship, at the height of the trip,
Drawn by the harmonies of Lord Vishnu’s call,
Navel-rooted lotus soft floats ‘over waters
Absorbing the beauteous Bay of Bengal,
Transcending to milk, pearly seaway of silk,
Thou lavender cushion of infinite white,
Surrounding the foetal spirit centripetal
Sucking upon toenails painted starry bright.

“Rider, thou art return’d to India,
Saraswathi, I see, has smil’d on you,
Thy mortal aura bless’d in her prayer,
Thine energies hued in a rainstorm blue,
Come drape thyself in the Himalaya,
For there, thy Rose of Sylver shall renew.”

(SR) SARASWATHI SONG

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 6, 2026

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SARASWATHI SONG

Bolivian hacendados plant the year’s first coca,
Over Li Chiang, the snow-range is turquoise,
Rollerskates shake up Krivarbatsky Lane,
Stygian gloom devastates Stadhouderskade,
Josh sticks burn in Heliopolis,
Ginnungagap yawns;
& while starlings gather in pinetops across Canada,
Surya shines on an oily sea.

Do you remember the first time you found us,
Poeticizing in the caravanserai,
‘Neath Tashkurghan’s mountain Manchu fort,
Do you remember summoning us to India
To sing for thee, Saraswathi, my Goddess?

I wander’d all across the lands
Of India, most useful –
A mighty huntress, & her prey, Mankind!

Majestic Maharani of my mind!
Time is auspicious, the venue appropriate;
Elect me as your husband, & I’ll sing!

Expanding like the petals of cut flowers
Teach me to weave your webs of golden thread
& fill these soft stanzettas with your song,
In half-a-dream, or more a dream of dreaming.

Thoughts comes rushing in like a flight of swans
Then they pass, & they dive to the pure unknown
Raising glorious wonders in the stillness of the day!

Give me the lyrics of Mewari shepherds
Sate in fields of pristine sugar beets,
Slurping on stumps in between verses;
Give me melodies of Moslem bangle-sellers
Bustling thro’ narrow alleyways of Hyderabad,
Where wedding chaunts of winking grooms,
Floral-wreath’d & crown’d like peacocks,
As handsome as the Dawn of Krishna’s vows.

Sing, Saraswathi, of the Tyger of Mysore,
Stuck like a leg of chicken
In the British Empire’s throat.

& teach me, pray teach me,
Of the Ayer Vedic ghats
Of the Edicts of Ashoka,
& the chains of causation,
Of ineffable contemplation
& these Four Noble Truths
First glean’d under the Bodhi Tree at Gaya.

Sing, Saraswathi,
Your tender, primal melodies,
For the girlfriends who ador’d me,
& the women who would wash me,
When I was just a baby
Underneath a lone Pennine.

Yes, sing, Saraswathi,
Thro’ the song which I am singing,
Underneath thy silken sari
To the gather’d hearers, here;
For there is light in the music,
& there’s life forever after,
In the moments we were married
In a song that’s sung sincere.

Sing, Saraswathi, of white-wash’d Pondicherry,
& the mantric revelations
That you gave Sri Aurobindo,
Omniscient in syllabary!

Sing, Saraswathi
Of the wisdom of the Gita
That you gave to azure Krishna,
In the fields of Kurukshetra,
When Arjuna knew his doubts.

Her qualities are Nymphaeaceae,
Her perfumes Kustrika when on heat,
Bestowing immortality & the triumph of time!

But, Goddess, am I worthy ?
I am thy willing disciple,
My wildly discarnating spirit
Tameable with verses.

Sing, Saraswathi, the Song of the Lord,
The Gita of indestructible embodiment
To the strains of your astral sitar,
& in honour of blue Kishna
Let us do what is to be done,
Sing his song for the Ages to come

Saraswathi, summer of my life!
Let us discuss intelligent ideas,
Let us dissect the poetics of Pandini,
&, if you deign to treat me,
Illuminate this speech,
Adorn my burning heart
With words of water, nectar, pomegranate –
To cleanse & clarify my lonely time-corner
In this poly-sided universe of life

Sing, Saraswathi, of the golden Goan shoreline,
& the Kanchenjonga ridges
Oer the snake-streets of Sikkim.

Saraswathi! Blessed anthropomorphic
Vision of incorporeal bliss,
A coming together of vague poetic forces,
In one iconic majesty,
I see thee, Goddess,
Dost thou see me?

Sing, Saraswathi, of sacred Asvaghosha
& Ishavara Krishna of the Samkhyakarika,
Of how them both were Issa,
Spreading Vedic principles
In texts of many tongues!

O, Saraswathi!
Let me handle the divine leaves
Of your fabulous Fifth Veda,
Beyond all mortal realms in scope & slokas,
Transcending all Earth’s energies in style –
All-inclusively;
Sciences, philosophy, religious speculations!

O, Saraswathi! Monarch of my Muses,!
What is Mahabharata?
Literature? Painting? Sculpture? Music?
Didactic molder of Mankind’s character?
O! Let this epic perfect my searing soul!

O! Mahabharata! O! India!
Gigantic globe of thought enrob’d,
The Bharata Wars are the Universe,
Containing galaxies of narratives,
Forging consciousness in various spheres,
Finding ample sense in complex rhythms,
Where prospers humanity’s myriads!

O! Beloved! My Beloved!
While I sing our song,
Plant for me a vineyard
Leave a winepress near the garden
& I’ll boil my rustic wines,
For a party for immortals,
Am I Bacchus of the Ganga?
Apollo of the Punjab?

Give me ink, & give me goat-skin,
Give me wine, & give me feeling
To play most tender melodies
Upon your string’d sitar.

& give me, Saraswathi, as you gave to Vyasa,
The gift of sight, & in that seeing, beauty;
Fram’d by the imparting arts of poetry,
Let me mould my mimesis
Like those rouge, clay cups containing scented chai.

Chai! Chai! Chai!
My train rumbles on,
Muttering, shuddering,
Thro’ shutters I see
Siva’s fiery lingam,
Atop Arunachala’s mountain,
Oer Tiruvannamalai.

A question follows me everywhere,
‘Are you married, sir?’
My reply always surprises,
‘Yes… to Saraswathi!’

