(AA) Canto 77: Ramayana
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Great cultures start in poetry
IA Richards
Two Poets
And this is what he sang or said,
In notes of mingled music made;
And now he paused, and now he played
N.V. Thadani
Atop a hotel’d rooftop apse I poise,
This Cadair Idris of mine eastern rhymes,
Breaking from trance I glance towards the noise
Of saddhu, who to summit slowly climbs;
“Aalvaar,” said he,
“Valmiki is my name,
Ye could, perhaps, tell me of worlds from whence ye came?”
“Alas,” said I, “My plane seems shorn
Of Universal Values,
Depite all things ’tis still wartorn,
Streaming battle-splatter’d news…
Tell me, has ever there been born
A soul that all this rues,
Brimming with truth, honour, corragio,
As Florence did eight hundred years ago?”
“There was,” replied wisw Vaalmeeki,
“Such a man of Karma;
Love, honesty, heart, loyalty,
Truth, righteousness & dharma –
Come by me sit & listen to the legend-song of Rama.”
Arunachala
Noble Births
For lo ! the same old myths that made
The early ‘stage successes,’
Still ‘hold the boards,’ & still are played
Austin Dobson
I sing of Rama & his noble way;
Of human & animal, queen & king,
Of monsters, heroes & that dashing day
That keeping faith shall true salvation bring;
He was no lad
Of ordinary birth,
Within whom Vishnu had hidden godhead on earth.
Born in majestic Ayoudha,
Midst the first sprigs of the spring,
In the kingdom of Kosala
Where the Vedas saints do sing,
His father’s name Dasaratha,
Who was, too, Rama’s king,
Outshining men as moons outshine the stars,
First patron of our Prince of Avatars.
Graceful Laxsmi, Lord Vishnu’s queen,
Born as Princess Seeta,
Both grew unseen, ’til aged sixteen
Rama first did meet her,
& feels love leap between them, eternal, like a cheetah.
Ayoudh
Exiles
Here’s an apple. If you love me,
take it, girl, & then take me.
If you don’t – well, take the apple
Plato
As Sita was a child of holy glow,
So many try to win her hand in vain,
Only the bending of Lord Siva’s bow
Shall King Janaka’s strict acceptance gain;
Now Rama tries,
&, with a heave, at last,
Into the sun swept skies lets loose an arrow fast…
When two souls were reunited
So their woes on Earth begin,
Ancyent promises recited
Sends the King of Ayoudh aspin
Dasa-Ratha laughs delighted,
This toothless crone shall win,
The banishment of Rama fourteen years,
Fair Seeta stems the flow of father’s tears,
& with her husband, dutiful,
Leaves for a pale exile,
A pair so bright & beautiful,
Long summers in their smile,
For lovers true will share with joy the rigors of life’s trial.
Kosala
Magic Weapons
Life’s not something,
we put on the mantel of habit
and forget
Sohrab Sepehri
As exiled are these captains of a race,
Just leaves & deerskin cover modesty,
Thro’ pathless forest, roofless place-to-place,
Meet many rishis pledging tapasvi;
Of which number
One close to Rama drew,
Whisp’ring, “young wanderer I have three gifts for you!
Here is Brahma’s shining arrow
That targets never misses,
This, here, is Vishnu’s sacred bow,
Light as heavenly blisses,
& Indra’s quiver I’ll bestow,
O, such a gift this is,
For if to thee the Rakshasas appear
Thou art the only man these foes will fear.”
With this the rishi elsewhere drifts
As tho’ he’d never been,
Now Rama lifts these precious gifts,
Admires & spits them clean,
Aware that destiny us leads down strange paths unforeseen.
Chitrakoota Hill
Khara & Soorpanakha
I have composed this magical narrative;
I synchronized the lyrics as
A strewn new rose is recreated
Waris Shah
Now comes the start of Rama’s long distress,
Ravana’s demon-sister him would woo…
Him for no shameless female would undress,
Lakshmana’s honour into fury flew;
Her nose & ears
Sliced off & fall to floor,
Wailing away in tears a savage vengeance swore;
Returning with a brotherhood
Fourteen thousand Raksha strong,
Each braying to spill Rama’s blood,
Stood defiant as King Kong,
Whose arrows flung forth true & good,
Great carnage set among
Those demons as he dodg’d their rocks & trees –
His arrow storm the spray that swats cat’s fleas.
When, at last, the murder over
Raakshasas second best,
With Ravana’s younger brother
Dead lying with the rest –
Quaking the king of Lanka like nuclear climax press’d.
Dandaka Forest
Golden Stag
The weather brought
an injured deer
near the door
Magdalena Zurawski
Despite his chief advisor full of fear,
Lord Ravana’s sworn upon vengeance,
Transforms Maricha to a little deer,
So beautiful in tender innocence;
Its lovely face
By raptured Sita seen,
Forcing Rama give chase to satisfy his queen.
Now aiding cries of false distress
Flies demon-trick’d Lakshana,
Who lovely Sita left helpless
Unto the wrath Ravana
Who comes to her in hermit dress
Feigning humble manner,
That with a laugh is thrown off, & the guise,
Ten burning heads uprais’d with blazing eyes.
By mule-drawn golden chariot
Them off to Lanka flew,
Tho’ fishanet she does not fret
Down to a summit threw,
Her jewels… hoping mountain monkeys would know what to do.
Karnataka
Hanuman
If I be the rain
you the earth
let love be the seed
John Agard
After five weeks of searching Rama flopp’d
Exhausted, by Sugriva, Monkey King,
Who, showing him the necklace Sita dropp’d,
& promis’d to help him in her finding;
All monkeys, all
Across the world, divide
From Mandalay to Gaul, to find Prince Rama’s bride.
Lord Hanuman, of Monkeys great,
Whose name was writ in water,
Learns of the grievous Lankan fate
Of King Janaka’s daughter,
& hoping he was not to late,
Leaping as he sought her,
Bounded the Ocean to Ravana’s isle –
A single leap sheer vaulting mile-on-mile.
Once landed he transforms feline,
Soon Sita came in view,
O weary whine, O pining pine,
Til faith she does renew,
Sweet news from this whispering cat, “Rama shall recue you!”
Asoka Park
Battle of Lanka
With horns of flame & haggard eye
The mountain vomited with blood,
A thousand corpses down the flood
Roy Campbell
As Hanuman relays happy report
Rama is charg’d with strength fantastical,
Now with Sugriva & his heaving court,
Hurries to Lanka & a grand battle;
Into the waves
They fling great rocks & trees,
Enough for monkey braves to skip across the seas.
Soon conflict flurries night & day
In the mountains & the plains,
Morasses of mad melees sway
Blood streams down like summer rains,
Swerve Elephants thro’ dust & fray
As Raakshasas grow pains –
In a flash Ravana faces Rama,
Promising his life & wife to Yama.
The duel raged, all mercy gone,
Both sworn to each attack,
Maul marathon as one-by-one
Shorn ten heads growing back,
Til Brahma’s barb pierced demon heart with wild, climatic CRACK!
Lanka
Sita’s Virtue
Thus absence dyes, & dying proves
No absence can consist with Loves
That do partake of fair perfection
Owen Felltham
As demons die so do the skies grow dim,
No longer lit by fine heroic fire,
Indra himself could never vanquish him
Who now lies lifeless on a burning pyre;
Denounced by drums,
Shadow’d by dishonour,
To Rama Sita comes, tainted shame upon her.
& quoth, “My love, if ye doubt me,
I, too, shall go to the flame,
For tho’ I bare full purity
Hear I gossip of my shame!”
Thus Sita steps up happily
Onto that burning blame
But not to ashes did her fair flesh fall,
For she was honest – Agni heard her call,
& saves her from those lethal burns,
Her faith her fate embalms,
& justice earns, now she returns
Into her chosen’s arms,
As when a Trojan poem ends & all that fuss becalms.
Lanka
(AA) Canto 78: Mopping Ups
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After the one thousand celestial years of Kali-yuga, the Satya-yuga will manifest again. At that time the minds of all men will become self-effulgent
Bhāgavata Purāṇa
Callousosities
Through the view of the city
In flames, we rewound times
Of executions at beaches
Ben Okri
With policemen reeling like headless chickens
Ismail & Ajmal leave the groaning hall,
Such sad sight of sticky bodies sickens,
This was no movie-shooting, not at all;
A baby wail’d
Beside its dying kin,
As when the Ak-Ak fail’d to save wargrave Berlin.
By GPS these gunmen roam,
To perpetrate further crimes
Moving thro’ lamplit monochrome
As if marching under limes,
Loosing three potshots at the home
Of India’s own Times,
Then passing Hazad Madan Police Force hide
Gates lock’d & lights switch’d off, all terrified.
Another target search’d they then
Off in the distance saw
The temple where a citizen
If injur’d, sick & sore,
Can enter into altruism’s blood-flow guarantor.
