Xamonas Chegwe
02-13-2006, 06:43 PM
I've spent a lot of years working in and around Greece. These are a few impressions that I stuck together into a poem. I hope you like it.
Greece
Sun faded land.
Bleached hills and washed-out beaches,
Under August’s yellow glare;
Dry pines and eucalyptus,
Compete in windless stillness;
And all around the darkest blue;
The bluest, darkest ground,
Within which to frame,
The white, white ships.
Patched roads shine with heat;
As coughing trucks climb the bends,
Tired dogs, tongues lolling, watch,
Uncaring; too hot to chase;
A tortoise drags it’s carapace,
One slow foot follows another,
Through careful traffic;
(Hurry is alien)
The same cars swerve to hit the snakes,
They must be quicker (most are),
Natural selection in action;
And still the sun bleeds down,
(Wars here are fought in winter).
Great domes rise from the plain,
Sides pleated with dry streams;
The tear-tracks of spring and autumn rains;
Cyclamens bud beneath needles,
Awaiting those same rains,
To show themselves to eager bees.
Spots, dots, commas and curves,
Scrawled across the Aegean;
Where John revealed,
Drunken foreigners revel;
Where the colossus strode,
A cat sits in every spot,
That can hold a cat;
And on every whitewashed step,
A black-weeded widow sits and spits.
And tonight, as so many nights before,
I walk the blocks of parked cars,
My quest (so mundane in this land of Odysseus),
To find a DVD unseen.
Greece
Sun faded land.
Bleached hills and washed-out beaches,
Under August’s yellow glare;
Dry pines and eucalyptus,
Compete in windless stillness;
And all around the darkest blue;
The bluest, darkest ground,
Within which to frame,
The white, white ships.
Patched roads shine with heat;
As coughing trucks climb the bends,
Tired dogs, tongues lolling, watch,
Uncaring; too hot to chase;
A tortoise drags it’s carapace,
One slow foot follows another,
Through careful traffic;
(Hurry is alien)
The same cars swerve to hit the snakes,
They must be quicker (most are),
Natural selection in action;
And still the sun bleeds down,
(Wars here are fought in winter).
Great domes rise from the plain,
Sides pleated with dry streams;
The tear-tracks of spring and autumn rains;
Cyclamens bud beneath needles,
Awaiting those same rains,
To show themselves to eager bees.
Spots, dots, commas and curves,
Scrawled across the Aegean;
Where John revealed,
Drunken foreigners revel;
Where the colossus strode,
A cat sits in every spot,
That can hold a cat;
And on every whitewashed step,
A black-weeded widow sits and spits.
And tonight, as so many nights before,
I walk the blocks of parked cars,
My quest (so mundane in this land of Odysseus),
To find a DVD unseen.