For I am thy Silver Rose, Saraswathi
Led, here, to Kolkata by scented trails –
If Edinburgh was the mind of the Empire,
& London its powerful heart,
Then, surely, this city was its soul!

Let me hear you play, O goddess!
& let me praise, like troubadours of old,
Celestial sounds of your sitar,
Haunting mantras of your sarangee,
Wonderful strings of your saron!

O! Saraswathi!
Let me drown in your deliciousness
In moments of togetherness
Which gladdens vocal arts

Yes! Be my sweet teacher
Immerse me in Dhurava for two years of bliss
When I shall only practice the base note ‘sa!’

Kolkata! Cacophony!
Calliope’s Conduit,
Clio’s Accountant,
Street’s pregnant with ghee,
Shady lanes of guava green,
Lepers pointing, with gnarling hands
At useless legs,
& while the card school prioritizes higher antes,
& the shoefixers busier than normal
Lemon sellers are doing a lively business!

Oh! Renovated rotund of Kolkata!
Oh! Pigeon-haunted rubbish tips!
Oh! Rubber emporiums in the ruins of the Raj!

In Kolkata
There is Taste & Beauty & Emotion
But do the touch the fossiliz’d minds
Of its prehistoric slum dwellers

O! Saraswathi! Are you really Sabia?
Up from the Sunderbans,
An elf on Sudder Street
& if no begging then nothing to eat!

Her mother caught the Black TB
& pass’d away, with nothing on her feet,
Sabia was now her own mother
With three younger mouths to feed
When only teenage prostitution could saved them
& only the decent Amir Vela Mandir pay her heed;
When on Sundays, she patiently waits in line
Recieving sweets & savouries & sabje in a bag –
Then shuffles back to paving flags to sip her gutter-wine.

On Canning Street
Tacky plastic jewelry battles each other
Flashes of rats scuttle between boxes
Flower-sellers’ teeth shine brilliant & white

Look at the masses! Gaze on the multitudes!
Inflam’d with religion,
Mourning hagiographic reliquerie –
Ye Prophets of the West, your time has come,
See how scrivan godspell cast upon the Earth!

Praise the thirteen siblings
Of Rabindranath Tagore;
Dwijendra, Satyendra, Himendra, Bivendra,
Saudamini, Jyotirindra, Sukamari, Dunyendra,
Saratkumari, Swanakumari, Barankumari
Somendra & Budhendra.

If the entire universe is Siva’s stage
Praise the acting of Rabindranath Tagore,
Upon whose honour all vidyas converge,
Disavowing the punitive West,
Refusing an Emperor’s knighthood
To read one line of his is to forget
All of the troubles of the world

Today, in Kolkata’s cockpit of conquest
There is Kathak, India’s own glory
Supernatural costumes, heroic make-up
Dancers gliding with grotesque splendour
& singers & actors, all on the same stage.
Transporting us to an ancient world of dreams

I dreamily read Tagore’s inventive metrics
On trains, in restaurants & on the tops of omnibuses
Subtle in rhythm, delicate in untranslatable colour,
A supreme culture’s common soil

Walking hand-in-hand across the Maidan
These vast, green, lung Calcutta
We pass a thousand Tendulkars
On a hundred home-made wickets

A city bubbling & thick with proud calls & lights
Overflows the saucepan of its eyelids
Its tears flow out in gutters of lowly populations
In streets where Saptamatrika fear to tread

O Saraswathi
Allow me my vocation as an artist in verse
Let me study the recipes of your poets
Take up a handful from every poet
& mush & mix into dishes of sweet nectar

O! Sad-fac’d White Tiger of Alipore Zoo,
O! Ghosts of english gaiety long gone
O! Pan-stain’d pavements in spat at spate
O! Card schools down Shady lanes
O! Women outside tinshacks washing plates
O! Homely hubs of homeopathic health!
O! College Street of famous books
O! Lovely ‘Indian Coffee House’
Serv’d by handsome cockateet waiters

In the middle of the day
My head is melting into mush
& my clothes stick sweatily to my skin.

Let me swim in each of the rivers of Punjab –
Where Jhelum, Chenab, Ravi, Bens & Sutle
All flow into the ever-sacred Indus.

In Kolkata
An urchin taps a single rupee on his biscuit tin
Metal on metal
Nearby, a dog dreams, lazing between wilting fruit
& two handsome young men, conversing in scams
Between them an argument breaks out, briefly,
But ends in an instant of smiles

Meditating on the making of magical metaphors,
Allowing one word to do the work of twenty.
I am the magenta-throated,
Amethyst woodstar,
I am the pump of village water-wells,
I am the small dog digging holes in sand,
I am the hammer & sickle & Stalin’s wall,
I am the secret street-cleaner at Dawn,
I am the aluminum rooves
Of the barbers of Chidamburam, – barbere district n calcutta
I am your everything!

Upon the splendid esplanade of life,
Beside oceanic universe,
Our saliency is this, my sweet,
I am thy song disciple, let me sing
Praising thy beauty with my velvet thought,
Add music to your rivers of righteousness,
In atmospheres of happiness & abundance,
A living poet & a bidden bard,
Praising language in its highest form,
Most plainly & most openly,
I’ll remain thy crystal paragon,
Adoring, with all aspects of my soul,
Who is, who was, & who shall be, always,
Most beautiful of all thy parts, my love.

(SR) 13: North India

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 7, 2026

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NORTH INDIA

Whether it be the heat or the curry, or the state of one’s liver, it seems that the disposition of Englishmen alters in India, & they become very argumentative & theoretical
William Howard Russell

---

CALCUTTA SONG

With a ‘hats off’ sense of elation,
Time emptied my train at Howrah Station;
“Where’s the Modern Lodge?!” I roar’d,
Two fifty rupees taxi fair,
Feck it man I’ll walk it there!
As beggars chas’d me everywhere
The lepers, with a doleful stare,
Held out their rotting digits,,
“Just give me something!” they implor’d
But I’ve barely got a biscuit!

Give me Saint Andrews with sea-views & putter,
Or take me to Ascot to big-shot & flutter
Give me a hot-pot with fresh bread & butter,
Or if not, find ’em all in Calcutta.