Cama
November 26th
2008
Desperate Scuffles
Clamour raised upon clamour
Rattle of armour, death squeals,
A mind, erratic within
Burns Singer
As surrealities blew absurder,
Watching the news on silent sets they know
Mumbai was war zone, whirlwind of murder,
All doors locking, shutters closed, curtains drew,
The hospital
Grew nervous, fearful, tense
Strong as Sevastopol, seditious with suspense.
Rang gunshots, them the very first,
That turn’d real life to battle,
As Harishandra heard the burst
His very bones did rattle,
Then Abu Ismail turn’d & curs’d,
Waving shiny metal,
At Harishandra’s throat, he dash’d & slash’d,
Held back by briefcase, tho’ his neck was gash’d
He kneed this groping terrorist,
A whopper for the groin
Who groan’d & hiss’d, then shot, then miss’d,
Then trotted off to join
His fellow chattel battle-boy to life’s breathing to purloin.
Cama Hospital
November 26th
2008
Labour Pains
In the distance a star was absorbing
my tiredness, and itself heading like a pilgrim
towards you, leaving blank its place in the heavens
Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi
Praying to Vishnu, Allah & the Lord
Of Love, rough hatred stalks the corridors,
Ishmail waving his rifle like a sword,
Qasab shooting at shadows every pause;
Within one room
A woman writhes in pain,
To scream would mean their doom, white sheets began to stain…
“You must, my child, this pain endure…”
Nurse fixes deep each eye,
A flash of pupils rippling pure,
“Else all of us here will die
Your bonnie infant please immure
& little longer, try
Delay her first fresh gulp of precious breath,
For yards away rampage the guards of death!”
She squinted eyes, she bit her lips,
She clutch’d the sweating sheet,
Twyx flesh & hips her baby rips,
As labor pains repeat,
Wrack’d with a primal hunger young life craved for momma’s teet.
Cama Hospital
November 26th
2008
Death of Heman Kukari
Anguish, anguish is my heritage
my throat’s wound
my heart’s cry in the world
Par Lagerkvist
Ajmal felt Ismail was a Hashemite
& Mumbai a modern Acaladama,
Sad trails of bumbledom bled thro’ the night
& now, as they exited the Cama,
Some car appears,
Four policemen spot within,
As fast the chassis nears its shot into a spin.
Mumbai’s first counter-terrorist
Flung unbreathing from his seat,
A second dragg’d out by his wrist
For to bleed out in the street,
Another quickly got the gist
& barely breath’d a beat –
Awkward, wounded, pretending to be dead,
As on him two dead bodies bled & bled.
As Ismail sped a getaway
Qasab got out his gun,
A silver spray, a ricochet
Cuts down a Cath’lic nun
These might well be their ending-hours, but damn it, they’d have fun!
Cama
November 26th
2008
Closest Calls
My thoughts are as a garden plot, that knows
No rain but of thy giving, & no rose
Except thy name. I dedicate it thine
Mu’Tamid
As Arun Jadav under colleagues lay,
As breathing’s imperceptible shallows,
As firm an ‘I don’t want to die today,’
Inside his mind demolish’d unkind gallows;
A phone vibrates,
Yogesh Patil’s pocket,
Explodes, the jangling grates, ‘please, sweet Siva, stop it!’
Qassab whipp’d round & fired & burst,
Like Klansmen at the lynching,
His body trembling with blood-thirst,
Every fiber flinching,
The bullets Yogesh murders first,
Then, steadily inching
To Arjun’s head, them by a thumb’s width stopp’d,
The ammo spent, the cartridge Qassab dropp’d,
Reloading, then, he did not blaze
Another burst behind,
With pure amaze still lives his days,
The gods, for now, were kind,
But this night of the crazy dog, by which mad god design’d?
Cama
November 26th
2008
Modern Battles
For it’s order & trumpet & anger & drum,
And power & glory command you to come
The graves shall fly open & suck you all in
W.H. Auden
The terrorists secured room 632,
A perfect stronghold for the coming fray,
For India’s fury at them, they knew,
Would soon be flung as Cossacks heckl’d Ney;
Steroids, cocaine,
Syringes, LSD,
All weariness will wane aface the enemy.
They gather’d silken mattresses
& set the Taj aflame,
Giving the world such images
As to match Bin Laden’s fame,
The sixth floor burning glorious,
Alight in Allah’s name,
A vision strewn from London to Lahore
An instant twitter’d shore to distant shore.
I stagger’d in a bloody daze
Up to the rooftop high,
Watching the blazing fingers raise
Their angers to the sky,
& waiting for my rescuers sat down & wondered why?
Taj Mahal Hotel
November 27th
2008
Fading Strength
No gravestone stands at Babi Yar
Only coarse earth heaped roughly on the gash
Such dread comes over me. Today I am a Jew
Marie Syrkin
A new day dawns at Nariman – a day
Lacking water, food morsels, most distress’d
Mentalities, hostages frighted to say
A single word, when the world’s interest
Did rivet glare,
On them all, all agape,
& certainly aware, there will be no escape!
The mobile phone tinkl’d again,
All night long it had pester’d,
“My brothers, you shall soon obtain
Thy martyrdom, sequester’d
In paradise, but don’t be vain,
Do not be arrested,
God promises, with immortality
Comes honor, brother, listen, carefully,
Go shoot each hostage in the head,
& I’ll stay on the line,
& when them dead full shall be spread
The wings of the divine…”
Above the rooves rose helicopter rotors with a whine.
Nariman House
November 27th
2008
Relief
Let sanity have strength & men unite
Who in their individual lives are glad
That what remains of peace may yet prove strong
H.B. Mallailieu
I heard the sounds drift louder, shift elsewhere,
& reckon’d I’d survived, a fearsome fight
To fuel my pen, to make the world aware,
We are all children of the purest light;
When worst of wrongs
We druids educate,
Bring change thro’ famous songs to tame & elevate.
Ensophic as the dragonflies
That in times web will tarry,
The drum of humming multiplies
Upon the wings that carry
Onwards all, exhales like sighs
From some hari kari,
Unchains the soul that answers goes to seek,
Like standing on Parnassus’ sacred peak.
The sounds of loud explosions stopp’d,
& I felt safe at last
The fever flopp’d, the temper dropp’d
But still I flourish’d fast,
& so to rooftop ventur’d out, sprawl-corpses stepping past.
Taj Mahal Hotel
November 27th
2008
Captured
I ask’d a dying sinner, ere the tide
Of life had left his veins, – “Time!” he replied;
“I’ve lost ot! ah, the treasure!” & he died
Joshua Marsden
Finding a bullet had a back tyre blown,
Ismail & Ajmal fresher car hijack,
Behind, a bleeding cop took drags out his phone
A witness to their terrible attack,
“But that was then!”
He cried, “& this is now!
Warn all the men, yes warn them all, they’re headed for Gilgao!”
His comrades built a strong blockade,
As Skoda toward it sped,
Spinning before the barricade,
Like a weaver works a thread,
As Ismail finger’d his grenade
A volley blasts him dead,
Ajmal stumbles out feigning surrender
Gun hidden for final, senseless murder.
Noble Ombli leapt on Ajmal,
& took shot-after-shot
& as he fell his comrades yell,
Ascrum the gunman got,
A vital living clue for to unravel this foul plot.
Girgaun
November 27th
2008
(AA) Canto 79: Tainted Vedas
**********************************
It tugs at all of your sensibilities as a human being. It reminds everybody of the extraordinary complexity of choices in war & of what war does to people, to communities, to countries, to the world
John Kerry
Selectivities
Burning my house to keep
them out, you sowed wind. Hear it blow!
Soon you reap
John Beecher
Seyfi & Meltem felt no closer bond
Than ever had their lovers vows renew’d,
& of that comfort never felt more fond,
Holding each other as the others stew’d;
Those poor young girls,
With terror in their tears,
Whose captors’ flapping curls toward them, snarling, nears,
Then started to divide the five,
Stood, Seyfi, never surer,
“No, kill us here!” aloof, alive,
He pray’d the truthest surah…
“We no kill brothers,” as survive,
With no passion purer,
The Turks were separated, to a room
The others took, stepping inside their tomb
Into their bodies bullets pump pump’d
The Turks dared no glance back
As down they slumped, like baggage dump’d,
Adrenaline drew slack,
But left an epic galloping of springing cardiac.
Taj Mahal Hotel
November 27th
2008
Reactions
Well may the cavern depths of earth
Be shaken & her mountains nod;
Well may the sheeted dead come forth
JG Whittier
Far from a local policeman’s lethargy
Delhi’s commandos flown into the fray,
The bullish fervor of the NSG,
Design’d to keep Bin Laden’s dogs at bay;
Relief at last,
With the hardware grounded,
Before an hour has pass’d all flashpoints surrounded.
Mumbaikers bolted every door,
Their streets are mostly empty,
They’d never felt such fear before,
Tho’ fear they’d had & plenty,
Incredulity thro’ them tore
As down at CST
Bodies betow’d away by porter cars –
A city under siege & under stars!
