The man had been posted, for the usual obscure reasons,to a small fishing village in the remote south. The prefect,stepping out of a closet full of women's shoes, greeted himwith the customary formalities. We are all in this together,
the prefect said, as he removed the man's genitals and
tossed them gently to the others who had gathered below
in the square, and were howling.
(First published in Sentences, 1976, this overtly "political" piece was written during the brutal seven-year reign of the Greek junta (1967-1974). It was 1973 and I was in the tiny fishing village of Kotronas in the Mani, that once so inaccessible and desolate region made famous by Sir Patrick Leigh-Fermor's book of the same name, asking myself why I had returned to Greece after twenty-five years of living in the US.)
disappeared—
the derelict walked right on up
the wind-
swept street round
the corner down
to where (he remembered)
the old man’s shoe-
shine stand
ran down.
caught
red-
handed
branching
yellow
bird-
like
twig
light's
song.
(First published in an untitled slightly different version in Shearsman #1, 1981.)
After the sun's checked out,
Go into the empty room
At twilight watch the light
That's left drain out
The windows open
To the sea before you
Sink into the darkness
When the cicadas have
Wound down completely,
Do not look back.
The "Milk and Honey House" in Meligalas has about five salamanders that can usually be seen popping their beady-eyed heads out of the stonework around early evening or so; they spend most of their nocturnal time motionless, glued to the ceiling waiting for moths or flies to come within range of their lightning-smart tongues and bam! no more stupidity till the next one's struck dumb. Somewhat like me when I found out some little red Salamander had one of my poems stuck on its tongue; thank you, anonymous little critter, and may you catch many more before the dawn comes.