---

KATIHAR

There is a certain sadness in this land,
The handicapp’d are heap’d upon my heart,
The twisted feet of those too low to stand,
& me, all in their midst, yet set apart.

I wait all night to catch the midnight train
So many shudras spread about the floor,
A spell of blessed respite to obtain,
From drudgeries of being born so poor.

As grunting swine from meal-to-meal subsists,
Therein lies the archaic chaff of wheat
On which this young democracy insist,
“Caste is caste & never the twain shall meet!”

Here, even dreams, which all should equal share,
Combusted by some tannoy’s constant blare.

---

KANGCHENZONGA

I came on Pemagangtse in the night
A leopard passing slowly in the snow
Awaiting precious pinch of silver light
Announcing phoenix day in foetal glow

I gazed across the Kabrus unaware
That to these climes had Calliope come
Slopes glooming greys, as sunbeams fill the air
They turn the burnish’d burgondy of rum

Savitri’s spell impells the Sun to strength
Red turns to orange, orange burns to gold
& as all shadows shorten in their length
What summit sparkles white, where, very cold,

My muse sits, singing, wisest of the nine
“On Nanda Devi waits my sister’s sign!”

---

1857: WHILE PLAY’D THE CANNONADE

General – My how hot a day this is

Reverend – I cannot agree with you sir
There was a lovely breeze this morning
The hour was three I think
& if you ever had visited Stuffcote
You wouldn’t dream of calling this hot

General – Stuffcote! Why, I have been there sir
Was there, in fact, for three years sir
It is one of the coolest stations in India

Reverend – Poppycock – in august – what nonsense

General – Yes, sir, especially & most particularly In August
I have felt positively chilly all thro the month

Reverend – Chilly? In stuffcote? In August…

Servant – More champagne, Sahib?

---

NANDA DEVI

Up to the world’s rooftop I slowly rose;
Checking upon the progress of the soul
Appears a mountain prospect a la snows
Of Austria, New Zealand & Nepal.

I left Almora for the Kashyap Hill,
High commune of fairest tranquility,
Fresh dawntint drew me to the lofty chill
Of this monolithic Axis Mundi.

It seems for me the lips of Laksmi smile,
No sweeter place on earth to greet the sun,
Here summon’d by the lyrical lifestyle,
I whisper a gentle dedication;

“Until my feet have circuited the globe
My thought & life with poesy I shall robe.”

---

JOURNEY TO LEH

The journey was a wonderful passage
Thro’ landscapes of such inspirational majesty,
Twas if the gods themselves painted the scene;
What mountains! Jagged like porcupines,
Or gnarl’d like tree-stumps, or rising
Into white-haired grey beards, like beautiful
Himalayan druids ruling all humanity.

On reaching the veritable rooftop of the world
On arrival in Ladakh’s lovely little capital,
I took a pleasant room with spectacular views
On all sides a grey, arid desert, bleeding
Into a great chain of mountains, encircling
This semi-autonomous ‘Little Tibet,’
This austere, scarcely populated, land!

---

ANOTHER SILVER ROSE

Up stony slopes I huff, puff & scramble,
All a-fluster in the blustery gale,
Blinded by sheets of thick sleet & hail,
Clothes torn by the claws of thorny bramble,
My spirit – ‘gainst which angry Zephyrus
Summons all his strength – calls upon the soul
Of our being, for being conquers all.

As I reach iconic peak, glorious
Realm of deity, barren heap of ice,
Blizzard-swept panoramic paradise,
I see, in the snows, a wee silver rose
Wonder how such sweet tenderment grows,
Like the gorgeous gardens of Shangri-La,
In this frozen wilderness, like a star.

---

GOD

I march on different minds in different ways,
A force beyond all knowledges combined,
But let it now be known to each on Earth
I have a single name & that be God,
Tho’ splintered by the tangl’d knot of tongues,
For as a man in Orchaa calls me Ram,
In Qadian as Allah am I prais’d.

Now reconciling all these diff’rences,
To every race a prophet have I sent,
& fill’d them with the milk of mine intent,
A source for common good, a common source
From which the well-font of this message springs,
A clear soul-song for all who wish to hear,
Thro’ Me find Heaven, & in Heaven, Love!

---

RAI PRAVEEN

Beside the bonnie banks of Betwa’s stream
A beauty dwelt, beholding her a dream,
Whose reputation to great Akbar flew
By regal claws she to his throne-room drew,
But noble are Bundellas & their Queens
& so played out the wondrous of scenes
As with a poem she made devlish dig;
“Hello King! You are King, not dog, nor pig,
& I am nothing but a plate well-used…”
Lord Akbar gasped, & gazed on her, confused,
While shell-shock’d audience grew hushly sure,
Such grave insult His Highness shan’t endure;
But no! Life’s nobler motions to protect,
He sent her home, alive & with respect.

---

PHONE CALL FROM AGRA

I was staring at the back of this rickshaw driver’s neck,
As I dragged my bags thro’ Agra, the Taj now just a speck
Of love dust immemorial, my mind’s eye to recall
Whenever living deeply yearns for sheer uplift of soul;

In that place grew pure poetry, man-made & yet divine,
A funerary megalith whose Mughal marble wine,
Endrenches human spiritus with splendour thro’ its form,
All races & all nations round its majesty must swarm.

As I depart for Gwalior I think of absent touch,
For she was like a queen to me, I loved her love so much,
& haunted by her happy smile I’ve wandered far, alone,
Til mental peace has found me, all my fuck-ups to atone.

So I shall get my mobile out & make that magic call –
Her voice was soft & happy – back in Sally-love I fall.

---

OVERTAKING LANES

Two saddus stood by the side of the road
Staring at a truck that had spill’d it’s load;
By that, an old wreck that just would not start,
Laugh’d at by a man in an ox-drawn cart,
& faster still; first a cycle rickshaw,
A dirt-green tractor from the days of yore,
Auto-rickshaw belching smoggy black smoke,
Mud-red moped missing many-a-spoke,
This lorry’s weird siren psychedelics,
Busses driven by mad alcoholics,
These, by breezy motorcycles bypass’d,
Then… an Ambassador of Rajput caste!