Old tailor sat glued to his set,
Etch’d head held in wise hands,
Weary & wretched sensed the threat
From window-smashing bands,
A Muslim in the Hindu sphere, ‘Revenge!’ Mumbai demands.
Taj Mahal Hotel
November 27th
2008
Death of Fahadullah
You had a land in the age of darkness
unused to suicide or traffic
and its prayer-wheels turned like the sun
Mark Abley
As when, after our roseate sunset
With red rage bleeds, then fades as day brightens
Or when the last drags on a cigarette
Burns the throats cage, or when looseness tightens
Between two souls
Who thought they’d ever be
Like one, perfection falls to plight & perjury.
The phone rings out… “Yes?” “How are you?”
“Wounded…” “Brother Abdul?” “Slain…”
“Can you get out & throw a few
Grenades?” “I’ve none left…” “Your pain
In Paradise will pass…” outblew
The doors as muzzles train
Upon a shepherd’s son from Pakistan
Whose bullet stun, then slay… a tundra’s span
Of shock across the country drove
Groveless terraforma…
A spicy clove dropp’d in the stove,
“Want some chicken korma?”
“But mama, look!” “It’s just Mumbai” so dilutes the trauma.
Thiruvanamalai
October 27th
2008
Mumbai Musings
When this is all over I’ll make it up to you,
we’ll sit down and talk, as normal people do.
Evasiveness and half-truths will be a thing of the past
Gatoaitele Savea Sano Malifa
I stood upon the rooftop of the Taj,
All fire & brimstone in the floors below,
Strange place to find my soiree round the Raj,
A seat no other man would surely know;
Art lock’d in synch,
My subject & my song,
& I the living link, some lyrical King Kong.
As helicopters overhead
Went swoop-a-hoop like dragons,
I saw the discs & cable thread
Of pressmen in their wagons,
Wonder’d how many then were dead,
Lives fell’d by terror-guns,
In stiffen’d heaps of twisted sleeping piled,
It seem’d as if Laxsmi on me had smiled.
I watch the sunrise in the East,
Thank Surya for it,
Alive at least, the day’s deceas’d
Speaking to my poet,
“Remember us forever, sir, let your verses show it”
The Taj Mahal Hotel
November 27th
2008
Sandra Samuel
I hang on the edge
of this universe
singing off-key
Nikki Giovanni
When morning broke the Rabbi clung to life,
His hope the hand that clings to clifftop ledge,
“As hostages,” he soothes his antsy wife,
“Why would they ever cast us ‘cross the edge!”
Just one phone call
Demolishes their dreams,
Shot parents stain wall while little Moska screams.
His nanny left the hiding place
As the gunfire moved elsewhere,
& charging up the back staircase
Took the baby in her care,
Stared awhile at daddy’s face
That blankly back did stare
Then rush’d outside quite antilochus-fast –
Thro’ courage & quick-thinking dangers pass’d.
The operation’s master-throne
Watches events unfold,
Then telephones, the gunmen groan,
At slackness he did scald,
To hear, “You’re very close to Heaven, brothers please be bold.”
Nariman House
November 27th
2008
Negotiations
Oh Jerusalem, the city of sorrow
A big tear wandering in the eye
Who will halt the aggression
Nizar Qabbani
As Pakistani master on the phone
Of Qassab’s capture news communicates,
& overhead, wings spread, spymaster drone
Collected data, chewing on their dates,
Two terrorists
Counting Qassab’s costage
Unbind the rope-tied wrists of a dog-tired hostage.
“Tell India’s Prime Minister
If our brother not releas’d
To us then, something sinister
Sentenc’d is, as tension increas’d
Waved was explosive canister
In Norma’s face , threats ceas’d,
“If you do this, for him, for us, for me
You’ll sabbath celebrate with family.”
As she those wild demands relay’d,
The truth she truly knew
Her trust afraid, only delay’d
.Was death that closer drew –
She said goodbye, hung up the phone, “They’ll see what they can do.”
Nariman House
November 27th
2008
Wedding Reception
The echo rings of a strange mystery,
The human cry, the sobs of misery
Of a wild desperate love — defeated — spent
Ada Negri
With Mumbai’s grandest icon all aflame
& government resolve set to sternest,
The chief of police at last defends his name,
“Begin evacuation in earnest!
The enemy
Trapp’d on an upper floor!
Beneath them solemnly, lie casualties of war!”
Our weddings are inspiring
A day to never forget,
Guests were huddl’d from the firing
Like young tuna near a net,
From their miseries retiring,
They’d play’d Russian roulette –
Breathless, blinkless, scatter’d in shatter’d rooms –
Nerves shredded, heartbeats leaping at the booms.
The groom was safely led outside,
Eyes blinking in the light,
O how they cried, his sweet, young bride
Stood there in sari white,
Thou’ stain’d with others’ bloodshed, it had been a dreadful night.
Taj Mahal Hotel
November 27th
2008
Mopping Up
Never will I stop crying
yesterday’s memories will
always linger
Mutabaruka
As Berlin drank the dregs of Hitler’s war
With Allies all-denuding on all sides
The denouement of sixty hours of gore
Closes on two lads with no hope to hide;
Their final stand
Beneath blades heliborne
Sought out by death’s dread hand their manly vigor worn.
A rocket flew into their room
Half-a-second ‘fore demise,
That with a flash & crash & BOOM
Blew the brains out of their eyes,
‘Twas an instantaneous doom
& as the battle dies
The city streets all beeps & cheering pup
As if Tendulkar had won the World Cup.
They brought ten bodies from the shell,
Prayed for the lost rabbi,
For when war-hell on humans fell,
A few Jews too must die,
Like… when to Auschwitz Berlin once diverted gas supply.
Nariman House
November 27th
2008
Goodbye To All That
Thou should’st tell me all its story,
Whence, and where, it cometh here,
That my heart may yet be wary
Herr Ulrich von Liechtenstein
A festival of recriminations
Post-prandial, erupted thro’ Mumbai,
The wreckage of the battlefield stations
Itself in every single middle eye;
When dirty dusts
Taterdamalian
The common psyche crusts with scriking alien.
For that’s how terror operates
& all such propaganda
Some turns the murderers to greats
Like quenchless Alexander,
Some poisons us, some separates
Families – demand the
Truth, I say, not creochsiping bullshit,
Like Ukraine pseudo-wars & Covid spit.
The sentence of the people squats
& squirts its dirty shits
In copper pots… meanwhile robots
Assemble broken bits,
& recreate realities that terrorism splits!
India
November 27th
2008
(AA) Canto 80: Raj & Rose
**********************************
This supreme intellect Sarasvati
Illuminator of speech
May you adorn my throat
With words to clarify the world
Gendun Chopel
Inspirations
Always catching the thread
Of actions, histories,
To live, to think, to feel, to love
Boris Pasternak
The glitz, the glamour & the grandiose
Reduced to rubble at that privilege,
Now future tourists shall forever pose
By Taj & Trident as at Arnhem Bridge;
The all-clear sounds,
The hotels are secure,
Namore howling hellhounds must Mumbaikers endure.
While standing in the CST
I closed mine eyes a moment,
Imagining the liberty
Of murderous militant
The escharotic agony
Of scrannel innocent –
My gloomy heart begins to palpitate
Full ruminating on a friendless fate.
I desquamate to sleeper class
Upon the Goa train,
To slowly pass that mighty mass
Of skyscraper & crane,
Sat fingering my bullet-wound & wincing at the pain
Mumbai
December
2008
Golden Goa
Oh to be a boy once more,
Curly-headed, sitting singing
’Midst a thousand flowerets springing
Thomas Aird
We trace the outline of the Western Ghats,
Dawn stirs the steaming jungle from her sleep,
Goa gleams! Golden garden of ex-pats,
Dream shores Iberian…what Dolphins leap
From wave to wave
As deft as nymph on lyre –
Last lingering enclave of Lisboan empire.
For to oust upstart invader
The Marathas march in mail,
Ramparts stout at Fort Aguada
Fearsome wrath fails to avail,
A hiss…allowing another
Elizabethan pale,
Assault abandoned, acceptance express’d,
Obeysive message offer’d to the West.
We revv’d n masse to the Nine Bar,
My mount a twin-wheel’d steed,
Thro’ sunset sha to Shangri-La
Twirl’d with the techno creed,
On LSD, blues, ecstasy, beer, dexys, weed & speed.
Vagator
December
2008
Seasider
To guard all joys of yours from time’s estranging,
I shall be then a treasury where your gay,
Happy & pensive past unaltered is
Alice Meynell
Waking up in Goa I must admit
It feels nice to get away from it all;
Rainy days, credit crunch, fake news & shit,
Eking out existence from work to dole;
Come cruise the road
& set the spirit free,
Four thousand miles from home thro’ hill-gouge junglery.
Sacred Lord Parashurama
Striding mighty mountains high,
Drawing on the force of karma,
Letting cosmic arrow fly,
Landed with much melodrama
As Gods on Earth apply –
No business but obeyance as the land –
Pure, perfect stretch of sand – like summer spanned.
Dragon’s moon gazes on Goa,
The guest houses all full,
Half-built villa! homeless squatter,
The dogbark silence dull,
& when I woke the waves rolled white, the sun’s rays wonderful,
Benaulim
December
2008
Idyllicity
I open my eyes, but still cannot see,
the best thing I have, you’ve given to me,
I’ve searched all my life, to fulfill my being
Matthew Welsh
A little further down the Konkan tide
I found a beach & bay of perfect pitch,
Curvaceous groves of coconut groves ridge-side,
Divided by the sunset’s tribal switch;
Alive by night,
Days laze so solarful,
On motorbikes alight for quests historical.
Oporto’s captain strode along
The rampart’s red ramshackle,
“The moat is deep, the walls are strong,
Terrain too tough to tackle,
Still… tell the men in three-fold prong
Teach the East of battle!”
Another day of bloodshed to appall
Raja of Soonda soon surrenders all.
Cocktails at the Cafe del Mar,
Sharkmeat at Palolem
The beach, the bar, the Greek guitar,
The sweet peace of Patnem,
The cosmpolotania, life’s cool creme de la creme.
Canacona
Decemberr
2008
Paradise Beaches
I want to breathe the Lotus flow’r,
Sighing to the stars
With tendrils drinking at the Nile
Gwendolyn Bennett
To Pterodactyl town I took the train
Where brahmin study sanskrit in a chain
Of hands on shoulders, sat in groups of four,
Whose sacred dusts now coating my shoey skein;
As beach-by-beach
I stroll the island’s edge
With coconuts & peach, naan, roti & non veg.
I watched the golden fleeces hang
Upon the sands all gorgeous,
Beside Om Beach a young stud sang
A strong Oasis choruss,
From teeming jungle monkeys sprang,
Summon’d out by Horus
To share the sheer delight of Paradise –
Next up a plate of biryani rice.
On Half-Moon Beach with beer quite chill’d –
Refrigeratorless,
Each dawn unfold, out of the hold
Of vessels as they pass,
Big blocks of ice heave-carried in to cool the tourist class.
Gokarna
January
2009
In Search of Wellington
I anoint my flesh
Thought is hallowed in the lean
Oil of solitude
Wole Soyinka
Beside the rushes of the Kaveri,
Yon the silicon crush of Bangalore,
Lies the capital, lost to history,
Of Tipu Sultan, Tyger of Mysore;
An elfin town
Its ruin’d fortress wall,
Once keeping safe a crown, testament to it’s fall.
His Highness storm’d the British breach,
Precious pistols in each hand,
Teeth clench’d, show’ring curses to teach
This heathen to leave his land,
But royal flesh feels soft as peach,
At this, his final stand,
Troops of scarlet Scots, drunk on blood & rum,
Made murder to the beat of Wellesley’s drum.
We skirt the spot where wailers found
Bejewell’d Raja spread
On crimson ground ‘neath mangl’d mound
Of proud & loyal dead –
“Drive on,” my pony carriage whipt, to other beauties sped.
Sriringapatanam
January
2009
Saint Thomas
There’s a smile on the vine-clad shore,
A smile on the castl’d heights;
They dream back the days of yore
Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton
My soul’s boatman cuts thro’ Karnataka,
Bursting once more atop these feisty Ghats
Crowning luscious jungles of Kerala,
Where crucifix, idol & muslim mats
Share in delight,
Harmoniously furl’d,
Rare bastion of light in this conflicted world.
The swanhelm’d ship came in to sand
Bearing bearded apostle,
Stunn’d naked natives watch’d the hand
That stroked the Lamb’s own temple,
Fish levitate from sea to land,
Faith inspiring symbol –
From this day hence the sound of Jesus’ name
Shall burnish certain Asian hearts with flame.
A space in some young side I fill,
Amid the Toddies tall,
They sense my skill, a tense nil-nil,
‘Til as the shadows fall
I slink past six defenders (two were trees) – the winning goal!
Calicut
January
2009
Oriental Oasis
There are days like that
which sing orange and red
in the forest of our ordinary green
Moya Cannon
As Ghats give way to wide Deccan plateau
Hard is the journey – dusty, hot & dry –
As into view wyrd mounds of boulders grow
Ruin’d pillars that yore-since bouy’d the sky;
An Eastern Rome
Once soar’d amidst the stone,
The great King Krishna’s home’s now rubble, husk & bone.
This was a place to muse on man
In the ruins of his past,
Far from the world’s tobacco ban
& it’s television mast,
Was this part of a divine plan
Or mortal plaster cast –
Scenery settled in serenity,
A haven from human hostility.
Gliding by graceful coracle,
Serene as English spa,
Aft brief ramble, robust scramble,
Claim summit…from afar
Pastel luster’d sunsets muster’d oer Vijiyanagar.
Hampi
January
2009
Real India
But when thou joinest with the nine
& all the powers of song combine
We listen here on Earth
John Keats
I took a walk about the environs
Of Hampi’s lake, & found, there, India;
Chai at the crossroads, where old men in talk
Matchlight beedies all squatting together;
The plodding gait
Of water buffaloes
Disturbs the days debate… nearby a gang of crows
Attack the fruit the wee truck drops
Outside the beauty parlour,
Next door, each side, two little shops
Sell Lay’s ‘Magic Masala’
To smiling schoolgirls in white tops,
While the rickshawala
Waits to transport them to the school convent
I sat, & smiled, & watched, as innocent
Life seems in such a quiet place
Where venture’d, I, this youth,
In some made race thro’ time & space,
A child faced with life’s truth
Existences thrive everywhere – beware the bear’s buck tooth!
Sanapur
January
2009
(AA) Canto 81: Arunachala
**********************************
The pyramids have been eroded by the desert wind, the marble broken by earthquakes, & the gold stolen by robbers, while the Veda remains, recited daily by an unbroken chain of generations, traveling like a great wave thro’ the living substance of mind
Jean Le Mee
Civilisations
This evening walk deserves a poem.
A plane gleaming over the suburbs
Sinks into the bluish dusk
Semezdin Mehmedinović
As truck on truck announced wide cityscape,
With glassy towers scraping hazy sky,
I hoped immediately to escape,
The modern world where monies multiply;
Where east meets west
This valley silicon
Like some ten-headed beast born for Armageddon.
A whirl of British companies,
Thought it better to offload
Its highly taxed dependencies
Sending British jobs abroad
Computerised communities
Spread down the KH road
Eye of the vortex that is man’s progress –
Sports complexes, xerox & western dress.
As I tried to leave the city
The streets were cramm’d gridlock,
Grimy, gritty, slimy, shitty,
Til well past eight o clock
A vision of commuter hell, confusing Ragnaraok.
Bangalore
December
2008
Kerala
Carry my soul to the tented
Gypsy mystic, tinted, scented,
Take it to be finger-printed
Reza Mohammadi
Thro’ groves of coconut boles we venture,
To stand where epic Lusiad lay ceased,
Fisher village where Vasco de Gama
First sank renaissance gaze upon the East;
Further along
I find a fair city,
Furnish’d with friendly throng & AC library.
They palanquin’d embassadours
Thro’ crowds wide-eyed & gawping,
Depositing those pale litters
At the ring’d toes of their king,
Decadent Zamorin glitters,
What did these envoys bring?
Strange instruments of medicine & war,
The winds of trade blown to his spicy shore.
The latest one-dayer play’d out
Twixt England & our hosts,
Sehwag bowl’d out, my single shout
A meal of lonely toasts…
Flintoff fires off the final runs…clientelle fade like ghosts.
Calicut
December
2008
Hippy
Ten days of peacocks, none dare speak,
From sitting legs-cross’d on cool floor
My knees groan aching as they creak
Angelica Freitas
Sailing between these tranquil backwaters,
Palm-fring’d horizon burst all around me,
Before this treasure gold of Kerala’s
All made to stand in stark humility,
For scenes like these
Reveal wond’rous nature –
We slipt with sweeten’d ease into Kollam harbour.
The beatnik & his blues guitar
Stumbl’d on this perfect place,
Clift portion of the Malabar;
Sand, ocean, sun & solace,
But secrets are soon scatter’d far,
The Western tourists race
To plant their towel standards on the beach
Round which limpet rest’rants & hotels leech.
I dined with maid Slovenian,
Talk’d art, Trieste & Rome,
Slow flirtation! Our supper done
I walk’d her half-way home,
To make love midst the wave-breaks while the moonbeams snaked the foam.
Varkala
December
2008
Three Seas
When you go, space closes over like water behind you,
Do not look back: there is nothing outside you,
Space is only time visible in a different way
Ivan V. Lalić
At last the Ghats have peter’d to their end,
Sole, savage witch-peaks all which now remain,
Until we reach the grand Cormarin bend
Where ends Amritsar’s forty-eight hour train;
Join’d eclectic
In one wylde, chopping squall
Waves from the Antarctic, Araby & Bengal.