While gangs of robbers lawless highways stalk,
Y’know, it’s a nice day, I think I’ll walk.

---

POVERTY & WEALTH

Two goddesses bicker about beauty,
Content to start a second Trojan war,
Srinava’s wisdom thunders crore on crore,
“My Jyesthadevi, my Laksmidevi,
There is a young carpenter of Bundi
Who is so very honest to his core,”
Supreme goddesses stand soon at his door,
“Who is the most beautiful, she or me?”

Most humble cobbler thought a mortal while,
Then says, “Laksmi most lovely on arriving,
Yet Jyestha gorgeous more when she departs;”
This answer made each goddess equal smile,
& he – celestial wrath surviving –
Learns flattery woos e’en immortal hearts.

---

JAIT SAGAR

If India can make a man a man,
More than the veshyalay of Amsterdam,
If thro’ the chaos he can make a plan,
Respecting Hinduism & Islam,

If he can give the beggar his rupee
& tip the tout that charges o’er the odds,
If he can read his Rajput history
& choose a god but still bless other gods,

If he can sleep upon the railway run,
Find fresh, clean waterfalls amid the dirt,
If he can wonder how the Raj was won,
Then pause upon the horrors & the hurt,

If he can haggle down & know his daal,
Then does he need to see the Taj Mahal?

---

CREATION

As thro’ Mumbai I took the rickshaw home,
A great prostrate cow seem’d to be dying,
Guts on the pavement where she was lying,
But no… close by, lay her hour-old daughter.

I watch’d the wee one make her falt’ring first
Steps in the world, like an ambitious teen,
Thro’ her mother’s dung, slippery & green,
Then in the hot noon felt an earthly thirst;

Went looking for something, nuzzling half-blind,
She suckles on her mother’s rough larynx,
Who stands up, motionless as sandy sphinx,
& with a lick acknowledges her kind;

Who creeps now forwards to the golden teat
& clamps down hard as angels swoop the street.

(SR) TSU-NA-MI

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 12, 2026

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TO

the

250,000
VICTIMS

of the


TSU-NA-MI

of

BOXING DAY

2004


Remember the host of the ghostly battalion,
Imagine them drown’d in a growling sea,
Beach-huts for driftwood, corpses for carrion,
O! sing a sad song for the TSU-NA-MI.

Remember the sounds on the shores of Sri Lanka,
The crunching & breaking & snapping & screams,
As ships of pig-iron are ripped from the anchor,
& people-pack’d trains flung from bent, steely beams.

Remember the shock of the lush Phuket beaches
As in rushed a storm to destroy the fair bays
A street urchin wreck’d in Kamala beseeches
The first waves’ survivors, ‘the oceans still raise!’

Remember the minute that Heaven was swelling,
When nature roars awesome in raw, rampant state,
For two-hundred-thousand the death bell was knelling,
What Sayer or Vates foresee could foresee their fate?

Remember them fleeing those huge walls of water,
That snapp’d them & toss’d them & made bloody piles,
In aftermaths awful, she’ll search’d for her daughter,
A sad scene repeated some three thousand miles.

Remember the grief in the streets of Sumatra,
The next Krakatoa rolls in as a gale,
Whose waves leave a swathe for the here & hereafter
Of death & destruction on Golgothan scale.

Remember the mood in the days after Christmas,
When so many strangers shall shun the New Year;
A new, doleful sound if the river grows restless,
Have so many tears crystalliz’d a new fear?

Remember the trail of those waves of destruction,
From Asia to Africa surg’d the wild sea,
Remember, remember, the Lord of the Ocean,
O! sing a sad song for the TSU-NA-MI.

(SR) 14: Nostoi

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 14, 2026

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NOSTOI


A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment
Jane Austen

---

INDIA

Everyone has his own idea of India
JM Haynes

Nation of nations, hot & happy land!
With spicy dishes morsell’d by the hand,
Being a valourous & graceful race,
The universal mullet firm in place,
Despite taking three men to stamp a form
& creative corruption Laksmi’s norm,
A fanatacism for the rupee
Cements this secular society
Of power-cuts & cripples & bazaars
Neath a pristine panapoly of stars,
Of swastikas & cricket in the streets,
Bounteous crops & oversugar’d sweets,
Ashrams soothing riot-torn religion
As always blaze the rays of Asia’s sun.

---

DEPARTING INDIA

Many days have pass’d since that piazza
Where first I flirted with the myrtle muse,
Now knoweth I a new peninsula,
Whose galaxy of monuments enthuse
The spiritus, where all earth’s wide aspects
Have form’d a microcosm of the sphere,
Firm foundation for when I travel next,
Days of endeavor drawing ever near.

I spend a moment musing on the wing,
As o’er the leagues of Araby we sail’d;
Around the Raj was flung a faerie ring
& all it’s best poesis have regal’d,
Having succeeded in my soldiering
Where Ghengiz Khan & Alexander fail’d.

---

MADE IT !

At last my gaze is cast oer English skies,
The thrills of one’s homecoming multiply,
Bursting through cloud we claim a poet’s prize;
Big Ben…Tower Bridge… & the London Eye.

I’m back at last, back from my epic tour,
Ten rupees all that furnishes my purse;
Scraggly & tann’d I call upon the door
Of compassion & an NHS nurse.

“It weren’t easy… I gush´d out dysentry,
Wee mozzy bites became massive bags of puss,
Salmonella, concussion, entwisted knee,
Neuropraxia… love, just look at us!”

“It’s lucky you survived”… I smil’d a smile,
“Dying,” said I, “It’s never been my style.”

---

KARMA SUTRA

The city streets were alive with neon,
I knock’d… Rosie answer’d there delighted,
My favourite more-than-friend down London,
Her stairs were excitedly alighted.

I cook’d up a couple of samosas,
Chappathis, biriyani & paneer,
Making out under stars & the Roses
Over charas & charlie & cold beer.

I show’d her books I’d bought in Madurai,
The Scented Sutra’s esoteric scene,
“So babe, do you wanna give it a try?”
We did, & at a later hour serene

My lover sleeping on my naked chest,
I felt that special bliss when East meets West.