Ashes scatter’d on ocean stream,
Last remains of Mahatma,
Opponent of London’s regime
Nurtured in South Africa,
Returning preaching freedom’s dream
With soft satyahara –
This half naked fakir’s staff thin & long
Ensorcell’d his multitudinous throng.
Ghandi guides a blood red bindi
To rest upon the line
Slipping slowly into the sea,
The sky an evening wine,
I turn left face, step forth for North & Himalayan pine.
Kanayakamari
December
2008
Tamil Nadu
It has no name; silence is its name.
In the nothing, becoming nothing,
begetting nothing; this is everything
Chris Abani
I winch in each pinch of a varied view,
Shaking to this train’s novelty suspense,
After six sardine hours I’m plunged into
Some busy little city street intense;
Here to sample
Some scene which I was told,
India’s best temple bosom’d in urban fold.
The heart of the Dravidian
Fell to Vijiyanagar,
Who built a Hindu pantheon
Taller than its rising star,
Each kaleidoscopic mountain
Melodic without par,
Enough to urge grown women shed their tears,
Still painted heavenly ev’ry twelve years.
Opium! Coleridgean wish
Heeded by bloodshot man,
Dark, oily dish, crunch… ‘What is this?
Liquerice!…’ My mind’s span
Blew interspatial round the room as thought flew with the fan.
Madurai
December
2008
Indiana Byron
In a small side room appears
a broken-armed statue of Ganesh.
Touching the crumbled marble
Tiziana Colusso
Gorgeous Coromandel, crown prince of coasts,
My wanderlust has earn’d thine ancyent treats,
Meagre are glimpses of the Gallic ghosts
Dwelt within this grid of well ponder’d streets;
An antique chair,
Deep tann’d Gendarmerie,
All that retains the air transported from Paris.
Discovering rare poetry
Is the poet’s shooting star,
Like at Kannayakamari
Where stands Thiruvallavar,
Sri Aurobino’s Savitri,
On grand, Miltonic par,
Words wonderful, more wondrous to behold
Than Cortez did with Moctezuma’s gold.
I wafted in on inland scent
& left by soft, sea breeze,
Before I went…bemustach’d gent…
“A cool kingfisher please!”
I nearly piss’d myself when he hiss’d, “Thirty six rupees!”
Pondicherry
December
2008
Mystic Mountain
While his staff the traveller handles
In his weary journeying,
Thorns may tear his dusty sandals
TG Spear
As busses thunder over Tamil plains
I wonder why my muse has brought me here
Until, out of the misty monsoon rains,
Strange, solitary mountain-scapes appear;
Them mystic climb
& one especially
Inspires my mind to rhyme & find good poetry
“Arunachala rising red
Mountain of sacred musing,
Upon thy peak I’ll make a bed
& there with future fusing
I’ll sing the visions in my head
Happily perusing
Thro’ all the written scrolls of things to come
Such as… Chyren took Greece from Pergamum!”
I snapp’d out of that sayer-trance
& stept down from the bus
Into a handsome human dance
Of poori, fruit & fuss,
& faced the mountain as Saint Paul first sail’d from Ephesus
Thiruvannamali
December
2008
Lingamica
it is with joy that I sit
here. It is life I hold dear
in the ordinary quiet
Sally Nacker
As I ascend those smooth, bouldering slopes
My spiritus smouldering with desire
All history & all my heartfelt hopes
Kindle fresh sparks of man’s immortal fire;
My lips slow parch
As patterns they rehearse,
The long resounding march of old, heroic verse.
I have reach’d the sacred summit
Oer Thiruvannamali,
With the inkpen of the poet
& a modus of Magi,
Awaiting some untroubl’d fit
Those Deities supply,
To gently come into my feeble breast
& this falconic flight feel it infest.
I sat cross-legged, folded arms,
My third eye opens wide,
Beyond the farms, Pondy’s gendarmes,
The Bay of Bengal’s glide,
Then visions drive deep into space t’where sayer-stars abide.
Tamil Nadu
December
2008
Annagalactica
Fashioned to carry the world,
Satisfied with the shape of my nose,
Which should breathe all the air of the World
Bernard Dadié
Peering deep into planetary shift
Blisses man’s mind with Anaxagoras
Seeing events as they sway wide & drift
Thro happening’s full unexpectedness;
Pelagius
Defined the same seer-tricks
As divine Dante does descrying Beatrix.
& so, as strands of time converge,
On a space up in the spheres
Strange visions of events emerge
Far across the span of years
That flicker to & fro & surge
Til nearer each appears –
Strange omens of Jehova & the Beast
& that last battle in the Middle East.
When all these scenes eclampsian
Are driven off by dawn
Some laurel-mantl’d dragoman
On Siva’s sacred throne,
Etching grand mythopoeics, an epic hath turn’d to stone.
Arunachala
(AA): L’Altoparnasso
What has been may be again: another Homer, & another Virgil, may possibly arise from those very causes which produced the first
John Dryden
Olympiads
All that mortal man possesses
has mortality & passes;
everything goes hurrying past
Lucian
The age of frigging empire is over,
The time for global harmony arriv’d,
World flocks to Heathrow, Stanstead & Dover
For here the truce Olympic has survived;
Among the crowd
Three blood-lines in a row,
Of native athletes proud, watching the discuss throw…
While Stiltskis cheer for young Ukraine
The Sumners cheer for Britain,
& for their blond, Aryan mane,
The Stemmler clan still smitten,
All share the surge, & there obtain
Phrenzies long verboten,
For only in the realms of friendly sport
Our ancient tribal urgencies now fought.
Amidst the Stratford stratosphere
All nations’ banners fly,
A final cheer, a tiny tear
Swells in old Tommy’s eye
For this is what he’d fought for, for the friends he’d once seen die.
London
2012
Turning Forty
My tale was heard, & yet it was not told;
My fruit is fall’n, & yet my leaves are green;
My youth is spent, & yet I am not old
Chidiock Tichborne
I’ve read we Poets twenty years should spend
Upon their epics, mine took just fifteen,
Eleven for to find its natural end
& four to polish, punctuate & clean;
Fulfilling fate
I settl’d in the North,
On Roseberry’s estate beside the Frisian Forth.
Last stroll I took, thro’ bluebell woods,
On our fern-life’s fairy frond,
Burst butterflies from bubbling buds
By the Younger’s gorgeous pond,
To sing, like Templars under hoods,
My song, here & beyond,
In summer sun, yet rising, still alive;
Soon all is done, aye, in a line or five.
While sat amidst the garden joys
That are my task’s reward,
With perfect poise my muse employs
This moment, soul-restor’d,
I’ll cast my pen in level lake like Arthur’s Elfen sword.
Baro Farm
May 31st
2016
Swansong
In the pursuit of learning one knows more every day:
in the pursuit of the way one does less every day.
One does less & less until one does nothing at all
Lao-Tzu
‘Twas Coleridge who said spend twenty years
On forming epic poems full evolv’d;
As such, the dateline of my blessing nears,
To canonize its worth on Earth resolv’d;
Fletching anew,
Four years pass’d since last I
Pen rested, cast into my living lullaby.
I sense the trials & the joys
Closer coming more & more,
No longer nimble with the boys
On the burst of forty-four,
This hiking heel no more enjoys
Its Viking matador,
On porcelain mornings tingling with doubt,
Besprinkling middle-ageing with the gout!
But ibuprofen serves the cause
As paracetamol
Puts pains on pause, the plain outdoors
The place I best extol
These passion-rites of poetry, la libertie l’ecole.
Edinburgh
July 8th
2020
Raison D’Etre
After distant lakes of mercury
Let us see the peaks at last,
See the ragged shores of Thessaly!
Gilles Ortleib
Within a planey cage I ranged aloft,
T’where fair Orpheus nature’s music sought,
Same sunny space in Thrace where last left off
My tours of Greece, with a Muses escort;
My pen compell’d
Shall end this epic lay,
Far from the Saxon feld, half-way to Mandalay.
Our destines are as the sun
Which rises at the dawning,
Unstoppable, once we’ve begun
Our progress through life’s morning:
When only half the day is done,
Sudden, without warning,
We find our brightest face begin to fade
The death-mask of a midnight’s masquerade.
The time shall come when Humankind,
Should look back on these lines
& in them find the trace of mind
Which raced off with the wines,
Like tasty Xinomavro modern Macedon designs.
Thessalonika
July 25th
2020
Samothraki
Here the free spirit of mankind, at length
Throws its last fetters off; & who shall place
A limit to the giant’s unchained strength
William Cullen Bryant
My boat departs, Alexandroupoli
Disappears as if Ardrossan leaving;
Ahead, a mountain spear’s tip strikes the sky,
Cloth’d in hoary forest dark upheaving;
My notebook breath’d
& flutter’d in the breeze,
Its makar, laurel-wreath’d, partaken & at ease.