---

MAJOR, FUCKING, TOP-LEVEL ART

im fucking rockin it mate – im having it
Back from mi travels with a reyt second epic
without a doubt im on the same level as homer
theres no denying it, im that fucking good
im also the best historian this planet’s ever seen
beacause homer didnt even write them two epics
theyre the work of many hands over many centuries,
as for me, bruv, ive even got a third one coming,
poetica britannica’s lord ollamh ballad cycle
turns out, in the end, i’m a massive, fucking genius
never rushing, indiff’rent to luxury or praise
never really push’d for publication, no need
i were too busy, there’s always work to be done,
but now, the silver rose is alive, better believe it

---

HUMANOLOGY DAWN

Meandering along the canal tow
To Gannow Tunnel, where the path departs,
Pontificating what the world should know
Of love, of health, of wealth, of war, of arts.

Pendle obscured by fog, toes & fingers numbing
Tranquil parkland hiking, Tamil texts in Towneley,
Baynan & Margosa, lamps lighting up mortality
Converting kural-quatrains, many miles from Madurai!

What ancyent texts my knapsack now contains!
The teachings of Saint Thiruvalluvar
& those collated by the ancyent Jains,
Then swath’d in fame, & named Nalatiyar,

Shall frame a grand sequanza, did you see
My centre-piece, my ‘Humanology?’

---

WEST YORKSHIRE

Ower t’ills up Northways,
Stormclouds thump on drain,
Trundling thro’ Todmorden’s
Narrow cobbl’d villages,
Totta’s ancient boundary
Between Red Rose & White;

Adore the hippy haven hills,
& mills of Hebden Bridge!
Heart of a rosehip valley!

Mytholmroyd: birthplace of laureate Hughes,
Halifax: catching busses for ‘Dirty’ Leeds;

Leaves scatter’d on the road at Odsal Top,
Oer Bradford’s wide bowl passing, conjuring
Conflicting reminiscences of squander’d days.

---

RYDAL MOUNT

There comes a time for mental reflection,
When a man enters his maturity,
Burning brazen youth to circumspection.

I wander’d as a cloud with wee Daisy,
Thro’ Grasmere, on a January morn,
Just me, my dog, & Dawn’s first fell-tops hazy.

Those moments saw a memory reborn
Of Wordsworth strolling gaily to Townend,
Dreaming of Mary & the Matterhorn.

As goes with time they would one day, ascend
Up steep-slop’d Rydal Mount, one heart enshrin’d,
Above the waters, soul-mates to the end.

Such love & loyalties I’ll hope to find
With Sally, dear, implanted in my mind!

---

NOW THAT I AM THIRTY-THREE

Upon an evening’s ride I rode beside the Forth’s firth-spray
& glanc’d back on a time-lapse t’when I last made verse this way
Since then I’ve loved an angel & I loved her many years
But left her… for the bard inside still yearn’d to join the seers.

I have roam’d the rock at Afyon, haul’d my staff up Homer’s height
Had a naked, thermal bath upon a Samothracian night;
Along the way I transcreated Tamil Nad’s first saint,
& learn’d enough of woman’s ways to woo without complaint.

I have compos’d in Italian round Aegadian seas,
Broke bread with smart, young Indians – beers by Kadevi’s breeze,
I’ve ascended Mount Parnassas, like a Bacchus, with my lyre
& swapp’d my native terrace for a palace in the Shire,

Where I find the hearth still burning, where my woman waits for me,
& the world just keeps turning, now that I am thirty-three!

---

AN APOLOGY FOR LOVE

“No longer must I roam this planet wide,
Searching for perfect springs of nature’s art,
Thou art to me my fearless, nearly bride,
In whom shines all those things which charm my heart;

Babe, we fancy each other quite clearly,
Needing places, but never a reason,
To converse with eloquence freely,
To make love like wild foxes in season.

I miss’d you so, a vacant shade did haunt
Each moment of my half-life; when asleep
I dreamt of nothing, vapid, fail’d to vaunt
For anything, my heart a crumpl’d heap
Of sorrows… I’m so sorry… I love you…”

Smiles she, don’t worry babe, I love you too!”

---

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF LOVE

We talk’d last night
& after we made love
I read to you the Lao-Tse Tung;
In my voice rose ancyent chimes,
Funell’d thro’ the Jiayuguan Pass
In elegant simplicity –
Lass, after we made love, I cherish’d thee!

Night falls again,
The drift of day deserts us,
The dusk is all that matters now, my love,
The light is dimming, but thine eyes are bright,
As cradl’d in these arms
You smile to me once more,
Love, let us talk again.

---

THE BOYFRIEND’S ALPHABET

One should always give one’s woman;
Art, Adoration, Art, Bravery, Bliss
Caress, Conversation, Destiny, Desire,
Equality, Everything, Fidelity, Faith
Gratitude, Goodness, Happiness, Honesty
Illumination, Impeccability, Jewelry, Jaunts,
Kisses, Kindredship, Loyalty, Lust
Money, Magic, Novelty, Nobilty,
Orgasms, Obmutescence, Playfulness, Poetry
Quality, Quiescence, Reassurance, Romance
Security, Sensuality, Tenderness, Trust
Unity, Understanding, Variety, Voice
Wonderment, Wisdom, Xysti, Xanadu
Yearning, Yourself, Zygosis & Zest!

---

FOREVER CALLS

She came to me upon a wynge of fire,
The greatest creature I had ever known,
Who, with one, look would fill me with desire
Who, with one kiss, would set me on a throne.

Rare rugs of damask spreading at my feet,
How days of love & music fleeting fly.
But in out bed my world is made complete
& in her arms I can but swoon & sigh!

These sonnets are for her… Aye! Sally, thee!
& all those lovers yet to breath Earth’s air,
& most of all, these sonnets are for me
To read when I am old & in my chair!

When in you’d walk; with cakes, a cup of tea,
& silver splashing thro’ your messy hair.

---

DENOUMENT

As now I’ve make that tender step in time
Back to this heather’d hearth of happiness,
She stands, the essence of my will to rhyme,
Aloof, alone, in all her loveliness.

“My love,” I said, “back then I buck’d so blind,
But now I see you, Sally, soft & pure,
You are the only star that moves my mind,
For heart’s dull sickness are it’s only cure

Let us adore, once more, the white lily,
Those rows of dark-eyed poppies in the corn,
Let’s climb the long Lammermuirs, all hilly,
‘Gan hand-in-hand, love’s clemency reborn.”