With breakfast done the climb began,
Force following the shadow
Of something more than that young man
Who this started years ago,
From path-to-rock I laugh’d & ran,
The joyous gjggalo,
“This way…” beam’d Clio & Calliope
Perch’d on steep stone, strumming ukulele.
He dove into that perfect pool
With bed of Autumn leaves,
Sat on a stool of granite cool,
In elegance receives
One final line of poetry, what tapestry he weaves!
The Source of the Gria Vathra
August 21st
2020
Last Lap
Who owns this landscape?
Has owning anything to do with love?
For it & I have a love affair, so nearly human
Norman MacCaig
I’d sailed to Arran in a fit of change
Convers’d with nursemaid muses one-by-one
Excepting Calliope, she’d seem’’d strange
Aloof, perchance, distant, or even gone;
Eight hundred days
Oer paradise I stride
Exploring pathless ways, Demeter at my side.
My casement of creation peels
Off layers recent rusted
As light again quills feathers feel
The ink pot dried & dusted
As shaking off my hermes heels
crustacean encrustted
I burst from stagnant pool’d oblivion
To see the rising of a New Year sun.
In each Olympic year I’d seen
A surge of epic verse,
When thoughts convene to float Hellene
Oer rhythms rich & terse,
In future days of industry my quilling must traverse.
Brodick
July
2023
Finishing Line
All about me
Is heaven in all directions,
I love you, bright infinite space
J.A.Schade
Monastic for one full & final Year,
I work’d on the expansion of my task,
When World War Two would once more reappear,
Upon the page thro’ Calliope’s mask;
One special noon
Of Twenty Twenty Four
Beckon’d by Clio’s tune I clos’d Fell View’s back door.
Back to my task return’d I then,
All my muses still at play,
Off cycl’d to that sacred glen
With a brewdog IPA,
Transcending up a spinal zen
This was the final day
Of friendship in my penship, to compose
This sister epic of the Silver Rose.
I started once to end it all,
The bridge at Garvel Burn,
Whose waterfall with float, with roll,
Did drop & chop & churn –
With that, I truly say adieu, words duly to adjourn.
Glen Rosa
August 30th
2024
Home Straight
Those of the poets who were passing
would be found about your greensward;
far & wide have travellers spread your fame
Eachann Bacach
With one last stint to span this glinting year,
I’d sparkle as a poet overseas,
This key component of my soul’s career,
Where gushing poesie never seems to ease;
A bubbling brook,
Flows thick as Tehpig blood,
Congealing in a book, as proper epic should.
To Kaunas, Lithuania,
& Vilnius enchanting,
A tramp around Calabria
With Stesichorus; panting
Awe, saw I Stassi, Matera –
Then, my gallivanting,
Return’d to Malta’s national library,
Valetta-set, & yet, still, Italy
Forth-summon’d me, her bridal groom
The Euganean Hills
For Petrarch’s tomb, in late March gloom,
Travers’d where Alpine Heaven spills
waters thro’ Po’s delta.
Italy
March
2025
Finalmente!
It had come at last! his own stupendous hour
Long waited, dreaded, almost hoped-for too,
When all else seem’d the foolery of power
Max Plowman
Nigh twenty-seven years since I set out
Upon the Day of Fools, Livorno bound
My poem over, but for the final shout,
One primal-tinted, vinyl-minted sound;
Into the waves
From Adriatic shells,
“What path the poet paves!” from bonny Tunbridge Wells,
My poem moved thro’ Europe first,
Then flew to India,
When, to my trust, return’d the thirst
Renew’d, my lusty vigour,
For human history, immers’d
In verses, the trigger
Calliope squeezes every single time
She wish’d to hear me utter flutter-rhyme.
Like butterlies, farfale too,
Cast in a tryptych mould,
Thro’ which I drew this world into
A pitcher full of gold,
In which I sang the end of wars, that curs’d the earth of old.
Lido di Dante
March 30th
2025
Julia Boyd: Travellers in the Third Reich / A Village in the Third Reich
Earlier this year, in February I was making a trip to my dentists in Edinburgh, well Ferry Road in Leith, actually -, they’ve been great companions to me & my chompers for twenty years. Anyways, I had a bit of time to wait, & Leith Library wass only two minutes away, so I bobbl’d along & one book in particular leapt out from the shelves – ‘Travellers in the Third Reich,’ by Julia Boyd. I hadn’t heard of the book or the author, but spending only a few minutes with them both encourag’d me enough to order the book online.
It duly came, & then subsequently gather’d dust until early July, when finally opening it to read properly upon Brodick beach on Arran, where I live, little did I know that within, what, a day, I had decided to pick up my epic poem once more. We’re talking another 30,000 lines or so, fpr what became completely apparent to me on reading Boyd’s brilliant bringing-to-life prose, is that there is so much more I needed to cover, especially about the rise of the Nazi regime.
I spent a week or two with ‘Travellers,’ assiduously underlining everything I will be using as materielle for when I return to my epic, Axis & Allies, sometime next spring. Boyd’s book basically tells the story of the rise of the Third Reich thro’ visitors to Germany between the wars. Hate’s possibly too strong a word, but Boyd has no sympathy for the Nazis whatsoever, & good on her. Chapter by chapter we slowly feel the authoritarian walls of total tyranny taking over German society lock, stock & barrel, while the ever approaching horizon of complete catastrophe approaches page by page. Hindsight is a wonderful thing – but none of these accounts could really even barely imagine the horrors & suffering & paranoia that would soon consume all facets & spheres of existence.
As a fellow historian I really appreciate her work. The future needs to know how the human race is potentially as gullible as the Germans were for Hitler’s demonically seductive character, entwin’d with Goebell’s genius for propaganda. Lest we forget. A fine example of Boy’d’s approach & technique – mixing overarching narrative with on the spot contemporary accounts – can be seen thro’ the visit to Germany of British feminist and Conservative Party politician, Thelma Cazalet;
While King Alfonso took the waters at Mareienbad, Thelma Cazalet was visiting empty factories & youth unemployment camps in the Rhineland. The latter aimed to provide short-term, low paid work for those aged between eighteen & twenty-five. Thelma, like her brother Victor, a Tory MP, was in Germany on a fact-finding tour with a group of fellow parliamentarians. In a few pencil-scribbled lines, she summed up her impressions.
Germans loathe the Poles – mainly because they are Asiatic. They tackle for granted we are on their side against the French & feel we could & should take a firmer stand with them. They have no idea about conditions in England. They imagine we have hardly suffered & have forgotten the war. Very insensitive as a nation. No doubt Hitler’s party has saved Germany from a Socialist/Communist government by splitting the people up. Nearly all the young are Hitlerites. Germans all assume we shall be on their side in the next war.
As I came to the end of this brilliant book, this magnificent compendium of professionally curated travelogues, I became aware of a follow-up call’d ‘A Village in the Third Reich. ’A bloody sequel – brilliant! On obtaining the book I was suddenly thrust into the other side of the Nazi cancer – that which rotted the innards of Germany, with Hitler’s rise & fall now being told from the standpoint of a single German mountain village, the most southern in the country actually, & it’s interesting panoply of inhabitants – Oberstdorf. This book’s kernel is an attempt made by the Oberstdorfers themselves to record their ‘awkward’ history of the Nazi period, a task completed in the main by Angelika Patel, who gets credited as a co-author. Out of Patel’s mission prosper’d an incredible amount of detail’d tales, accounts, anecdotes, etc., were obtain’d for posterity. Of her evolution, Boyd says;
I would aim not merely to present a factual account of how one German community had fared under Hitler, but to make these people – with all their problems, dreams, hopes & foibles, their compromises & contradictions – come alive on the page.
From Oberstdorf, Boyd then widens the scope of the book, following the village’s inhabitants across the war’s diasporic scatterings. I really enjoy’d, for example, the account of certain of Oberstdorf’s mountain regiment soldiers, harden’d by life in the Alps back home, taking over a hotel at Mount Elbrus, in the Caucasus, while the Battle of Stalingrad was raging. Here’s an extract from that section;
After several days on the road they reached the Ullu-Kam valley. The trucks were sent back & the man started to climb. Having survived so much death & annihilation in recent months, they now found themselves tramping through deciduous forest along a path lined with exquisite Alpine flowers. Groth later recalled how, once they started climbing, the men were unusually quiet;
But it was not their loads (which grew ever more oppressive as the path steepened) that caused their silence, but rather the sheer loveliness of the landscape. When we reached the end of the valley, we were rewarded with a broad vista of astonishing tranquility… soon we reached the Chotju-Tau Pass & were again thrilled by a magnificent view. Ahead of us stood the massive ice-covered mountains with the bizarrely striking shapes. Above them all soared our objective – Elbrus. We knew there would be no turning back until our flag was flying on its summit.