Then… some mad magic, spontaneous, inside,
Demands, I Sally ask to be my bride.

---

THE PROPOSAL

Underneath this purple blossom,
The day on which we met the greatest of my life,
Since then the better man am I,
One of those rare & lucky souls
Who realises love & the nature of true love.

Our lovemakings are symphonies,
Our conversations art,
Therefore, my only darling,
It would become my immortal honour
If you could consent to be my wife.

We are two white swans, you & I,
‘Gan gliding in the skyways,
Above this mortal lullaby,
‘Til Heaven ends our days.

---

ADIEU

Well, its been such a hectic adventure,
Yet creamy with moments of calm;
Reconstruct them with poems I’ve sent ya,
From notebooks I’d perch’d on a palm.
From where, under silvery starlight
These verses I’ll serve up for thee,
These wee, inky squiggles on snow-white,
Notating my life symphony!

So, I’ll leave you an Odyssey’s odes’ worth,
& sonnets Shakespearean par,
With Milton, with Byron, with Wordsworth,
English epic shall prosper & spar,
For here, in this cursus of pages,
Lies a Grand Sequanza, for the ages.

(SR) FINALE: The Honeymoon

Posted on September 23, 2025 Updated on March 15, 2026

---

Overture
THE HONEYMOON

“Song is existence!” Rilke said, & so
Upon these anvil verses I shall pour
The trekkings of lovers to the Arno
Via the Salish Sea, to hear the roar
Of heaving Pacific; beyond the Po
To Paris, as a perfumed pompadour –
I’ll find a spot to finally repose
The compositions of my Silver Rose.

Thro’ all the Lothians by night we drive,
Parking at Cammo Hill; sparkling below,
In glittering Newyorkiness, alive,
An airport hums; as with an orange glow
The moon ascends, queen of the starry hive,
Distilling beams of silver – see them flow
Like warm mist over loch-face -, as we slept,
Dawn’s early glow-worms into spaces crept.

By sunrise we were up & soaring west,
When Sally went off a little psycho,
Grabbing my palms she press’d them to her breast,
& moist love-mound, whispering, ‘it’s my go!’
A minute later, rush’d, & half-undress’d,
We made the ‘Mile High Club’ over Sligo,
Then settl’d down, post-coitally sincere,
In snoozy, huggy, snugland, with a beer.

To travel foreign scenes, & there to write!
The best exhilaration of a heart,
Drawn like a mating insect to the light,
Seattle soon, as thro’ her skies we dart;
Raineir rises to surprising height,
Lord of this fresh frontier-post of mine art,
Like Ginsburg touring ‘Howl!’ in ‘fifty-five,
My visit, here, like scripture, might survive.

Red sun sets in the navel of the sky,
America! Feet touch thy soil at last,
Where Sally’s father waits with his wise eye
Intentions penetrating, holds me fast,
Where him brought up on whiskey, beefsteak, rye,
Fr me, Tetleys & Hotpots’ unsurpass’d,
Our hands interlock’d like docks take a ship,
‘Your daughter is my soul-mate,’ in the grip.

Ye Cinnamons of tranquil Snoqualmie,
Thy lineage with famous blood entwines,
From Kirkcaldy’s Reverend Gillespie,
To Colonel Daniel on the Rebel lines,
Whose daughter – Thankful – married happily
John William, then Cinnamon combines –
Unbroken branch of fathers’ sons, whose fate
In Sally’s father, here, did culminate.

O Puget Sound! Our long haul’s patient prize,
A Stillaguamish paradise, where on
Its silver strands, under changeable skies,
Warp-logs drift thro’ water-boiling salmon,
& birds by the bazillion share cries
In evergreen communion; blue heron
Like pterodactyls, patter into place
Upon those pastel waters’ perfect lace.

As mostly modern marriages divide
Sally’s mother is now a Waddington,
Into Snoqualmie’s river-vale we ride,
To read awhile in Duvall, Washington,
Thro’ North-West poets; Snyder by my side,
With Stafford, Markham, Kirzer & Skelton;
Then breaking, stroll the Valley of the Moon,
Where Sally’s folks once ruled the Silver Spoon

Out to Seattle, Sally, at first light,
Drives us thro’ wild, high woods, where birds rehearse
Songs ev’ry morn, where treetops launch a flight
Of plovers oer Si’ahl’s herbiverse,
Who soar & swoop oer skyscrapers upright
Above pre-morning’s sleepy streets of commerce;
Beyond them, unrestricted & immense –
Sea, sky, & mountains round us, like a fence!

‘Goodbye, my family, goodbye new friends,
Domani we take our love to Roma!
The first leg of this wed-adventure ends,
Me & Sally sitting in Tacoma,
Watching footy in Doyle’s Bar, as suspends
Our chronic distance, yon Oklahoma,
New York, Atlantic, Ireland & that sea
Where Ribble empties west of Bur-ne-lee!

A meteoric bolt in me instils
A city’s jazz, its booze, its free-from-care,
Soaring above Seattle’s seven hills,
A ptarmigant, unladen, in the air;
As little portals of an airplane fills
With blue-sky brilliance, Rainier rare,
Below us fronds of maidenwoods uncoil,
Planting our stalk of love in native soil.

Fanning the clouds, fresh from our visiting,
I felt as trav’lers do between the ports,
With past & future days inspiriting,
From molten rock we eke a living quartz,
When just to breathe in airfeels riveting,
& every soul, but ours,, seems out of sorts,
O! what thing it is to sing in rhymes
& be a poet, vital, to his times!

‘We choose to live, dear Sally, you & I,
From fateful meeting let us forge a tribe!’
She smil’d, across her glass-reflected eyes
Cloud-visions in the Heavens would enscribe
A memory of something, with a sigh,
Sh reais’d her glass, to delicate imbibe
Her glass of wine, as down her throat it swept,
From happiness within she wept & wept.

A thundercrack when poets meet their Muse,
When art & heartscape held in protection
By those fair willing never to confuse
Dreamy abstraction for disconnection;
To share a bed, to vivisect the news,
To lead life fully, & without dejection,
Are sacred to we poets, who settle
Like butterflies on a cherry petal.