The flag, of course, is the Swastika – & the book is full of them, descriptions of anyway, & all the other despicable trappings of Nazi nonsense· Boyd is a really evocative writer – she completely sucks you in, like. Over both of these astoundingly, meticulously research’d books, her wordsmithery is engaging & addictive, & her ability to ressurrect long dead individuals is positively bardic. She is a true visionary, a poet perhaps, & this is what makes this book all the more special. She is communing with our ancestors, finding in their accumulated & shar’d experiences a severe message of warning for us all & all to come, not to fall for nob-head tyrants.
If Boyd was solely a poet, the epic vision she possess would have created some sublime works for the slopes of Parnassus. Telling a gigantic story using only a few characters, avatars let’s say, is a key component of epic, & the way Boyd hande’s her evolving narrative thro individual responses to events at large is masterful. A true story teller, she would have been worship’d as some kind of Snorri Sturlsson among the Icelandic bards & saga writers. One of her greatest abilities is showing how, altho’ World War Two was a polarised period all about paragons of goodness & evil demons – most people bounced between the two opposites, if only to merely survive those desperate days .All the nuances of this spectrum were magnificently handl’d.
Julia, I cannot praise these two books highly enough, & you have given my epic poem new life, new purpose, new materielle & most of all, new vigor – thank you!
Damo
Wisdom of the Men… & Women: An Interview with Clint Arthur
Hello Clint, first things first, where are you from & where do you live today?
I grew up in New York City, but my wife and I moved down to ACAPULCO during the pandemic, and now we live in paradise.
What is your first memory of performing in front of people?
When I was five years old, Yankee Doodle Dandy at a summer camp performance on July 4 Independence Day.
You are quite the entrepeneur – can you tell us about that?
After graduating from the Wharton business school, I’ve learned a personal secret that shocked me into changing course in my life, and I moved out to Hollywood to pursue the Hollywood dream. They put me behind the wheel of a taxi cab for many years and ultimately, my poor health both mental and physical, got me out of that downward spiral and got me into the gourmet food business as an entrepreneur. I started writing books about success in business 13 years ago and as a result of that, I had to figure out how to create Celebrity for my personal brand, and that became a whole cottage industry for me, and has helped more than 3000 author speakers coaches, and other experts to get their message out in a bigger way.
You’re also quite the face on American TV, can you tell us why & with whom?
I go on TV because TV is the best place to build Celebrity for your personal brand. I’ve been on every show in America more than 135 appearances including with Brooke shields and Willie Geist on the today. Show on CNN, HLN, BBC, sky, news, FOXBusiness channel, etc.
You’ve shar’d the stage with several American Presidents – what does that feel like?
All the presidents shared two common traits. They were all very nice, very charismatic, warm people, and they also had tremendous personal power which was frequently intimidating.
Your recent book, ‘Wisdom of the Men’, was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize – what is it all about?
I put all the smartest stuff that I’ve learned from all the international superstars and the presidents into this book so that people can learn from my mistakes and my experiences, and hopefully it could be a source of wisdom for men, regardless of whatever circumstance you might be in, the answer should be in wisdom of the men.
So, you’ve turn’d the book into an hour-long show for the Fringe, how has the transformative process been & are you happy with the results?
Anytime you do something new it’s scary and challenging. I did a consultation on the script with Chaz Palmentieri , who wrote and starred in “a Bronx tale“ with Robert De Niro, and he encouraged me to put in a lot more personal stuff than I anticipated getting into with this place so it has really been a deep exploration of my life and I’m kind of scared to be so vulnerable.
What are we to expect from the show?
Whatever you’re expecting, your expectations will be exceeded with the show. There’s so much packed into one hour, if you come with an open mind, you will leave filled with ideas and inspiration and new concepts of what is possible for your life.
Of the celebrities you mention in the show, who was the most humble & who was the one most full of themsleves?
The two most humble celebrities were Mike Tyson and Caitlyn Jenner, both of whom advised me that the most important thing they ever learned was to be humble. The celebrities who were the most full of themselves, were Tommy Lee Jones, and Simon Cowell, both of whom told me not to be boring.
What are you looking forward to most about being in Edinburgh outwith performing in the city?
I’m looking forward to sharing my work and my energy and my life with the people who show up to see my show. Showing up is everything and I always tell all my clients just show up so if you’re reading this, I hope you will just show up for wisdom of the men.
You’ve got 20 seconds to sell your show to somebody in the streets of Edinburgh, what do you say?
The show is about how one man went from chump to champion with selfies and includes life lessons. He learned from 18 international superstars and five presidents of the United States.
WISDOM OF THE MEN
Roman Eagle Lodge
Aug 2-6 (15:55)
BUY TICKETS
POEMS 1998-23: The Grand Tour
It’s the end of March & my rent is due,
But two life options lie open to me;
Break with a lover, her friendship, split thro,’
Or chain myself to the servility
Of capitalism… A poet true
I yearn to be, so young, so sure, so free;
Romancin’ my mind with poetry’s flow,
So be it, with sure brave heart, let me go.
I made love to my love the night before
I wrapp’d my guitar in a grey, baggy
Jumper once worn on cold nights down Turf Moor,
Raided the bank for all my rent money,
& embark’d upon a third busker’s tour –
Her scent mull’d like wine, her tongue lull’d honey,
How we laugh’d as we revell’d, dear Rosie,
In kisses & love-songs & pure poesy!
I watch the white cliffs recede to a speck,
Then sang a fond farewell to old Blighty,
When, like a wreck-head at a discotheque,
A certain chunderness docks to smite me,
I had to head down to the under-deck,
Feeling so sick I think I should whitey –
As one voyage ends, another embarks
At Ostend, changing Pounds to Francs & Marks.
I take the greatest train jump of my tour
From Vienna to Villach, on a sleek
Inter-City, as each Alp towers o’er
My little carriage, each volcanic peak
Thrust from the fertile, verdant valley floor
With breathtakin’ beauty – I could not speak,
Until dinnertime by a mountain stream…
Austria’s watchers echo’d to my scream.
How glad am I to enter Italy,
For the call of the muse grows ever strong,
Like some wild animal trapp’d inside me,
To find fair form in my juvenile song;
Snowy mountains shrink to a flat country,
Thro’ fields of lazy green we zoom’d along,
To Venice; as Italy greets my feet
A grand canal sparkles… but where’s the street?
Three days I spend in ardor Venetian,
Three nights in a disused railway carriage,
Gusting around this floating museum
On life’s perfect barge; there is a marriage
Between my soul & the elysian,
A poet’s dreams come pulsing to the page,
As here in this soft city I savor
My first Italian ice cream flavor!
Distant Riviera di Levante
My heart’s destination, mine art’s true call,
But first, the mausoleum of Dante,
To tap into a predecessor soul,
Overgrown with moss & creeping ivy,
My man, you were the wildest of us all!
Ravenna, this may be a swift sojourn,
But one day, with my wife, I shall return.
How balmy is the Florentine evening,
Whose stylish sweetness softens Dante’s tongue,
Outside Shelley’s old villa I’m busking,
To soon attract a most beautiful throng
Of German frauleins young, & visiting
This sultry city, entranc’d by my song,
Two of them follow me into a park
For passionate encounters in the dark.
We wake in arms! After cappuccinos,
We wander moped streets, a sacred city
Thro’ which argent-sheen’d Arno slowly flows;
I buy a book to fill with poetry,
On the title page Maya draws a rose,
Then buy fresh foods & climb a hill where we
Build a fire, cook dinner, watch the sunshine
Fade over Florence with a sweet red wine.
‘How romantic it is to be abroad,
Free from the chains of a working mans day,’
Think I while walkin’ the main Pisan road
Passing a troupe of buskers on the way
With guitar, ink-pens & notebook my load
I’ve arrived, & all my dreams fade away
Seeing the leaning tower – am I drunk?
On further inspection one side has sunk.
Back from the tower Fate bids me to meet
The busker’s troupe in musical mid-flow;
There’s an old black bluesman with dust-bare feet,
A dark, Chilean named Kapitano,
Then a saxman sultrifying the street;
They offer me wine, adding my oestro,
You’ve never heard a more raunchier noise,
& just like that! I’m one of the bad boys.
I settle with this best of holidays;
Each one begins with pasta from a nun,
Then idle hours spent musing under rays
Of an English summer-like springtime sun;
When falls the warm evening I, then, amaze
The Pisan public with songs sweetly spun,
& blitzed on six bottles of Tuscan red,
Outside a church we make our cardboard bed.
I jump a train to San Guilliano,
To walk on Shelley’s mountains, but, instead,
I’ll sit in the street with old man Franco,
He ploughs me with red, risotto & bread,
Plus a whole sow’s leg – my stomach doth blow!
Tho’ we hardly understand a word said,
Conversazione; war, England, life,
Italy, poetry & his dead wife.
I wander up the coastline for to muse,
Setting up camp in a cliffside quarry,
Resplendent in luscious blue sea-side views;
By the chapel of Portovenere,
Tonight, my life, my mind, mine art shall fuse,
&, awakening to my destiny,
Prepare for the sun to set ‘low the line,
By buildin’ fire, ent’rin town, stealin’ wine.