Adventurous, voluptuous, my heart
With such excitement blazes, a lazer’s burn,
Affections of mine pulmonary art
Exploding at Italia’s return;
Too long my vision from thee set apart,
& many are thy fruits I’m yet to learn,
To tend those darker days where northern climes
With mists & moods dost ruminate my rhymes.

We meet again, dear Roma, let us flow
Thro’ galleons of streets, this time a gown
Of glories treading lightly in my tow;
I lead us to a pleasant part of town
Under the Piramide, a place I know,
Temple of ancient death, to gaze us down
Upon the sod which bones & ash enclose
Of Keats & Shelley, in a belle repose.

We spend an hour in Rome among the vaults
Of Papal saints & secrets never told,
Said Sally, ‘let’s avoid this crypt of faults
& fallacies, when faith just earns men gold;’
Together, as the evening star exalts,
We trip into the Termini, there hold
Each other’s hands, we step onto the train,
There find our seats, then tender-touch again.

Tipsy from our happy grappa tipples,
Sliding up the rail-glide to Grosetto,
All-at-a-once rain-drops burst in ripples,
Some jagged arrow-storm of inverno;
Chinks of blue; raincease; dear Sally’s nipples
Appear distinct, hair slick like water flow
Down canyon tract, when crags drink deep the flood,
Enough to rouse the wild dogs in my blood!

Castellammare della Pescaia
Was where we saw our first Italic night,
From the penthouse of the Casa Rosa,
A veritable temple of delight,
Slicing salami sulla terrazza,
Watching a lip-gloss sunset wash with light
The western skies, as underneath the waves
A perfect path to paradise impaves.

As pleasure is a pleasurable thing,
& love between two lovers yon reproach,
As into evening crickets sit & sing,
Our lips are warm, two moths about the torch,
With passions flashing on a febrile wing,
Her blushes fiery flushes in the scorch,
She yields that look, tho’ words were never said,
‘My Love, let us get naked, & abed!’

From wondrous lust to slumbers would we ease,
Woke with the sun up-thrilling from the hills;
On hitting twenty-seven sweet degrees
We pedal townwards on fine bicycles,
Thick cappuccinos quaff by yachtsman’s breeze
While shuffling thro’ our daily facebook stills,
Then looking up two pairs eyes of did meet
The stunning circlet of a soul complete.

The beach at last! A spot of sunshine sought,
Where the happy couples all befriend us,
& I prefer the sea to swim & float,
Unhassl’d by Rajasthani vendors,
We lay all day in luxury, then bought
Our wedding rings, like two young Eastenders
Shopping down Bow Market, post-engagement,
Before their inev’table estrangement.

For marriage, thought we, is a mere food dish
Looks good at first, tastes nice, then empty plate!
& renders lovers circling like goldfish
In a bowl of rancour, spite, & hate
Far better just to vow ‘I do’ & wish
The best of love without the stamp of state –
So we’ve decided, in the end, to be
Not married, but happy naturally!

She had said “yes,” but then she suggested
A better road, perhaps, was common law,
A bond of love by many tried & tested,
For in the end what is a marriage for,
But to keep in the guts food digested –
Now, with lush seawaves lapping at the shore
Up Sally stands, & skipping off to swim
Connects with me so sexily… so slim!

Sundrunk & tipsy, sky beryl with lace,
Waves mulberry porcelain, with a twirl
Emerges Sally; body, legs & face
Dripping with sea-droplets, each a pearl;
Love forg’d us as one, we kiss, & with grace,
A breathless moment as I seize my girl
& squeeze her tight, with one more kiss demand,
Lets move to silken bedsheets, from this sand.

Sally, fashionista of the Bon Ton,
Undresses like a Duchess by the sedge
Of some brook’s forest bank; ‘Until Heaven
Finds a better sky,’ say I, ‘my love’s pledge
Is yours,’ with a sultanas’ devotion
She smiles, sits down upon the quilted edge,
Pats down a level space for us to be
Flesh unified in breathless ecstasy.

My Pisan streets, how I return to thee,
This time a wife fix’d sweetly by my side,
That like a muse comes merrily to me,
Or is she you, who gaylie deified
My youthful verse, turning to poetry,
Ye urged me on the world to wander wide,
From Tuscan marriage; Muse I sense ye still
About my mind, my woman & my will.

From morning bag-packings, very frantic,
We dash to catch the train up to Pisa,
Sitting in sweet relief while romantic
Scenes flash’d either side, spear-point chiasa
Thrust from hill-towns, sounds of Sally’s fan-click
Expanding conscious thought… O, how these are
Days of dreams, copses on a barren plain,
Full flourishing with fruit in summer rain.

With married life one wins a daily fix
Of druggy love-rush; a fish in a net
Of rarefied deportment, what a mix
Of sex & sophistication, & yet
What an alluring, lascivious threat
To restful mind; but, when I get my kicks
No vision of saint, nor an angel smile,
Could out-shine her Sally Cinnamon style.

My Pisan streets, see, I’ve return’d to thee,
This time a wife fix’d sweetly by my side,
That like the muse came merrily to me,
Or is she her whom gaylie deified
Our youthful verse, & turn to poetry
The urge I’d won the world to wander wide,
Now back in Tuscany I sense ye still
About my mind, my woman & my will.

As step-by-step, thro’ memories, we trace,
A tour thro’ paragon, yet bygone, scenes,
My woman round my neck like fresh-cut lace,
We paid a train-fare, hills of Tuscan green,
Us pass’d thro’Lucca, at a carriage pace,
Then into Pistoia drew serene,
To mould new memories from molten gold
& thro’ my verses live them when we’re old.

Within a rolling ring of rising green
A city stands upright, the sunlit plain,
Where once conspiratoral Cataline
Did shake a spear at Rome’s eternal reign;
Into a weekend’s evening, with my Queen,
Walk’d on a gentle footstep, to obtain
Ambience, as Pushkin did thro’ Moscow –
Warm moments wash’d down with Casalbosco.

Thro’ shabby-chic, electric hub-hub wheel,
Our feet to some fallen Contessa’s suite,
This casa all so antiquated feels,
With books & art & beds above the street;
This is the shrine where all past heartache heals,
In all this blissful happiness & heat,
Where dressing well we, hand-in-hand, go out –
Pure love has bless’d us Sally, there’s no doubt.

We dine in narrow streets, old market cart
Goes clunking thro’ pack’d tables’, rosiness,
Of tender hand-strokes rarely far apart,
We savour flavours with a shared finesse,
‘Thou votary of Venus that thou art,’
Sang I, ‘let us commence our coziness…’
Sally’s eyes, with candour unremitting,
Agree to leave the seats where we were sitting.

With ribbons pink I hook’d her to the mesh
Of iron at the bedcrown; scarlet silk
Sheets aswathe naked skin, a Marakesh
Of tingling tongue-tips, spirits springing milk,
Her arching back, her tightenings of flesh,
Breathing freedom; & I, strong-antler’d elk
Above the glen her smooth, moist body made,
Where glisten’d sweatdrops in a faerie glade.

We slept tight-lock’d like gorse bush, limbs in limbs,
Then awoke in that contented glory
Which true love breeds; ‘like cucumber with pimms,
We just work, dear Sally, mia amore;
Here in this land of artistry & hymns,
Where love & heart rhyme – heart is cuore –
& poets; minds must focus on one thing…
His Muse who taught the Goddess Moon to sing!’

With vocab well-rehearsed I testify
‘Mia moglie e imbarazzato,’
I noticed Giovanni’s narrowed eye,
‘L’ultima notte ha commenciato
Sua mestruazione,’ paused I
For effect, a timely ‘inatesso,’
&, ‘adesso c’e sonno macchia
Sulla lenzuale,’ all said calm & clear.

Footfall in France, whose famous three-tone’d flag
Did hover oer the border, as we queued,
‘That guy’s got style!’ ‘How classy is her bag!’
We whisper’d, so as not to come off rude;
The coach embark’d along the concrete drag
Twyx high-rise environs, with joy we view’d
The city; as it swallow’d us entire
Wirhin us well’d the fountains of desire.

Paris, we love you, we do already,
More kudos than any earthly city,
Intoxicating wafts, ever-heady,
Of melting, ethnic electricity,
Creating a certain soft & steady
Rapture for living life’s felicity;
& just so classy, sense I, as we march
Under the Arc de Triumph’s varnish’d arch.

Along the Champs-Elysees, further down
Spreads, vibrant, the Tuileries, where strolls
Ms Baker, with a cheetah, into town,
& Catherine de Medici look’d at scrolls
In which De L’Orme would consecrate her crown;
The perfect palace beautiful, which sprawls
Beside the Seine, where ‘les bouqinistes’ trade
These tat-like antiques trinketly array’d.

Thou busted land of sweet Lutetian airs,
Of charming boulevards & barges trim,
Of cinemas & parks, where on green chairs,
Parisians thro’ poet’s pages skim,
Thy searing beauty caught us unawares,
Like infants hearing first a holy hymn,
When most of all we loved the way plann’d we
To spend a future holiday with thee.

Somewhere in the Fifth Arrondissement
Our hotel stands, with one of Longchamps’ maps
Guiding our steps, we found the logement –
Hotel le Clos de Notre Dame – whose taps
Shone like seraphs; ‘neath timber beams, sat on
The windowsill we peer’d between the gaps
Of blinds & curtains – faces, fabric, feet,
Of people live from Paris, ‘cross the street.

That night, an opera without the plot,
Without a doubt the best that I’d ever had,
With Sally looking oh so fucking hot!
We wander’d golden, voyeuristic, glad,
Where poet Antoine Houdart de la Motte
Once cast, in French, an early Iliad,
& Scotland’s Bonnie Prince did love to stroll
In exile, with his mistress, in the Fall.

This is a place where people give a shit
About how looks their home, a fine antique
Reeking of stories,’ ‘Sally let us sit
Awhile by Notre Dame,’ there, cheek-to-cheek,
We cuddl’d, kissing in a perfect fit,
Souls sensing ‘c’est fluide et c’est complique,’
When every single second comes too soon,
The joy & sadness of our honeymoon.

Back in our chamber, touching skin, I find
Sally’s panties’ paradise, with a slant
I slip my hands between, a gentle grind,
‘Til thrusting finger pays the gold bezant
& lust delays no longer, in a bind
Of bodies, breaking silence with a pant,
A moan, a squeak, or both the sunken gasp
Of climax, when we tight as magnets clasp.

Her form is as the morning’s blithesome sun,
Capp’d by a lustrous canopy of beams,
Her face a summer cloud the heat has won,
Round which the bright glow of her daylight gleams,
Her smile the cloud that drifts a little on
& sheds a breath of beauty by the streams,
Where whispers, still, this ceaseless love for she
Who reels my heart from solace, royally.

I am the Silver Rose this purple morn
That clambers over roofpeaks with set poise,
This Seine, this celebration, seems reborn
In me, a poet feeling first her joys,
But amplified to grandeur by the horn
Of mankind’s pearl’d advancement, what a noise!
Shaking tremendous force thro’ vaults below –
No! that clatter was in fact the metro.

I took a seat upon the Pont Neuf Bridge
& paus’d there like a panting cicerone,
Sat in a semi-circle, on a ridge
Above the river, I lay on the stone,
The emblem of this epic pilgrimage,
Whose petal-like philosophies have grown
Into this verbose effigy of me;
Mine immortality’s ain nominee!

For future bards & artists who have felt,
Deep passions & my poetry entwine,
Who’ve find themselves in Paris; as I’ve knelt
By Shelley’s tomb, with pencils, & with wine;
Into this seated moment let them melt
& place a pair of roses as a sign
To passing people, centuries apart –
A poet’s quill still thrills the human heart!

I’ve liv’d before, but now I’ll live real life,
As pleasant as a summer morning’s stroll,
She’s destiny, she’s perfect, she’s my wife,
The one thing that I can & can’t control,
Sometimes seems she as sharp as shark-tooth knife,
Sometimes as tender as a suckling foal,
With Sal, the need to roam the world withstood,
Her heart my home, her happiness my blood.