With topless bottle of red in my hand,
I scamper up cliff face with the surge-might
Of some fabl’d hero from Plato’s land,
When, claiming the top, gulls in freedom’s flight,
Silhouetted setting sun, a wide band
Of gold spread ‘cross azure seas, from this height
I muse upon rippling sea-meadows blue –
This evening gives birth to a poet true.
I pause to reflect on the life I knew;
Nice house, nice job, nice girl, nice skunk, nice deal;
Compare these to these skies & seas of blue,
And this sense of sheer assurance I feel
At joinin’ the bravestars, we happy few –
No more a cog on the soul-grindin’ wheel,
Besides, England does my fuckin’ brain in,
& I bet, as I’m writin,’ it’s rainin’.
Dizzying to my heart’s epiphany,
The last sun-chink was slipping ‘low the line,
Her deep shed ray sped ‘cross the darkling sea
To sparkle on an object, close, divine;
A Silver Rose, so lovely & so wee,
Had caught my eyes, drunk on delightful shine,
I pluck’d my moment’s floral memento,
Then left for camp, led by its lamp-like glow.
Southwards I go, to Viareggio,
Beside the Apennines, whose lofty height
Towers o’er the lines of my fine canto,
As shrouded by the drowsy, star-strewn night,
I build a fire beside the softsea flow,
Cook up a meal, by fading ember light
I shed a tear for some long-ago year,
When Shelley’s corpse was found & burnt, right here!
Soon I am back in bohemian swing
Musing away; one long, mellow daydream;
By the side of the Arno sometimes sing,
Or bask in the sun with wine & ice-cream,
Or busk to the world as a poet-king,
Then party hard with Kapitano’s team;
For life is forever tender to me
Having tasted the breath of Italy.
In the warm morning, after a party,
I sit with Kapitano round a fire;
He teaches me the bird-songs of Chile
& how to busk a day without a lyre;
Brimming with wisdom into the city
I drift, when, in a shock of love desire,
She’s sat on the grass, banging wee bongos,
‘…to describe the way I feel,’ the song goes.
She seems to me the first fair star of Eve,
With ocean eyes & smile of teeth pearl white,
And perfect curves like you wouldn’t believe,
My heart melteth at the sensual sight
Of beauty’s first essence, this I receive
In raptures, as we, by the Arno’s flight,
Converge as one ‘til comes the sad sundown –
‘Meet me in Rome,’ we kiss & she leaves town.
Heading down south on the click-clack train track,
At two AM the conductor finds me
With a bag of books, the rags on my back,
& in my hands a copy of Shelley;
Expecting some Hampshire inspector’s flak,
The guy, instead, showers me with pity –
Six hours later, the twilight before dawn,
I walk the streets of Rome waiting for morn.
I jump a tram this sunniest of days
Down into the tourist-laden city,
Upon the Spanish Steps I pause & laze
Then walk into a shrine of poetry;
It is true the true poet seldom pays,
Reciting a passage from my Shelley,
I get in for free, see hand at first hand,
For this & this only I’ll make my stand!
I sharpen my features & dress to impress,
Enter, by candlelit, the theatre,
Where dark, Grecian drama’s in deep progress,
Aha! There’s my marvelous Manuela,
My sexy, smilin’, stage-struttin’ actress,
I knew right then that I had to have her,
“You look beautiful, like a Silver Rose!”
That night… her hotel floor… our teeth-torn clothes.
With my lady sleepin’, thro’ the city,
I roam, dawning sun illumines the streets,
A peaceful Protestant cemetery,
& Shelley’s tower, where my Muse completes
Her visitation; left me tired, empty,
But wait! As I stood by the grave of Keats
I surge with strength to try the train-jump home,
& did one from the glory that was Rome.
I pass thro’ Pisa, glance at the Arno,
Chancing trains to an uncertain future,
Then once again view’d Viareggio,
Le Spezia, as, beyond Genoa,
Sunset spent in the streets of Torino,
There skipp’d on a train to the French border –
But travelin’ don’t always go to plan,
I’d fuck’d up & upended in Milan!
I was now sev’ral hundred miles of course,
& how it happen’d did not understand,
But youth is driven by a hidden force,
Which made me jump a train to Switzerland,
At whose harsh border found I smart resource –
For they had me rejected out of hand
(I look’d like a tramp) – after midnight, tense,
I found a wee rabbit-hole in the fence.
I felt like I’d escaped Colditz Castle,
But as I pass’d thro’ chocolate Zurich,
I was toss’d into a world of hassle,
The Swiss care not for buskers & their reek;
After lots of shouting & a wrestle,
I was plung’d in a police cell for my cheek,
But come sundown everything was sorted –
The next day I was to be deported!
They marched me on a fancy Swiss Air Jet,
Handcuff’d until the very last moment,
For I had slipped right thro’ their border net,
Back to my native island must be sent,
On fine French wine my flight was free from fret,
For thanks to their filthy rich government –
I carried massive bundles of Swiss Francs,
The dowry of their Nazi-lovin’ banks.
I thrill’d so much to drop down to Heathrow,
Tho’ from the wine a little worse for wear,
To Rosie’s boudoir hopefully I’ll go –
At first she gives me such a startl’d stare,
But soon romancing reconvenes its flow,
& fed her verses on a velvet air,
Said she, “Why don’t we take a bath, my sweet…”
With that hot wash this Grand Tour was complete.
POEMS 1998-2023: The Golgog of Glen Rosa
From the Seminal Collection
by Damian Bullen
Old Malakai pick’d up a knife
& stuck his ‘fucking boring wife,’
Then drove around & park’d the car
& acted normal in a bar.
He drain’d his glass, he stepp’d outside,
The sea had wash’d up with the tide,
He thought at first to wade within
& cleanse his life of guilt & sin.
He threw, instead, his phone into
Those murky waters, then he drew
All of his wages from the bank,
For seven days just drank & drank.
His wife’s young brother call’d & call’d,
Persistence pains, excuses stall’d,
“I’m coming down tomorrow, man,”
Old Malakai conjur’d a plan,
He’d leave forever Milton Keynes;
A jumper, coat, a pair of jeans,
A t-shirt & a paperback,
Was all his life was, in a sack.
He caught a train to London Town,
The police search’d for him up & down,
He shaved his beard & wore a hat,
Then chang’d his name & found a flat.
He dared not work, nor too far go,
With money on a one-way flow,
It dwindl’d in a dire descent,
Until he could not pay the rent.
Without a hope, without a name,
The killer’s curse a face of fame,
So, off he wander’d to the wild
Of Scotland where the mountains piled.
He found a glen, he built a camp,
The summer short, the autumn damp,
The winter cold, spring barely better,
Wilder, windier & wetter,
Where he will wander all year round,
Still fidgety at every sound,
His hat is torn, his beard is black,
& sometimes, weird, along the track,
He shuffles past the tourists, who
Will look a bit like me & you,
You’ll know him by his lary look,
A monster in a scary book,
That stares at you without a wink,
& as you smell his dreadful stink,
Please, hurry past, no don’t engage,
Else loose that killer from his cage.
For killers kill until they’re caught,
He’ll clamp his hands around your throat
& squeeze until your breath is gone,
Another dead, another one
Has vanish’d in the forest slutch;
A Swede, a German, & a Dutch,
A Fifer from Dalgety Bay,
Don’t be the next one he ‘gan slay.
Yes, hurry past, avert your eyes,
For contact makes his fevers rise,
& never slouch a wee look back
For he’ll be crouching on the track,
Drooling at you with sneer’d intent,
A predator whose caught the scent,
Stood waiting for the trigger-glance,
No don’t look back, this is your chance!
Escape, escape, get out the glen,
Catch ferries back, go home & then
Old Malakai push from your mind,
You’ve left that bastard far behind;
Where, mentally he’s masticating
Flesh, & later masturbating,
Over bones where you & me
Might pass into posterity.
Aggravating, agitating,
Malakai stands salivating,
Thro’ the skull-bone of your head
Drills bulging eyes of bloodshot red.
He’s waiting for your face to turn,
With eyes that bleed, with eyes that burn,
The pull is fierce, the urge is strong,
A thousand thoughts about us throng.
But don’t look back, what e’er you do,
I know you’re really wanting to,
He could be coming now, you think,
Is that his breath upon the brink?
Are those his feet that closer thud?
Are you about to bleed your blood
Within this glen of shallow graves,
Of screams & chases, rapes & caves,
Where Malakai is now Golgog,
The grunt of boar, the face of frog,
The deathless Arran Al-Sameri,
Tortur’d by eternal, dreary
Fate eternal outcasts share,
Like Buttadeus, unaware
Offended Heaven, for all time,
Condemns him to repeat this crime.
So, Syracuse to Zaragoza,
Never venture to Glen Rosa,
Malakai seeks murders new,
He’s kill’d his wife, now he’ll kill you!
Mumble Words 